I stare at her, unyielding. She’s seventeen; I have a decade more experience on my side.
Another sigh, this one less dramatic, and she stands and twists her hands in the front of her hoodie. “I need to talk to you about the book.”
“You said you didn’t want to write a book.”
“I know,” she mutters, scrubbing her hands over her face. “And I don’t want to, but I can’t be here, in this town. I hate it here. I always have. And now, with everything that’s happened, it’s even more of a fishbowl. It’s unbearable. I have to leave.”
“So go.”
She chews her lip. “I can’t go anywhere right now. I’m broke. That’s why I’m going to write the book. They said they’ll give me an advance.” Her stare is calculating. Gauging my reaction, my interest, my fear. She knows I don’t want my name connected to this story, but she doesn’t know the real reason why.
She waits for me to say something, but I stay silent.
“I really don’t want to do it,” she says finally. “I don’t. I want to respect your privacy.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I need to see it.”
“See what?”
“The house. Where he…kept us.”
I try not to show it, but I go numb at the mention of the house. Because of where we were picked up and my vague description of how we’d gotten there, the police have had no luck locating Footloose’s house of horrors. It was dark enough when I set the fire for the smoke to be muted by the sky and damp enough for the fire to extinguish itself.
“It burned down,” I say. “Remember? Footloose tried to burn us alive, but he got hurt and couldn’t escape. That’s how we got out.”
Fiona is shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I just need to see it. To know that it’s really gone. To have closure.” The words sound rehearsed, and she must see the doubt on my face because she laughs, embarrassed. “That’s what my therapist says, anyway.”
“Your therapist told you to return to the house where you were held captive for a month?”
“No. She told me to find closure. And I think that’s the way to do it.”
I’m not buying it. “And then you’ll write the book?”
“Well. I need the money.” Her eyes flitter to my open closet, the hanging coats. My purse on the hall table behind me. The flat-screen television.
“I’m not giving you money.”
She shifts awkwardly. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“And I don’t know where the house is.”
When she looks at me, her eyes are clear, like a curtain has fallen away, revealing the behind-the-scenes machinations. To anyone who hasn’t grown up with a psychopath for a sister, it might look like pleading, but I recognize it for what it is. Plotting.
“I know what you did,” she says.
“Saved your life?”
“What you and your sister did.”
Shock washes over me, but I make myself say, “My sister is missing.”
“I know. Because Footloose killed her. Just like she killed that girl you worked with, and you helped her hide the body in the park. Just like she tried to chop off some guy’s arm but couldn’t, and you buried him at the golf course.”
“You know nothing,” I say, but she does. Somehow she knows what was on the equipment I just destroyed.
Fiona eyes me contemplatively. “I don’t need much. Just enough for the first year. Then I’ll be eighteen, and my mother can’t do anything about it.” There’s a pause, like she’s calculating. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
I stare at her. “What?”
“That’s how much money I need.” She reaches into the pocket in her hoodie and pulls out a small black rectangle. It’s a flash drive. Of course there was one more. There’s always one more. Maybe he’d made a copy to bury with my body, so when and if I was found, the police would be sent on another chase, hunting for even more lost souls.
“I took this from his house,” she says. “Before we left. It was on the desk but hadn’t caught fire yet. I didn’t know what it was, but I thought maybe there was something on it, something about Footloose. Evidence. But it wasn’t about him. It was about you. And your sister.”
“You’re lying,” I say. “Again.”
She tosses me the flash drive, and I catch it against my chest. She’s written a phone number on the side in sparkly silver marker.
“I’m not,” she says. “That’s a copy. Listen to it. Watch it. Call me.”
She strolls past me to get to the door, her arm sliding over mine, making me shudder with fear. Rage. Revulsion.
“I didn’t want to do this, Carrie.” She puts on her shoes and tugs a wool hat onto her head, fluffing out her hair. “You saved my life, after all. And I’m grateful. But it sounds like you’ve done a lot of bad things, and going to jail would probably be good for you.” She laughs. “At least, that’s what Mom’s always saying to me.”
My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear.
“But,” she continues, “more than justice for your crimes, I need this money, and I want it now.”
“I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
She reaches for the doorknob. “Sell your house.”
Then she strolls out into the street where holiday decorations glow cheerfully, like it’s just a normal day, like she hadn’t just tried to manipulate me, just like Becca, like Footloose.
I close and lock the door, pressing my back against it. I squeeze the flash drive so tightly I hear it crack, and press my hands to my eyes, digging them in, letting it hurt. I’ll check the flash drive, but I believe her about the contents. I think she knows enough about Becca to get everything she wants, whether it’s fifty thousand dollars or a book deal exposing Brampton’s two successful serial killers and their one loser accomplice.
But she doesn’t know me.
* * *
The plan is to call Fiona from a pay phone. They’re not easy to find anymore, and almost immediately my plan threatens to fail. Eventually, however, I locate one next to an old video store, long empty, its blue facade peeling. I dial the number on the side of the flash drive and wait a second for the tinny ring to start. To be sure, I’d plugged the drive into my laptop immediately after she left the other night, confirming she had enough damning recordings to put an end to my newly reclaimed freedom.
