by Amber Hart
“I knew you cared too much,” Charlotte says, coming into the room.
The earring still bothers me. I still haven’t questioned her about it. Mostly because I don’t believe Charlotte is the killer. Or maybe I don’t want to believe it. Either way, I haven’t had time with her until now.
“I don’t want her to die, Charlotte. Why is that so hard to understand?”
“Because you’ve never cared enough to let your thoughts wander this far.”
“There’s never been a murderer until now,” I say, exasperated.
She grabs pots from the shelves and cooking utensils from nails in the wall, then lays them on the counter along with a cutting board and knife. She goes to the fridge for meat and butter. From a wicker basket on our counter, she removes fresh vegetables. I join her in the kitchen to help prepare dinner.
Grandpa pulls himself off the couch and takes a seat on a barstool at the kitchen island, which is nothing more than a wooden table with storage underneath that I made myself, wheels on the bottom to roll it out of the way when we need more room.
I slide past Charlotte and begin chopping vegetables.
“I think you’d better keep an eye on her just in case,” Grandpa says.
Sometimes, it hurts to look at Grandpa. He and Dad are far too similar. They have the same eyes, same slant of their cheekbones, equally strong jaws.
“Do you think the killer will target her next?” I ask.
He scratches the scruff on his face, thinking over my question, long and deep as is his way with things.
“I think these girls all have something in common. You, to be exact. Did you have messy breakups with each of them?”
“No.” Matter of fact, I can’t find a common thread. “For as many rumors as people spread about me, I didn’t actually break all their hearts. Sometimes the girls wanted to split from me. Or we both decided it was time.”
“So broken hearts aren’t the motive,” Charlotte says, seeming genuinely concerned.
“I’ve thought it over. None of the victims lived close to one another. They had no friends in common. They aren’t all even in the same grade. I can’t figure it out.”
“Do you think someone’s jealous?” Grandpa’s voice sounds like Dad’s. “Maybe a guy who wishes he could date the girls you have, but they’ve rejected him.”
“Maybe.” I pace the floor, trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle. Pax and Grant sometimes seem envious. But they’re my friends. They wouldn’t hurt innocent girls, would they? “If only I knew why the victims were targeted, I might be able to figure out if Willow is in the killer’s sight.”
“You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”
The truth slips free. “Yes, Grandpa, I am. What if I can’t protect her?”
Charlotte and Grandpa have no reassurances for me, which tells me they’re worried about the same thing.
Looking for the killer so far has done us no good. I want to stop him before he hurts another girl. I want answers.
Why was there an earring in Charlotte’s room that matched the one dropped in the forest? Why is each dead girl someone I’ve known?
If it’s me the killer is targeting, then why doesn’t he just come for me instead?
Or maybe it’s not a “he” at all.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the only evidence I’ve found so far.
“Charlotte.” It’s time I ask her about the earring. “Whose is this?”
I drop the green-amber onto the counter and watch her eyes hone in on the earring.
“Mine.” Her tone sounds relieved, but that doesn’t make any sense. “Where did you find it? I’ve been looking for it for a month.”
Grandpa runs a finger over the smooth stone. A smile touches his face. “These used to belong to your grandmother.”
“Which is why I was so worried when I lost one,” Charlotte says. “You know I don’t have much from her. Just the jewelry box.”
“You lost the earring?” I can’t keep the doubt from seeping into my words. “Any chance you lost it in the forest while running from me?”
Her eyebrows knit in confusion. “What are you talking about? I never wear these or even take them out of the house. They’re too valuable, and I don’t want to lose them, which is why I couldn’t believe it when one went missing. I discovered it was gone the same day I came home to my window being open, when I could have sworn I’d shut it before we left. At first, I considered the idea of a robber. But why would they only take one earring?”
“So you thought you misplaced it instead?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t make sense, right? A robber would have taken the pair, not just one, and would have likely taken more than just my earrings. Are you saying you found this in the woods after chasing someone?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Actually, the one I found in the woods is now in police custody. This is the one from your jewelry box, but they’re a match. Why were they separated?” I lean against the counter and rub my temples, trying to make sense of the situation. “You’re saying someone snuck in the house, took one earring, and fled to the forest. Why? Who would do such a thing?”
Grandpa clears his throat. “Answer that and you have your killer.”
29
Willow
Beau’s handprints don’t match the marks left on the dead girls. That’s what I’ve learned this morning. Police took Beau in for more questioning, simple blood tests, and fingerprint analysis. I suppose they needed to be certain that his alibis weren’t lies.
He’s not the killer.
It’s a relief, that’s what it is.
They released him quick-like when they knew for certain that they had nothing on him. And now, here we are.
“Charlotte isn’t the killer,” he says. “The earrings are hers. Someone stole one of them from her.”
His nostrils flare and his eyes twitch. Is he lying to me?
“I’m supposed to believe that she didn’t lose it that day? That she isn’t the person we saw in the woods?”
“I’m telling you it wasn’t her.”
“You sure about that?”
He smiles. “Absolutely positive.”
“How do you know she’s telling the truth?”
