Taylor rolls her eyes and glances at Jamie who, to her surprise, is running her fingers through her long, auburn hair and laughing. Jamie squeezes closer to Maren so that she’s in the boy’s line of sight too.
Taylor squints at the boy again. He’s reasonably good-looking, she decides. He’s supposed to be some kind of lumberjack, wearing a plaid shirt and holding a fake ax. Paul Bunyan, maybe. But she can tell that it’s the way he’s standing that has earned him reciprocal attention from Maren and Jamie. He looks casual, confident, his arms at his sides instead of stuffed into his pockets. And he isn’t snickering with his friends like the bunny from earlier. Instead, he’s looking at Maren intently as if he actually expects her to invite him over for a bite of corndog.
Maren leaves the end of the line and walks toward him. She gets just close enough that she has a clear view of where he’s standing with his friends.
She glances back at Taylor and Jamie with a raised eyebrow. And then, satisfied that she doesn’t see any major protests to what she’s clearly about to do, she unzips her coat just a little further and flashes a smile. “Trade you a bite for cuts in line?” she calls to him.
There’s a swift reaction from the people directly behind the boys in line. One girl, who is dressed as a kitten, makes a huffing noise and turns to glare at them. Her friend pipes up, “No cuts allowed, ho.”
Maren ignores it. And so does the boy with the black stubble, who smiles. He gives her—then Taylor, then Jamie—a once-over. His three friends, who have been occupied with pulling handfuls of hay from one of the bales, perk up and look now too.
Jamie giggles. “You can have some of my donuts!” she yells hopefully and nudges Taylor, who holds up a half-eaten caramel apple with a shrug. She’s not that anxious to cut in line. Or share their night with anyone else.
But the boys are already waving them up—to the annoyance of the rest of the line.
“Um, I really don’t think you can do this,” says the kitten, who is standing with her arms crossed behind the cluster of boys. The girl links arms with her friend and steps forward, as if to block their path. But at the same time, a scarer dressed as a zombie lurches from behind a trash barrel just behind them. The girls turn around and scream—while Taylor, Jamie, and Maren slide beneath the cordoned rope.
“Thank god. I’m so bored of lines,” Maren slurs loudly, reaching for Taylor’s elbow to steady herself as she stands upright. At the last moment she shifts away from Taylor and reaches for the flannel sleeve of the boy with the black-painted stubble. “Show me the bloooood,” she trills.
Still holding the boy’s sleeve, Maren stands on her tiptoes and looks past him to see the entrance to the cabin trails, which is still maybe a thirty-minute wait. “I’m Maren,” she says, plucking the corn dog out of her cleavage and handing it to the boy before he can ask. “This is Taylor and Jamie. What school are you from?”
“Raft River,” the boy responds, accepting the half-eaten corn dog and taking a big bite. “I’m Aaron,” he adds with his mouth full. “This is Tyson, Ben, and Ryan.”
Taylor sighs as Jamie leans toward the boy on the left—Tyson—who has thin, too-long wisps of peach fuzz on his upper lip but is built like an Abercrombie and Fitch model.
“Mare, give me my phone back,” Jamie calls playfully as she tugs on the back of Maren’s coat. She sidles closer to Tyson to offer him a mini donut.
Taylor understands what will happen now: Jamie hasn’t actually forgotten about Russ—she’s just found her own angel. Metaphorically speaking.
Maren pulls the wrapper off her caramel apple. Then she zips her coat up just far enough that her corset disappears behind the puffy fabric but leaves her boobs still visible. “I’m cold,” she whines, ignoring Jamie’s request. “Why is it so much work to be sexy?” She grins as she stumbles a little closer to the boy with the painted black stubble—Aaron. He reaches out to grab her arm as he takes another enormous bite to finish the corn dog.
Taylor sneaks a glance at the two remaining boys: Ben and Ryan. Both smile at her halfheartedly. Neither is wearing a costume. “Nice hair,” says the shorter one—Ryan—who has muddy brown hair and freckles. “Are you, like, a garbage pail kid or something?” His grin widens like he’s just said something clever.