Fiona answers on the second ring, her voice suspicious. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
There’s a pause. “Oh. Do you have it?”
I hesitate, part cold, part nerves, part performance. “Yes. I can meet you.”
“When?”
“Whenever you’re ready to go.”
Another pause. “Tomorrow night. I’ll come to your place at ten.”
“Okay.” My voice shakes. “And, I, um—”
“What?”
A semi rumbles past on the highway, drowning out my answer.
“What?”
“I think I found it.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Found what?”
“The…”
“The house?” Fiona asks. Now she’s whispering, too.
I swallow. “Yes. After what you said about closure, I went—I went looking for it. I must have blocked out the details while we were running away, but I could just…feel it.”
“And you found it? It’s definitely the place?”
“Yeah. It’s gone.” My voice breaks on the last word. “It was totally burned down. Seeing it again was like reliving the whole nightmare. But it’s gone, Fiona. There are only ashes. So you can have your closure.”
There’s a pause that I wait for Fiona to fill.
“I want to see it.” Her voice is smug.
“There’s nothing left!” Another truck roars past, forcing me to raise my voice.
“I don’t care. I want to see it. Tomorrow night.”
“B-but it’ll be dark. And cold. It’s in the woods. And—”
“So
bring a fucking flashlight, Carrie. Jesus. Where’s it at?”
“It’s not a good idea,” I say weakly. Across the street, the sun burns over the forest, the treetops piercing the blue sky.
I can practically hear Fiona roll her eyes. “You said he’s dead, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then there’s nothing to be afraid of. Where’s the house?”
I hesitate. “Barr Lode Trail.”
There’s silence, and I’m pretty sure she’s searching the name on her phone. The trail has been abandoned for more than a decade, closed when she was just a kid. It’s the perfect place for a serial killer to bring their victims.
“I’ll meet you there,” Fiona says finally, sounding satisfied. “Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I—”
She hangs up, the dial tone ringing in my ear. In the dusty shop window, a blue-and-yellow sale sign hangs at an angle, a promise made too late. The store name was removed when it closed, but the white imprint of the letters remains, like a reminder. Like what happens when we refuse to change course while we still have the chance.
* * *
I get to Barr Lode Trail just before ten. It’s pitch black, the moon a scythe in the sky. The wind whips fiercely, pelting my face with sharp flakes of snow, enough to hurt but not enough to cover the ground. The parking lot is overgrown, frozen blades of grass and scraps of wood and garbage crunching beneath my tires. My headlights slice through the night, catching a tiny pair of eyes before they scurry into the underbrush. The wooden board that used to mark the trail entrance is long gone. A rusted chain with a dented NO TRESPASSING sign has taken its place.
My car is warm, but I shiver as I sit, lights off, checking to make sure the doors are locked. I know Fiona said ten, but if she’s anything like Becca, either she’ll be late, laughing as she pictures me waiting in the woods, or she’s already here, hiding and watching.
At a quarter past ten, a set of headlights sweeps over the trees. Barr Lode Trail leads off a tiny logging road that runs parallel to the highway. At this hour, there’s no reason for anyone else to come this way, and when the car turns into the parking lot, I squint through the glare to see Fiona in the driver’s seat. She’s alone.
She parks and climbs out, the slam of the car door deafening in the still night. I take a deep breath, grab my flashlight, and get out, taking care to close my door more quietly. Like me, Fiona is dressed warmly in a thick jacket and jeans, hiking boots, wool hat, and gloves. Unlike me, she’s excited.
“Where is it?” she says by way of greeting.
I gesture toward the trespassing sign. “Back there. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes up the hill. It’s really steep—”
“The money,” she interrupts.
“Oh. You want—”
She arches a brow as I pop the trunk and round to the back of the car, pulling out a black duffel bag. There’s a tire iron there, too, but I leave it for later.
Fiona snatches the bag out of my hand and unzips it, shining her flashlight on the mass of unbundled bills and combing through it with her fingers. It’s obvious she doesn’t know what she’s counting. I couldn’t possibly get fifty thousand dollars without someone noticing. “This better be all of it,” she says.
My lips are already frozen with cold. “Of course.”
She tosses the bag into the backseat of her car and slams the door again, smirking when I jump. Something small hits me in the chest and clatters to the ground. I look down to see the flash drive. The original. My freedom. I crouch and pick it up, stuffing it into my pocket. I should be relieved, but I’m not.
“You’re welcome,” Fiona says, then flicks her wrist, her flashlight slicing through the dark. “Now lead the way.”
“You—you still want to see it?” Something icy washes over me, something final, like a door slamming, the lock tumbling into place.
“Of course. Let’s go.” She sounds like an executioner ordering me to my death.
I turn on my own flashlight, the beam bouncing off the sign as we circle the wooden posts flanking the path and start up the trail. It’s nearly impossible to see the path now, covered in inches of dead leaves and pine needles, stray rocks and sticks. I trip over a hidden tree root almost immediately, falling to my knees and tearing a hole in my jeans.
