What Lies in the Woods(23)

We knew it was fantasy, that we were just pretending, but we wished we weren’t. We tried to believe, filled with the sense that if only we could conquer our doubt, we could make it true. We would find the door in the woods, the world in the back of the wardrobe, the dragon’s egg left nestled in the loam.

We knew the world was cruel and dirty and dull, and it was all so brutally unfair that we refused to accept it. There was magic in the world. We only had to find it.

I stumbled past the tree, the bottle forgotten, searching the shadows for familiar landmarks. There’d been that stone where Liv would sit to read while she waited for us. Maybe I could find the tree I’d climbed to reach the abandoned nest high in the branches, getting fifteen feet up before Liv started panicking and made me climb back down—or the overturned shopping cart that roots had grown through, anchoring it eternally in place, which Cass had declared was proof that a dryad walked these woods.

Or the boulder, dropped by some ancient glacier, with the shallow gap beneath its bulk. The gap that three young girls could belly under, into the hollow space behind it. The Grotto, Cass had named it.

But it was all shadow and green now, the magic gone, my memories jumbled and distorted. We’d wandered so deep into these woods. I wouldn’t find it, not at night, not drunk. I shut my eyes, and soft rain pattered in the branches above me.

With the sound of the rain and the sough of the wind, I almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind me. They didn’t register consciously—only in the nestled fold of my brain that stored fear like the broken-off tip of a blade. I came around so fast that I lost my balance. My foot skidded on a patch of wet moss and I went down hard on my ass with a curse. The flashlight spun free of my grip.

A shadow crashed away from me through the trees. I lunged and snatched up the flashlight, swinging it up toward the shadow, but it was too far away and I was too addled and slow. All I caught was the hint of a figure—human. I wasn’t alone out here.

Fear raked its teeth across my tender throat and tore my breath away. I floundered, struggling upright. Someone was here. Someone was following me. It was dark and I was alone and no one knew I was here, and these woods had been promised my death and denied it. If I was going to die, the part of me that once yearned for magic insisted, it would be here.

I bolted. I thought I was running for the road, but I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t see anything but the ground right in front of me, and the thunder of my heart and my footsteps drowned out any hope of listening for a pursuer.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, I berated myself. Branches snagged at my arms. You’re going to die, you’re going to die.

But there was the road, and my car, and the anemic glow of the streetlight. I wrenched open the door and shot inside, slamming it behind me. With the doors locked, I remembered to breathe. I bent over with my fists pressed against my stomach, forcing in one lungful after another.

Had there even been someone else out there? I could have imagined it, couldn’t I, that shadow in the trees? My mind was wheeling with memories, with the memory of pain and fear. Who else would be out there in the middle of the night? Why the hell would they run?

So I’d imagined it. I’d gotten drunk, fallen down in the forest, and mistaken a tree for an ax murderer.

I didn’t really believe it. But I wanted to, and I tried to, and it was almost the same thing.





A rap on the car window woke me with a jerk. Chief Bishop stood outside, scowling, a navy baseball cap protecting her hair from the steady drizzle. I’d fallen asleep crammed in the driver’s-side seat, a dignified line of drool running from the corner of my mouth to my chin. I scraped it off with my sleeve and rolled down the window, squinting in the early morning light.

“Morning,” I croaked.

“Looks like you made some less than optimal decisions last night,” Bishop said.

“That’s an accurate assessment,” I acknowledged. My throat felt like sandpaper.

She gave me a skeptical look. “Ms. Shaw, what are you doing out here?”

“You know, it seemed therapeutic last night,” I said, not bothering to correct her. I’d always be Naomi Shaw here. “Can’t fucking remember why.” I rubbed sleep grime from my eyes and blinked a bit. “Are you going to cite me for something?”

“Sheer stupidity?” she suggested.

“What’s the fine on that, like fifty bucks?” I asked.

“If I write the Miracle Girl of Chester a ticket, the city council will send me packing,” she informed me. “But you are parked practically in the middle of the street just past a blind curve, you stink of booze, and you look like you got in a fight with a tree and lost. I need to know that if I let you drive off, you’re not going to wrap yourself around a lamppost half a mile down the road.”

“I’m good,” I said. Apart from the splitting headache and the dead-squirrel taste in my mouth. Bishop considered me for a long moment. I squinted at her. “Seriously. Hungover, not still drunk, hand to God.”

She sighed. “Find a better place to sleep tonight,” she told me, and thumped the roof of my car in farewell. I waited until she’d driven past me to start up the engine.

I managed to get into my room at the motel without anyone seeing me, and by the time I got cleaned up it was a more reasonable hour. My phone was buzzing on the bed. Mitch. I picked it up to reject the call, but then I sighed and answered.