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Having spoken coherently, drunkenness again crashes over me. I sway out of the room, needing multiple attempts to close the door behind me. Then it’s into my own room, where more wrangling with a door ensues.
Jeff is half-awake when I flop into bed, murmuring, “I heard shouting.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I reply, too exhausted to say more.
Before I free-fall completely into sleep, a thought cuts through the fuzz of my brain. It’s a flash of memory—an unwelcome one. Himduring the moment we first met. Before the killing started. Before he became Him.
A second thought arrives, one more troublesome than the first.
Sam wanted me to remember.
What I don’t understand is why.
PINE COTTAGE
5:03 P.M.
Janelle decided she wanted to explore the woods, knowing full well the group agreed ahead of time to do the birthday girl’s bidding. So off they went, tramping into the trees that practically nudged up against the cabin’s back deck.
Craig, the former Boy Scout, led the way with a determination that was almost silly. He was the only one who brought along proper footwear—hiking boots with heavy-duty socks pulled over his taut calves to guard against ticks. He carried an absurdly long walking stick, which struck the ground in a rhythmic thud.
Quincy and Janelle were right behind him, less serious. Wearing jeans, striped sweaters, and impractical Keds, they kicked their way through the fallen leaves that coated the forest floor. More leaves continued to fall, the late-afternoon sunlight shining through their brittle thinness as they spun, tumbled, and whirled. Falling stars speckled red and orange and yellow.
Janelle grabbed a leaf in mid-fall and tucked it behind her ear, its fiery orange glowing against her auburn hair.
“I demand a picture,” she said.
Quincy obliged, snapping off two shots before turning around and taking one of Betz, trudging heavily like she’d done all day. To her, this trip was more burden than gift. A weekend to be endured.
“Smile,” Quincy ordered.
Betz frowned. “I’ll smile when this hike is over.”
Quincy took her picture anyway before moving on to Amy and Rodney, walking as one, their hips all but connected. Since they were never not together, everyone else had taken to calling them Ramdy.
Amy wore one of Rodney’s flannel shirts, the too-long sleeves hanging past her fingertips. Beside her, Rodney resembled a grizzly bear, with his stoner scruff and thatch of chest hair peeking over the collar of his V-neck. Seeing Quincy, they squeezed tightly together, mugging.
“That’s it,” Quincy said. “Make love to the camera.”
“You guys keeping up back there?” Craig called to them as they all began to scale a slight incline. Downed leaves made the ground slick, and Janelle and Quincy held hands, alternately hauling each other up the hill.
“Seriously, you don’t want to fall behind,” Janelle said with the authority of a tour guide. “These woods are haunted.”
“Bullshit,” Rodney replied.
“It’s true. An Indian tribe used to live here hundreds of years ago. Then the white man came and wiped them out. Their blood is on our hands, guys.”
“I don’t see anything,” Rodney said, turning his hands in mock examination.
“Be nice,” Amy chided.
“Anyhow,” Janelle said, “they say the spirits of these Indians haunt the woods, ready to kill any white man they see. So watch your back, Rodney.”
“Why me?”