Fiona snickers, and I force myself back up, gritting my teeth.
“You could stay, you know,” I call out over my shoulder, the wind whipping the words away.
“I know.”
“It’s just one more year. Finish high school, write your book, then take off.”
Our feet crunch over the dead leaves as we ascend. The trail is steep, and my thighs ache. The cold becomes heavier, wetter, as the trees block the wind and wrap us more tightly in the dark.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she says finally.
“I could try—”
She cuts me off. “Tell me about your sister.”
I slip on a frozen patch of mud and nearly fall again. My arms flail, the flashlight beam careening through the trees, finding nothing. No witnesses this time. No Footloose lurking, listening.
I force my voice to stay steady. “What about her?”
“Why’d she kill those people?”
I’ve asked myself the same question a million times. I’d even asked Becca, but the answer, while probably true, offered no insight.
“Because she felt like it,” I say eventually.
“That’s cool.”
“I thought she’d killed you,” I tell her. “When the missing posters first went up. I thought that’s what happened.”
Fiona scoffs. The glow of her flashlight, steady at my feet, jerks to the side as she loses her balance before righting herself. I don’t laugh.
“I wish,” she says after a few steps.
“Trust me. You don’t.”
“I do. All I did was sit in a hole in the ground for a month, pissing in a corner and eating stale bread. Everyone’s waiting for some amazing story, and that’s the whole thing.”
“Is that why you want to see the house?”
“I want you to tell me about it,” she says. “Everything.”
The same images that haunt my nightmares come to mind now. The dinner, the television. The house with blades in the floor. Footloose, blood spraying as I held him down, watched him die.
I swallow, my lips numb. “I already told the police.”
“They won’t tell me anything. But I need to know. For my book. The story you can’t tell. I’ll say it’s mine. Then you’ll get closure, too.”
To date, my whole life has been a story I can’t tell. Even with Becca gone, and now Footloose, I still can’t tell it. Can’t live it.
“He showed me a movie,” I say, my tongue struggling to shape the words. “About the house. And the people he’d trapped there.”
Fiona catches up to me, walking closer, almost side by side, so she can hear.
“Are you recording this?”
She shakes her head, and there’s nothing in her eyes but curiosity. “I’ll remember it,” she says. “And embellish.”
“Sure.”
She presses a hand over her heart. “I swear.”
“That means a lot.”
Her teeth flash when she smiles. “Best I can do.”
Reluctantly, I tell her about the poison room, how some had made it out and some hadn’t. I describe the pool, watching the players disappear under the water, resurfacing once, twice, then no more. Talking about it brings me back to the time in Footloose’s dining room, watching the movie, feeling the increasingly desperate need to put an end to this nightmare once and for all.
“Here,” I say. I stop abruptly, and Fiona stumbles beside me. I’d hiked up here yesterday to support my story of rediscovering the remains of the house and left a red hair elastic wrapped around a branch that jutted out into the path. My heart is pounding from the exertion, and now that I’ve stopped talking, I can hear Fiona breathing hard, t
oo. It’s a steep incline for the first mile, and we’ve climbed quite high.
She looks around the dark path. “What?”
“This is where I first came out of the forest. I remembered that branch. The way it sticks out, like a hand.”
She frowns and shines her light over it. It just looks like a branch. “Okay.”
“Anyway.” I turn to the left, the dense wall of trees. “We came out through there, then just stumbled down the hill. His car was in the lot.”
I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to tell this story. I don’t want to tell her how it ends. She’s so much like Becca with her awful, domineering side and her curious, attentive side. My whole life has been spent trying to balance those two things, but one side always won. The scales were never even.
Fiona bumps my elbow with her flashlight, harder than necessary.
“Lead the way,” she says, nodding toward the trees. Like she’s the one deciding.
I take a deep breath. The cold freezes the inside of my nose, but I plunge forward into the forest, retracing the steps from yesterday, from ten years ago.
“Keep going,” Fiona orders.
A spiderweb sticks to my cheek. “I am.”
“With the story.”
I swipe at my face, struggling to focus on the tale when my mind is on each footstep, the unreliable terrain beneath.
I’d tried to count my steps yesterday, how far from the trail to the edge of the cliff from which Becca had dumped Shanna all those years ago, but I can’t remember. It wasn’t far. It wasn’t far enough.
It’s so dark now. The tiny sliver of moon can’t cut through the trees, and we have to shift our bodies sideways to press forward, unseen fingers snagging on our jackets and our jeans. My toes are frozen in my boots, aching every time they kick into a rock or a root.
“C’mon,” Fiona says, misinterpreting my silence. “Tell me.”
“After the pool, there was a new room with two sets of stairs,” I say, my voice swallowed up by the trees. They’re too thick to allow for wind or snow, so it’s deathly quiet. The only other sound is Fiona. I understand now why Becca was never afraid when we ventured into the dark to hide the bodies. She never had nightmares; her mind never whirled with terrifying what-if scenarios. She was the watcher in the woods, the figure in the closet, the monster under the bed. She was always the worst thing.
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