into the tunnel, darker than she remembered. She was scared, but she also didn’t want to go back through the lodge, risk running into someone she’d have to talk to. Her instinct was to run, but part of her knew that if she allowed herself to panic, she’d never stop. So she walked through the tunnel as calmly as possible, finally pushing through the double glass doors into the warm, chlorine-tinged air. She thought of going into the women’s changing room—she’d have it to herself—but she actually wanted to be outside instead, not closed in by walls. She walked past the entrance to the changing room and kept going. There was an unmarked door at the end of the hall, and she pulled it open, relieved to find that it led to the outside world. The cold air felt so good that she just stood for a moment with her back against the door and breathed in and out, even closing her eyes for a moment.
The slight breeze on the air carried voices that sounded as though they were coming from the front of the building. She couldn’t make out the words, just the deep jokey inflections of men talking, and Abigail cut around toward the back of the building, passing the bench and finding that the path continued past a cluster of what looked like spruce trees. She peered behind her to make sure no one could see that she was entering the woods, then kept walking along the path, now paved with flat rocks. She came to a wooden sign nailed into the side of a tree. Carved into the sign were the words silvanus woods, and there was an etching of a man’s face, ringed with ornate leaves, designed as though they were growing from his skin. The sign itself looked old—it was speckled in places with dark green lichen—but the nails that held it to the tree looked new. The name Silvanus rang a faint bell in her head—she’d taken Latin in high school and remembered enough to wonder if Silvanus was some sort of Roman god.
She took a few steps past the sign, enough to see that there was a clearing up ahead. She felt trapped, not really wanting to see what was there—her mind conjuring the image of Jill, blood spilling down her side—and not wanting to turn back. She moved tentatively ahead, said, “Hello?” in what she hoped was a normal voice. If there was someone in the woods, she definitely did not want to be surprised by them.
No one answered, and she stepped into the circular clearing. At the middle was a firepit ringed with blackened stones, and a little farther out a circle of benches, crudely fashioned from logs. Abigail found a place to sit that gave her a view of the path back toward the resort, so that she could see if anyone was coming. Despite the sign with the strange face on it, she felt temporarily safe here. It probably was a feature of the original boys’ camp, a place to gather at night, light a fire, and roast marshmallows. An innocent place, unlike whatever had happened here over the past few days.
Now that she was sitting, she thought back over the words Mellie had said. That Jill was still on the island and that she was okay. That she should just keep her head down until the plane arrived tomorrow. That she shouldn’t trust Bruce. Abigail tried to build a narrative that fit everything that had happened here so far. Her best guess was that Jill and her new husband had had a fight that resulted in Jill getting badly hurt. Chip Ramsay decided he didn’t want the publicity, and they somehow subdued Jill, then lied to Abigail about her whereabouts. But why was it important to keep Abigail on this island one extra day if they were going to let her leave? She just couldn’t quite figure it out. And how did Bruce fit into it? Maybe because it was now clear that Bruce was not simply a guest here but a part-owner of this place and a close friend of Chip’s. If the Quoddy Resort had decided to cover something up, then Bruce would have been part of that decision. And what about Eric Newman being here? Maybe that was just a coincidence. And then was it just a coincidence that Jill’s ex-fiancé was here as well? If so, it was a huge coincidence. But what