He rows gently, his long legs stretched out toward me. In the small boat, our feet touch.
“Talked to her last night. I can usually tell when she lies. Those are the times when she won’t look me in the eyes, but she did last night. Nothing to worry about,” he says. “Strange as Charlotte is, she wouldn’t hurt anyone, I don’t think.”
This is the most Beau has ever tried to convince me of anything, and so I decide to trust him. The police have questioned Charlotte. They don’t suspect her. Beau doesn’t suspect her. Maybe I shouldn’t, either. Yet still, I can’t completely erase my doubt.
I try to shake the thought from my mind, promising myself I’ll come back to it later. For now, I want to concentrate on Beau’s surprise.
“Where is it you’re taking me?” I ask.
“Just you wait,” he says with a mischievous grin.
The bog gurgles beneath us as bubbles rise to the surface and pop, followed by a turtle head. The sun’s rays scratch holes in the canopy, creating shafts of light that form a path through the water.
“You’re up to something,” I remark.
“Always,” he replies.
We turn a bend. I look back, wondering how far exactly we’ve come. A mile, perhaps? Far enough away from home that no one will see us. But not too far that I have to worry about disobeying Mom’s request to stay close to the house.
Up ahead, I make out a cluster of trees that juts out of the water. It takes me a second to realize it’s an island.
Beau stops rowing, and the boat gently floats toward the shore. From beneath his seat, he pulls out a rope.
“What are we going to do on a small island, Beau?” I ask.
A smile slips through. I
don’t think I care what we do on the island as long as it involves Beau being there.
Beau does exactly as I suspect. He ties up the boat, places the oars securely inside, and helps me out and onto solid ground. I can see only a few feet into the trees, but I want to see more.
“Are we going in there?” I ask, hopeful.
“Would you like to?”
I answer by taking a step into the leaves. The sun retreats. Tree trunks line up like markers. Bushes dot the landscape.
I make my own trail. Beau follows.
The walk is littered with stones and broken twigs. Leaves rustle like crackly paper. The wind brushes my skin so lightly that it’s almost a sigh. And then, only a few minutes later, I see the thing Beau wants me to see, sitting in the middle of it all.
“What is this?” I ask.
I bound over to it. Tree roots pop up from the ground like veiny scars intersecting a path. The crazy boy has made a platform for us out of wood, with four stilt legs beneath it digging into the ground. The wood is pine and smells like it, too. I run a finger along the edge, feeling where he smoothed it. It’s newly made, I can tell by the flakes that pepper the forest floor like pencil shavings and the rich wood smell. Atop the platform are another four posts with a fifth in the center, and draped over that is a canopy of white fabric. It sways in the breeze like spider’s silk.
“I wanted us to have a place to hang out,” Beau replies. “Where we won’t run into Old Lady Bell, Charlotte, or Grandpa, and where we can both be alone to relax.”
His eyes roam the swamp around us.
The makeshift pavilion is smaller than my room, but still it’s the most beautiful thing. Clear lights are strung around it, reminding me of fireflies. There is not enough space in my lungs for the quick breaths of excitement I find myself taking. I gasp at the beauty of it all.
“How did you get them to light up?” My question is filled with wonder.
“Battery powered,” he says, his grin growing. “Wait till you see inside.”
He helps me onto the platform that protects us from wandering critters below. It’s easily five feet up. I try not to catch my feet on the lights.
Beau pulls back the drape. A small cluster of cushions sits on the ground, fronted by a tiny wooden table topped with freshly fallen leaves and sticks, reminding me of a bird’s nest. A pink magnolia marks the middle, the source of the floral smell that sticks to the air.
“You did this?” I ask, mesmerized.
“All by myself,” he says.
It’s hard to imagine. Sure, I can see how Beau would bring the cushions and lights and tools to the island by boat, and how he could use the resources already here—the trees and stump for the table, the sticks and flower and leaves—to construct everything, but what I can’t see is why Beau would go through the trouble. Isn’t he the boy Jorie warned me about—the one who breaks hearts? Isn’t he the one Gran swore was darker than the night? That Beau doesn’t match the one standing before me, watching my reaction.
“I love it,” I say.
And then I wrap my arms around this surprising boy and press my lips to his. It’s daring. It’s electricity zapping the air. It’s him sighing into me.
Beau’s fingers move to the hem of my shirt, to the base of my spine, where they tiptoe their way to other places. He holds me the way shadows hold darkness, so close that there is no space between us.
“Want to know a secret?” he whispers.
No matter how good Beau is with riddles, for one brief second, so quick I wonder if I imagined it, he is useless with hiding his emotions.
“I’m glad I met you, my beautiful Willow.”
I know he means it the moment his lips touch mine. This time, he adds a hunger that has everything to do with the way our bodies fit together. Want sews itself under my skin. Longing makes my hands explore the planes of his back and the ripples of his stomach. Beau creates a heat in me that even the swamp can’t compare to, and his eyes tell me that he feels it, too, even if his lips won’t speak the words.
He trails kisses down my neck, making me break out in gooseflesh, despite the stifling air. When he slowly moves to the cushions, I follow. He picks up the magnolia and tucks it behind my ear.