The other boy—Ben—who is tall, blond, and a little too skinny to pass muster with Maren or Jamie but is cute enough—rolls his eyes. “She’s a zombie, dumbass.” He smiles at Taylor. “That blood is sick. It looks totally real.” He’s wearing an oversized gray Raft River hoodie and jeans, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Taylor flashes Ben a noncommittal smile and feels an elbow in her side as Maren suddenly lurches back in her direction. Maren’s breath is hot and her whisper is too loud in Taylor’s ear when she hisses, “There’s two of them. Be a sexy zombie.”
Taylor sighs and pushes Maren away. She’s not sure how to interpret the advice. “Be a sexy zombie, there’s two of them,” as in, make them both fall in love with your walking dead self? Or as in, stop being such a wet blanket, you have two options for goodness’ sake.
Either way, she decides she’s still buzzed enough to go along with it. As long as everyone else is, anyway. Taylor turns back to Ben. “Thanks. It is real,” she says with a straight face, feeling a flush of pleasure when she earns a genuine laugh in response.
Unsure what to say next, Taylor cranes her neck to see the front of the line. She watches as a small cluster of girls is allowed past the gatekeeper, a tall, thickset man with a black hood and long scythe.
The gatekeeper keeps the scythe crossed in front of the narrow entryway to the trails for around five minutes between each group of kids. She can’t see his face behind the oversized black hood. To his left, a staff member dressed as a mummy stalks toward the kids who are coming up on deck to enter the trails.
“Hey, you guys, look!” Maren suddenly belts out loudly, pointing. “It’s Sweatpants.”
Maren points to a spot in line maybe a dozen yards away and a few switchbacks to the right. It’s the girl from earlier, the one with the giant hoodie and sweatpants.
The girl looks up quickly then just as quickly looks away. Taylor isn’t sure whether she actually heard what Maren said or just noticed the drunk girl gesturing loudly in line.
The boy with the black stubble—Aaron—scans the crowd where Maren is pointing. “Who’s ‘Sweatpants’?”
Maren waves her arm in the girl’s direction again, and Taylor cringes. “That girl. Do you think she’s dressing up as something?” Maren laughs and taps on a sign staked in the hay bale beside them. She affects a sweet, singsong voice: “If you see something, say something—like a crime against fashion.”
The line around them, including the kitten and her friend, erupts in giggles. Cuts have apparently been forgiven in lieu of the free entertainment.
Taylor shifts on the balls of her feet and steals another glance behind her in line. The girl is turned away from them. And she doesn’t appear to be listening, thank god. They’re only a dozen yards away from the gatekeeper now.
Taylor smiles at Ben again, unsure what else to talk about but warming up to the idea of holding onto his arm while they walk through the cabins. She can be a sexy zombie. The sky isn’t spitting snow anymore, but the temperature is still dropping. He’s a warm body, at least. She grins to herself at the zombie joke, wishing she could tell Maren.
Tyson casually wraps an arm around Jamie, who is shivering noticeably. She smiles at him, and Taylor wonders if she’d kiss him with that mustache. It’s really long.
As the line shuffles forward, the freckle-faced kid with the brown hair, Ryan, clears his throat. Until now, he has been standing behind the rest of them, kicking at the muddy grass. “You know, Aaron actually knew the kid that got killed. He knew his sister.”
Maren and Taylor turn around to look at him, leaning forward eagerly “Are you serious?” Maren asks. “We knew her in, like, middle school. She still goes to our high schoo
l. Idaho is so freaking small.”
Aaron shrugs, clearly pleased with the reaction and the sudden rapt attention. “We hung out a few times. She actually told me that her brother was a total dick. She was texting me the night it happened.”
Maren freezes as she plucks a handful of cotton candy from within her coat. Her eyes go wide. “Are you serious? She was there that night? Tell us everything.”
