Taking a deep breath, Norah types out a message before she can think about it too much. “Hey! Srry for the random message. One of my friends told me maybe you could, you know, hook me up?”
Almost instantly, she is notified that Aaron has seen the message. And he is typing a response.
“Heyyyyy. No prob. Watchu want.”
Norah exhales slowly with relief. “$50. Anything edible.” He’s already typing before she sends the response.
“U in Burley? Can u pick up?”
Norah’s heart rate speeds up. Aaron lives in the tiny town of Albion. Which means she’ll have to skirt past Declo on her way there and back. She clicks the “send money” icon in messenger and waits for the confirmation ping. Then she replies, “$$ sent. My weekend is kinda crazy. Can you leave it somewhere for me?”
The little dots appear and reappear, indicating that Aaron is typing and erasing. Norah holds her breath, regretting the too-cute photo of the girl with the dimples. He’d be far less likely to want to meet up with a skinny dude with braces.
Finally, his response appears. “K. Ya. Water tower, Friday? U know it?”
Norah feels her chest tighten just a little. Of course she knows it. That’s where she last saw him. When she decided to skip homeroom in favor of meeting up with him and Kenny.“Yep. Just leave it behind the painted rock ok? LMK when.”
Her eyes blur as the dots on screen dance in front of her eyes for several seconds. Then: “Coo. Will leave it tmrw after school. LMK if u want more or wanna meet up sometime? I like ur pic.”
Norah’s stomach twists. She “likes” the message then shuts the laptop.
There is a lonely sliver of blackberry gummy left in the plastic bag inside Norah’s nightstand. Before, she used to keep her stash in the top of her closet, inside the toe of a pair of snow boots. She remembers the panic she felt when she thought about her parents—or Brandon—finding it.
She’d give anything to worry about that again.
Through her half-open bedroom door, Norah can see the light of the TV flickering beneath her parents’ bedroom door.
Without bothering to get up and shut her own door, she pops the gummy in her mouth. Then she puts her headphones in and skips through songs until she hears the opening chords of “Suffer the Little Children.”
A woman said: "I know my son is dead
I'll never rest my hands on his sacred head"
Hindley wakes and Hindley says :
Hindley wakes, Hindley wakes, Hindley wakes, and says :
"Oh, wherever he has gone, I have gone."
CHAPTER 21
October 23
“Do you want me to curl your hair while you finish your makeup, Mare?” Jamie asks.
Maren is sitting on top of the vanity in her strapless bra and underwear, her feet in the sink and her face inches from the mirror. She finishes applying a second coat of purple lipstick, purses her lips, and turns around to look at Jamie. “James, I swear to god I’m almost done. We’ll be out of here by five o’clock at the latest. Will you go watch TV or something? You’re making me nervous.”
The plan had been to get ready together. However, Jamie had shown up with her fake eyelashes and devil costume already on, casually suggesting that if they left sooner than planned, they’d have to spend even less time waiting in line at the Thicket.
Jamie ignores Maren’s pointed question and adjusts her cleavage in the mirror. The sexy devil costume consists of a revealing red bustier with two red triangles of fabric fanning down from the hips. Taylor assumes it’s supposed to be a skirt. There’s also a matching headband with sequined red horns and slinky fishnet stockings. “I’m totally fine with whatever,” Jamie says nonchalantly. She runs a hand through her auburn hair, which falls in sheets down her nearly bare back. “But Annie went just last weekend, and she had to wait, like, an hour just to get her ticket.”
Taylor rolls her eyes. “Annie also told us she got her period when she was five. We’ll be fine. Some kid in my math class said he went last night and hardly had to wait in line at all.” She dabs a layer of green greasepaint over the black-and-white layer she drew around her eyes. She rubs the paint until it blends into a mottled, sickly gray that highlights the latex scars she applied earlier. She reaches for the vial of thin, red blood and drizzles a little down her cheeks, letting the liquid drip onto her T-shirt.