“You are perfect, Willow,” he whispers. “And I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but please don’t stop.”
The note of desperation in his voice hooks me. He drapes an arm over my shoulder, and we lean back so that for the first time, I see the hanging lantern he’s constructed out of vines. An artificial candle flickers inside.
Even over the strong aroma of the flower, I smell the scent that is deliciously Beau. Mud and swamp and a lingering whiff that reminds me of a bonfire at night. I could stay here with him all evening. Maybe I will.
He strokes my hair and watches my profile like he doesn’t give one damn that he’s completely transparent. His riddles have, for the moment, been left in the bottom of the swamp. And I think I might like it that way. Now, I see a Beau more real than I imagined possible—a Beau not one person will believe exists—vulnerable and sweet.
Maybe still a little wicked with his grin.
30
Beau
The wind moans a song that weaves through the trees—a long wail that accompanies us. Here, deep in the swamp, the air is shrouded by near darkness, like dense smoke that I can hardly see through.
It’s been hours since I showed Willow the canopy. We’re in a different part of the swamp now. She holds my hand, smelling sweetly of magnolias.
I try to make out the words of the wind song, as though they’ve been whispered into the air, but I can’t. A groan here, a whine there. Nothing more. The leaves speak in cackling chatters, whispers that fade into the swampy night.
I’m looking for something. Listening for it, too. I hear it again, like the softest click of a camera, though I know it’s a twig being stepped on. I edge closer to the sound, hoping the wind is kind enough to disguise my breathing. I don’t intend for my presence to be made known to anyone but Willow.
The fog cocoons us. I can barely make out the sound of distant frogs. Here, the ground is higher. The water rests farther off and so does most of the danger from nighttime critters. Our boots protect us from any wandering snakes.
Another sound comes, this one a whisper, and I bet it’s not the wind.
I catch something at the edge of my hearing, almost as a person does with their sight, if they look out of the corners of their eyes. Suddenly the sound—an almost whisper—breaks and disbands into the air again. The wind snatches it and rips it away in its grip. A second longer and I would have caught it.
I take tentative steps, deeper into the swamp forest. My sight dissolves completely. The trees swallow the moon in one gulp. In the darkness, I have to let go of Willow’s hand and reach out my arms, fingertips at the ready to feel everything in front of me. My feet are unsure.
“Don’t let go,” Willow whispers.
“I have to,” I reply. “Just stay close. Follow the sound of my feet. We need to be quiet. I can hardly hear it anymore.”
A crunch. Closer this time.
Why would anyone be in the bog this late after sunset?
Even Willow and I didn’t mean to be here. The fog cut short our ride home. No way to row and maneuver a boat when you can’t see a thing. The boat is still attached to a tree. And we’re waiting out the fog. I hope it clears soon.
I see something up ahead—a beam of moonlight too strong to be eaten by the night. Just outside of the moonlight is a rush of black. A cloth? The tail of a coat? I pick up my pace. I’m close. But I lose the noise. I stop to listen. My gaze darts through trees. I don’t see movement anymore, so I wait.
Whoever is out here isn’t using a flashlight. He is braving the moaning night and, for whatever reason, doesn’t want to be seen. I can’t help but wonder if it’s the Mangroves Murderer.
A flash of silver appears. Too quick to decipher. Maybe I should have brought a weapon. T
he silver flashes again, this time closer. I turn to the left, the right.
“Willow, stay here.” My words are whispered into her ear, a warning. “Someone’s near. I’m going after them. Call for help.”
“But—”
Her response is cut short by my swift kiss to her cheek. “Please, Willow. There’s no time. Stay here. I need you to be safe.”
And then I run. I run right at the sound until my body smacks into someone. We topple to the ground. I am stronger, and I pin his hands to the ground. A dagger clatters against a tree root. I can only hope that the person I’ve pinned down is alone.
The frame beneath me growls and struggles. It’s thinner than I expected but strong nonetheless. A hood covers the head, face turned away. Hard ground bites at my knees, pressing pebbles into my skin. A slick sweat lines my brow, despite the cool air. I struggle to maintain my grasp. The person wriggles like a worm on a hook. I take a risk and quickly let go, long enough to grab the dagger and press it to the neck of the one beneath me. The person stills. I use my other hand to pull the penlight from my pocket. I shine it into the night.
The head turns toward me.
The hood falls away.
I realize instantly that the slip of black I saw wasn’t a piece of fabric. It was a lock of hair. Tumbling black hair.
I nearly stumble backward. I know the face as well as I know the swamp.
“Charlotte?” I ask.
“You plannin’ on dropping the blade, Beau?” She’s careful to not move her neck.
“That depends on how you answer my next question,” I reply.
She waits for me to ask. I stare into her face and wonder why she would be here. Why she would sneak out this late. Why she’d come alone. The dangers are more than I can name, and it’s unlike her.
“Why are you here, Charlotte?”
Surely she wouldn’t associate with a murderer. Surely she wouldn’t be a murderer.
“Because he’s here, and I need to find him,” she whispers.
“Who?”
A blink of a second passes, the moment of it weighty.