Aaron looks thoughtful, the black stubble marks stark on his pale face. “I think she was supposed to be hanging out with him. He was, like, harassing the staff and being a huge pain in the ass. So she went back to the plaza and left him on the trail.”
“What the fuck?”
The voice is quiet, but it stops Aaron mid-sentence. His face goes even whiter, and Taylor thinks she sees a flash of recognition in his expression.
The girl wearing the sweatpants has left her spot in line and is standing directly behind them along the blue cordoned rope.
“Seriously. what the fuck is wrong with you. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maren’s mouth drops open when the girl calls him by name—or maybe it’s the f-word.
Taylor feels her hands go suddenly numb with dread inside her sweatshirt pocket as she fervently wishes she were anywhere but here right now.
Because Taylor recognizes the girl too.
It’s Norah.
She’s not wearing makeup. Her eyes, which are usually lined in a thick layer of dark shadow, look pink and naked. And the wisps of dark brown hair that are visible underneath the hood of her jacket look lifeless and greasy. She’s almost unrecognizable.
Norah has her fists balled up at her sides, and her gaze is fixed on Aaron in a death glare. “He wasn’t a dick. He was just a little bit different. I don’t care what I said. You don’t know anything about him. So shut up.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor watches the gatekeeper at the entrance to the trails shift slightly. She wonders if he can hear what’s going on—and if he’ll intervene.
Norah stops talking and clamps her mouth shut tightly as if trying to hold the rest back. Her lip quivers slightly. Her gaze shifts to Maren. Then Taylor and Jamie. Her eyes widen with recognition. “Fuck you guys too,” she whispers.
The slick feeling of panic in Taylor’s stomach turns to dread. Why is Norah here right now? What’s happening?
“I’m sorry,” Aaron mumbles. “I didn’t mean—”
But Norah is already walking away, her hands balled in tight fists as she pulls the strings on her hoodie tighter.
“Bitch,” Maren says lightly, zipping her coat back up to her chin. “What was that? How the hell did she know all that stuff anyway?”
Taylor shakes her head, still feeling nauseated. “She’s not a bitch. That was Norah.” She glances at Aaron, who is still watching Norah walk away with a stricken look on his face.
Maren’s mouth drops open. “No way. That was her? Without the eyeliner …” She trails off. Aaron has removed his arm from around Maren’s waist.
The line around them has fallen silent, and Taylor can feel her cheeks burning. For a few moments, nobody says anything.
Maren shifts and looks in the other direction. The line creeps a little closer to the man in the black hood. They’re only four groups away from being admitted now. But all Taylor wants to do is go home.
She studies the dark shapes milling through the plaza, trickling toward the cabins. Why is Norah here of all places? Taylor knows it’s impossible, but part of her really believes that her own guilt manifested Norah here against her will.
Jamie finally breaks the awkward silence, offering her mini donuts around. Aaron and Ryan smile feebly and take some. Ben shakes his head and looks down.
The line around them begins to murmur, then laugh again, as everyone gears up for the cabins.
Maren slides an arm around the back of Aaron’s plaid shirt with a sultry smile.
A lump remains stuck in Taylor’s throat. Until right now, Norah Lewis was a ghost from her past. But everything feels different now. Heavier.
Taylor swallows hard, shaking her head and telling herself that the night can still be salvaged. She wasn’t the one laughing about Brandon Lewis. And Norah has surely heard worse things by this point.
As the group in front of them walks through the entrance to the cabins, met by a snarling devil that makes even the hooded figure blocking the entrance jump, she almost believes it.
CHAPTER 27
While he waits, his gaze settles on a group of teens near the front of the line for the cabins.
The girls are drunk, he determines.
He studies them with interest as the one in the black and purple corset tries to twerk against a fire barrel. She nearly lights her short blond hair on fire in the process.
The girl shrieks and falls against the tall boy with the painted black stubble.
The redhead in the devil costume is laughing so hard she can’t seem to catch her breath.
The brunette dressed as a zombie is still staring after the girl in the sweatpants who stalked out of line to confront the group a moment ago.
