If You Find Me(71)

“She saw what happened?” he asks.

I talk to his back.

“Yes, sir. When I woke up, he was gettin’ ready to hurt her like he hurt me. So I snuck into the camper and got my shotgun.”

He spins around and finds my eyes. I nod. He heard right.

“I shot him in the shoulder. I was aimin’ for the heart, but he moved. I told Ness to lock herself in the camper and not come out until I gave the say-so.”

[page]He watches me with eyes I can’t read. No matter.

I pause. “He promised he’d come back to hurt us. He said he’d keep comin’ back.”

I kick dirt, leaves, and snow onto the fire until it sputters and dies, then motion for him to follow. I retrace the trail we trekked that night, not surprised I remember the way, as these woods were my whole world. The trail leaves off and the undergrowth thickens, the tree branches blocking the sunlight. I move by instinct, noting the terrain and the sound of the creek, the babbling water first to my right, then over my shoulder.

In the light, it takes only thirty minutes to reach the spot. I know it’s the place because of the tire graveyard. We both tripped over the discarded tires that night. I slide down the bank of the ravine. The body will be just like the bear carcass we found last year. Aheap of bleached bones and telltale hide.

My father slides down behind me, his breath heavy with exertion. He stands next to me, surveying the area.

We kick around.

“Here,” I call.

Side by side, we stare at the hump under the cover of leaves and a dusting of snow. I push the end of it with my toe.

A jawbone falls away, stopping against a rock. Some teeth are missing; others are rotted. Meth, I think.

This time, it’s my father who turns and retches.

I chant to myself.

Ness will be okay. Ness will be okay. That’s all that matters. Ness will be okay.

My body shakes. I can’t make it stop. My father holds me against him, warming me like he’d warmed Shorty. I close my eyes, making a memory.

Then: “I reckon you won’t be wantin’ me no more, sir.” I shove out from under his arm, ready to accept my punishment. “But Ness had nothin’ to do with this. I put her in the camper, and took care of b’ness.”

“Listen to me, Carey. Look at me.”

I wrench my eyes from his boots.

“It’s called self-defense, you hear me? You had a right to protect yourself and your sister.”

His eyes shift to the mound, but I’m woods-smart; I can see he’s shocked. I can feel the distance, falling cool between us. I stand frozen like Jenessa, bean-spoon bouncing off the leaves. His voice fills the woods from far, far away as I remember what I spent the last year desperate to forget.

“Carey?”

And then he looks like him again. Looking at me.

He believes me.

He extends his hand.

But hands hurt too much. Again, I pretend I don’t see.

It’s almost dusk when we reach the camper. He sits on a stump, the one I used to sit on when I played for Nessa, the notes weaving through the firelight, the music adding its own color to the yellow, orange, red.

He lights a cigarette, the tip glowing like a star that’s fallen to earth. Finally, as the shadows grow long, he turns to me.

“And that’s when Jenessa stopped talking,” he says, but it’s not a question.

“Yes, sir. What happens in the woods stays in the woods.”

He inhales, then exhales a trail of smoke.

“We’re going to need to tell the police. Fill out a report. We’ll have to take them back to the body.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I want to be honest with you, Carey. I don’t know what might happen. I’ll do all I can to help you.”

“Saint Joseph’s son said, ‘The truth will set you free.’ I reckon it’s true.”

“It’s a good start. And I want you to tell them everything. You hear me? Everything that was ever done to you. Everything that happened that night. You know why?”

I have no idea.

“You were the victim, Carey. Not him. And sweetie—”

My eyes well, the eyes of the girl from before the woods.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

I nod at his boots.

Flooded with feelings I don’t have words for, I bend down to fetch the old lantern, which is lying on its side under the picnic table. When I turn the key, the light shines out of my hands.

He waits on the steps while I enter the camper, holding the lantern in front of me and searching for anything salvageable. I never thought I’d cry over this place. I push aside debris, the remains of Nessa’s blankie blackened and hard to the touch. It’s gone, all gone—our old life is gone.

“You tell anyone about this and I’ll come back and snap both your necks,” he grunts, each thrust like a bolt of lightnin’ rippin’ through my body.

I slip my skin and rise into the inky dark, sit on the arm of one of the white stars, my legs swingin’.

“I might have to hit this again sometime,” he says. “I’ll give your Mama a discount.”

One hundred dollars, I think. One hundred dollars, for breakin’ and enterin’. Before the white-star night, that was one of the lucky things. None of those men ever had one hundred dollars.