Maren hops off the vanity and grabs her costume from the dresser. She eases her arms into the cheap fabric of the black and purple corset then works the laces through the metal loops and pulls them as tight as she can. “Maisie’s party doesn’t even start until seven. Why are we rushing?”
Jamie continues to study her reflection in the mirror, chest out, lips pursed, eyes narrowed in a calculated smolder. And then she abruptly deflates, flopping down to sit on the toilet seat with her chin in her hands. “I’m sorry, you guys. Some bitch in math has been flirting with Russ. She’s going to be at Maisie’s party tonight. And get this: She’s dressing up as an angel. A freakin’ angel. I know it’s probably nothing. I mean, after homecoming and everything … but it’s still making me crazy, you know? Like, get your own man.”
“Aw, I’m sorry, James.” Taylor puts the vial of blood down. “But you seriously don’t have anything to worry about. I’ve seen the way Russ looks at you, and he has 100 percent sold his soul to the devil.” She wiggles her paint-crusted eyebrows up and down, nudging Jamie with her foot.
Jamie groans at the joke but sits up a little straighter on the toilet. “You really think that? I mean, we’ve only been officially dating for a few weeks, but—”
Maren, who has successfully finished lacing her corset, strides over and plucks Jamie’s phone out of her hands. “Look in the mirror again, James. Like you were a few minutes ago.”
Jamie gives her a suspicious look. “Why?”
Maren sighs. “Just do it. Trust me.”
When Jamie reluctantly stands, Maren deftly adjusts a few strands of Jamie’s hair and tugs down on the hem of the bright red corset. “Boobs out. Okay, now smolder.”
Maren angles the phone up and snaps a flurry of photos then examines the results. She taps on the screen and hands the phone back to Jamie. “There. Send him that one, right now. He’ll lose his shit. And then can you please help me curl my hair? I hate it right now.” She grimaces at her stick-straight pixie cut in the mirror.
Taylor smiles as she slips into a pair of ratty jeans and her dad’s old BSU sweatshirt. He has graciously allowed her to shred with a pair of scissors and smear it with some of the blood and greasepaint.
The zombie costume looks good, she decides, studying her reflection in the mirror. Out of the corner of her eye, she studies Maren, who is struggling to bend over in the tight corset as she reaches for the curling iron.
Last year, Taylor dressed up as Amelia Earhart. Jamie and Maren were sexy witches. As far as Taylor can remember, the last time Maren or Jamie wore a costume without the word “sexy” in front of it was fifth grade, the end of elementary school.
That was also the year Wendy Bennett filed for divorce and moved to Boise, three hours away. The move was necessary to launch her interior design business. “There are exactly 2,204 houses in Rupert,” Wendy had said. “And that’s counting the trailers.”
Wendy had come back to Rupert twice that year. Once when she had an appointment with a client in Idaho Falls. And once when she returned to break the news that she was moving to California with her boyfriend Nick.
Idaho is so small, she had said. I’m suffocating here. When Wendy stopped by the house for the last time, she’d been wearing pale pink, pointed-toe pumps, skinny jeans with a chic line of rips down one knee, and a tailored black blazer. “You sure you don’t want to come with me, hon?” she’d asked Taylor, leaning in for a quick side hug on the porch as she peered into the house.
Wendy had reached out to touch the silver bar necklace Taylor was wearing. “It would be fun,” she said, stroking Taylor’s hair. “Nic
k loves you. And I’ve lost so much weight, people will think we’re sisters.”
When Wendy left, she planted a soft, glossy kiss on Taylor’s cheek and muttered a goodbye to Taylor’s dad through the screen door. As if he hadn’t been standing a few feet away the whole time.
After she was gone, Taylor had locked herself in the bathroom and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her thick, straight nose and wavy brown hair came from her dad. Her “elf-bite” ears and hazel eyes had undeniably come from Wendy. That would always be true. Not that it seemed to matter much.
Taylor had stared at her reflection until it blurred in front of her eyes. And then she’d carefully removed the silver bar necklace Wendy had sent her for her birthday and buried it at the bottom of the bathroom trash can.