The blond in the corset is yelling something. The boys are laughing. The line widens around them as the other thrill-seekers exchange irritated and amused glances.
He’s found the fringes of the herd.
He’s here to hunt, after all.
CHAPTER 28
The wind whips through the dusty plaza, blurring Norah’s vision. As she walks away from the winding line and back through the murky main plaza, she wonders whether Aaron and the girls are still following her with their eyes. Or if they have already forgotten.
She hadn’t planned on seeing anyone she knew tonight. And if she did see someone, she definitely hadn’t planned on confronting them.
Batshit crazy.
Norah realizes her hands are shaking, and she shoves them harder into the pockets of her enormous, ugly hoodie. Stupid. So stupid. But even as she berates herself, her high makes it hard to remember exactly what they said.
He told them that you were at the Thicket that night, the mocking voice cuts through her buzz. Aaron told them that you left your brother alone. Which you did. Where’s the lie?
Norah clenches her fists and shoves the words into the black hole.
As she approaches the plaza exit, she stops and sits down on a hay bale, swiping at her face until she can see again. Until the fuzzy blanket inside her mind wrap her up again.
She can’t see the end of the line for the cabins anymore. In front of her to the right is a dirty white tent, zipped shut on both. To her left there is a mini-donut stand where a few kids are waiting in line, glancing anxiously in the direction of the main attraction.
Norah tilts her head to look up at the sky, studying the stars that prickle brightly against the moonless, inky blackness. The wind has picked up significantly. She wonders, while she watches the white freckles of light wink and fade, how the wind could possibly make them twinkle in the airless vacuum of space.
When her hands are calm, she takes a steadying breath and swipes at the cold, wet trails on her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she was crying. As she tucks her hands back inside the warm pockets of the old hoodie and flexes her fingers, she feels a solid object in the side pocket. With a start, she remembers that she brought her cell phone with her. She pulls it out of the pocket and opens the screen to see if her mom has texted.
She has. Dinner? It was sent half an hour ago. Norah hits erase to make the message disappear and takes another breath.
She should leave. Really leave.
The smell of mini donuts popping in hot grease mixes with the sound of distant screams, the rapid-fire pop of the corn cannons, and the first notes of “Thriller.”
Norah looks at the empty, black exit. Unlike the bustling entrance, the exit is just a gravel path flanking the edge of the cornfield and the parking lot. She feels a prickle of regret and looks back at the plaza. She was almost at the front of the l
ine. If she goes back now, she’ll have to wait another hour at least.
Norah stands up and cranes her neck to see if she can see the front of the line from here.
She can’t. It’s too far, and too dark. But she’s certain that Aaron and the girls are gone. They were only a few groups away from the front of the line.
That kid was a total dick.
Norah presses her fingers against the plastic case of the cell phone in her pocket Then she pulls the phone out again to check the time. It’s 7:30. She wonders what her mom decided to eat for dinner and whether she will call if Norah isn’t home soon.
Letting her gaze wander back toward the plaza, she notices a man approaching the dirty white tent to her right.
The man is not out of place, exactly. Shadowy figures are milling around everywhere. But the slightest tilt of his head as he glances to the left, in the direction of the plaza, bothers Norah a little.
She squints, trying to make out his features through her blurry vision. Heavy coat. Slim figure. Silhouette of a beard. And while she can’t see his face, she is suddenly sure that it’s the same man she saw in line earlier. The one who was with the girl.
He deftly lifts one flap of the tent, slips underneath it, and is gone from view.
Norah stays sitting where she is a moment longer, brow furrowed, feeling her breath become shallower. Then she stands and takes a hesitant step toward the dingy canvas tent. Was he supposed to go in there? Should she tell someone?
Batshit crazy.
Norah has no real reason to be suspicious. She doesn’t know who he is. Or what the white tent is.
Still, she remembers the slight tilt of his head. And she feels somehow sure that if he’d seen her watching, he would have walked in the other direction instead of ducking into the tent.
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