jog, mindful of my step, picking my way through the trees. Yes, this is it, my last night out here. If I don’t find the cellar, I’m going to have to let this go. Angel—she might be lying, or delusional, or just confused. She thought all of those boys were the boy she called Valentine. Her hands were shaking. When she looked at me, I saw confusion, fear. I can’t act on what she’s given me; but I can look one more time. Just in case.
The plan was for you to stand on the porch, an apparition, the thing that lured him into the house. When he drew you, you were always in a simple red dress, your hair loose around your shoulders. So, that’s what you wore, how you had your hair. Maybe you would wave to him, then you’d turn and walk through the door. Once he was inside, you would leave through the back and wait in the car, the engine running, my getaway driver.
We’d never speak of it. Afterward, we’d never see each other again.
I was ready. I had been training and studying. At the gym, I had a trainer who conducted a punishing workout—heavy lifting, brutal cardio, wrestling, mixed martial arts. On the dark web: how to assemble a kill bag. How to best a larger man in a fight. How to immobilize a victim. How to commit a murder and not leave a single trace of evidence. It’s out there. Some of it’s bullshit; some of it is the ranting of madmen.
But if you know your way around, you can find anything you need to know. My favorite was the site of a paramilitary guy, who meticulously laid out his training as a fighter, a survivor, an interrogator, a killer. I learned everything I needed to know from a US soldier turned mercenary. The most important weapon you have is your mind. If you’re not prepared to kill, you’ll die. There’s not a gun or a knife in the world that will save you.
He gave his video tutorials in a balaclava.
Turned out that everything he said was bullshit. Fighting for your life, and the life of your friend, is a very different thing than killing in cold blood.
Of course, things didn’t go as planned, Harper’s words suddenly making sense. It’s not what you think. Not during, not after.
Funny how when you’re a kid, grown-ups seem like gods. Impossibly powerful, free from rules, the keepers of secrets. Then you go through a phase where they seem so old, so out of touch, where you dismiss them completely. Finally, you realize that at least a few of them knew what they were talking about. By that time, you’re old, too, having gleaned wisdom of your own that no one hears.
I remember that night, Lara. But the memory is like a low-quality film reel, something that I watched on a small screen. I remember the leaden silence between us, the pale of your face, how your expression was taut with fear and anger. When I caught your eye, I saw that you hated me. Who could blame you? Look what I asked you to do.
I have mistreated you, Rain Winter. I could blame it on him. But I am not separate from the beast within, not entirely.
Just like tonight, I hid the car and shouldered that pack. I walked through the woods and you followed. Your breath was ragged. You were crying, and I ignored you.
Tonight, I walk and walk alone. It’s a slog for some reason. Though I’ve walked far harder terrain much faster, a kind of fatigue has settled in. I keep looking around for Tess, but she’s abandoned me—like all smart women. They keep their distance.
I reach the fork Angel described and veer left, note the time to clock fifteen minutes. I haven’t been this way before, so—maybe.
There’s a waxing gibbous moon, casting off a weary light from behind drifting clouds. I hear the occasional cry of the barred owl, that mournful: Who looks for you? But largely it’s quiet except for the skittering of a squirrel who dances across my path and up into the branches above me.
The woods thin, and I come to a clearing. This is deeper onto the property than I’ve ventured and suddenly I’m mindful of how far I’ve come, how no one knows I’m here. How I’ve left my phone in the car—after all, the intruder doesn’t often resort to calling the police. Besides, I don’t trust that