“All right, bitches. What are we doing for dinner?” Maren asks from the vanity, where she’s resumed her perch. Jamie is standing behind her with the curling iron, wrapping the last of Maren’s blond hair into short, spiral curls. “I assume you’re ready to go, Tay?
Taylor scrutinizes herself in the mirror with a smirk. “You mean you can’t tell whether I’m ready?” She actually spent quite a bit of time on the messy braid tied with a dirty red ribbon and streaked with green from the greasepaint. But it’s definitely not sexy.
When Jamie and Maren don’t respond, Taylor leans against the closet door and peers at her reflection in the mirror, wondering if she should do something else with the braid. “My dad left us some money. We can eat in the plaza or grab something on the drive. Is there anything good in Declo now?”
“Plaza!” Jamie yelps, yanking Maren’s head back with the curling iron that is still attached to a lock of her hair.
“Ow! Calm down, James. Jesus. Are the food trucks in the plaza even open this year? Or did they like, shut down the food stands too? You know, in case somebody gets stabbed with a caramel apple stick.”
Jamie grimaces and hurries to unroll the last curl wrapped around the barrel of the curling iron. Taylor sits cross-legged on the closet floor, careful not to let the fake blood on her jeans touch the carpet. “I’d risk a stabbing. Caramel apples sound so good. And the food trucks are still up and running—I checked the website after school. There’s just a metal detector and stuff at the entrance. No big bags allowed.” She grins and picks at a blob of fake blood that hasn’t quite dried yet. “Mare, your corset is probably going to set off the metal detectors.”
Maren smiles and casts a sideways glance at Taylor. “God I’m sexy. And your dad is awesome, Taylor. Tell him thanks for the money.”
Taylor nods, feeling in her pocket for the keys and the wadded-up bills to make sure she didn’t leave them in her other pair of pants before she changed.
Maren leans back on the counter, wrinkles her nose, and spritzes her curls with hairspray one more time. Jamie nods approvingly. They’ll be on the road in a few minutes.
Taylor feels an unexpected fizz of excitement in her stomach, wondering what it will feel like to stand in the same room where it happened. There’s no end to the reports about what Cabin Twelve looks like now, and what it feels like to be standing inside. Some kids say that the air feels heavier. Some say that you can still smell the blood—and worse. Other kids bring black lights that, before they’re confiscated by security, show faintly glowing traces of residue on the scabby log walls.
Taylor’s not sure what to expect. She’s willing to bet money that the scariest new development at the Thicket is the new security guards. Cranky men who hate their day jobs—and kids too—shuffling everyone through as quickly as possible.
Maisie Barrett says that the bathtub scene has been replaced with a jail cell and robotic inmates rattling their chains. By all reports, it’s the anti-climax of the Thicket. No actors. Just security guards in the cabin itself.
Still, that fizz in Taylor’s stomach intensifies. She’s never set foot in an actual crime scene before. Especially a crime scene like this. She knows plenty of kids who have returned to the reopened Thicket this year. And after the uneventful reopening, even the petitions to close the attraction down are losing steam.
Taylor’s not actually worried that something bad might happen to her. In fact, some part of her recognizes that it’s a little disappointing knowing that something certainly won’t. But that feeling of staring into the dark and wondering if there’s danger lurking there, even just a little danger, will never get old. It’s the whole point of Halloween.
Jamie is glancing anxiously between Maren, who is still perched on the vanity, and the hallway to the garage. Taylor can’t help but smile again.
“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” Maren says as she hops off the vanity. Jamie looks visibly relieved.
Without bothering to switch off the curling iron, Jamie trots down the hall toward the door, long red curls and devil tail swinging. “Shotgun!” she yells.
Maren tucks one last strand of wispy blond hair behind her ear and rolls her eyes as she turns off the curling iron. She smiles at Taylor. “Come on, Ms. Walking Dead. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 22
He holds the knife against his palm, pressing down just a little.
Then a little more, until the skin turns white.
All blades are unique. It’s important to know how much pressure is needed before they break the skin.
The answer, in most cases, is a bit harder than you’d think. You have to want to.
He’d hoped to find a high-end box cutter. Maybe an electrician’s knife. It was impossible to anticipate exactly what you might come across in the tools section of the second-hand home improvement store. That was part of the fun. But there it was, slightly separated from the crush of saw blades, hammers, and box cutters jumbled across the plywood shelving, as if it were waiting for him to walk by.
The label, with the hand-scrawled yellow price tag, read “utility knife, $4.” But anyone—perhaps with the exception of the high-school-age clerk—could see that this was, in fact, a mid-sized hunting knife. The three raised notches on the back were ideal for tearing through the thick, leathery hide of a deer or elk. The gut hook at the top was made for carefully opening the abdominal cavity to remove the delicate entrails without nicking the stomach or liver. And the thick blade that ended in a slight curve was meant for skinning and boning.
He’s never actually killed anything with a hunting knife. Sporting goods stores and gun shops were dangerous. High traffic. Security cameras. Inventory that’s tracked through sophisticated electronic programs. Not to mention, the staff were usually paid on commission. They always stood like prairie dogs in the entryways, scanning for the next potential customer, eager to strike up a conversation about the gun, the knife, or the rope. He’ll take the debris pile at the second-hand corner store any day.
He trails his finger along the gut hook, pressing in on the sharp point. While he’s never actually used a hunting knife, the first time he held one was a formative experience.
He’d seen the truck in the neighbors’ driveway the night before. Saw the hunting tarps, blinds, and coolers being loaded up for an early morning departure.
He’d decided to tag along. That night, he set an alarm for 4:00 am to watch for signs of activity next door.
His parents didn’t wake up when he eased the front door shut. And he was confident they wouldn’t worry if they discovered him missing later. They never did.
When he’d walked up the driveway with a hopeful smile and his backpack, the glance between father and son was unmistakable. He hardly knew the neighbor boy, who was two years older in school. But social convention won out, as it usually did. Especially when he offered to wake up his parents to verify that he did, indeed have permission to tag along. Within the hour he was seated in the small cab of the truck, along for the ride.
They hadn’t let him touch the guns, of course. He didn’t have a license. But they’d handed him the knife. “You can skin it for us,” the father had laughed in a booming voice, clearly hoping to da
mpen his enthusiasm.
It hadn’t.
They’d made the kill at dusk. The son’s first. A small buck with just one antler. A “unicorn,” the father had called it, slapping the son on the back as the animal crashed through the brush, a river of red streaming down its arched neck as it disappeared.
They’d followed the chaos and the trail of bright blood for maybe a quarter of a mile, to a stand of trees. The deer lay crouched beside a poplar, knees buckled, neck bent forward.
He’d moved toward the animal with the knife. But before he could get far, the father had grabbed the collar of his shirt. “Not so fast. He might look half dead, but he’s still got plenty of fight left in him.”
The animal lay kneeling in the dirt, its glassy eyes looking back at them. Still alive. Afraid. But unable to run away.
The newly cleaned metal of the second-hand hunting knife flashes silver in the dim blue light of his computer screen. Vinegar, the nylon straps of his backpack, and a soft cloth have turned the steel blade smooth and spotless again. It’s probably sharper now than it was new.
He appreciates small tools. Ordinary tools. Personal tools. Tools that belong on a workbench or a kitchen counter or a sportsman’s backpack. Tools that sit on a shelf looking impotent in a second-hand shop, waiting for the right hand to pick them up.
Of course, even ordinary tools will set off a metal detector.
He opens the dusty green backpack at his feet and places the knife inside.
Metal detectors don’t fail.
But the people operating them do.
CHAPTER 23
When the syrupy smell of cotton candy hits her in the crowded parking lot, Norah almost gets back in her car.
This is a bad idea. There’s no question about that. But with the buzz she has going from the strawberry drop she took half an hour ago, she rationalizes that driving is a worse idea.
The Thicket Page 8