Page 53 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

I open my mouth to say that this isn’t Ben’s fault. But everyone knows that, and if I say so, it’ll sound as if hecouldbe blamed.

Smits and Danny will take the beach, one heading west and one east. Josie will take the west side of the cottages. Ben and I get the east, including the shed. That’s where he heads first. I tell him it’s locked, but he just keeps walking. That’s fine—I want to check it anyway.

It’s only as he’s opening the shed that I remember the hatchet and bloody gloves, and I hurry inside to warn him. He’s going to see that. Then I’ll need to explain and—

There’s no hatchet. Both that and the gloves are gone.

Did Gail move them?

There’s no sign of Gail in the shed. Ben does a full round with his flashlight. Then he leaves and heads for the trail. He’s walking west, toward the road, and I’m about to stop him when I see my uncle’s cottage ahead.

Ben circles the cottage, hunting for signs of entry. He tests the boards and the doorknob and peers at the windows. He even hunkers down to check the base of the porch, in case there’s a hole or gap there. Then, without a word, he carries on.

We’re walking through the forest, along one of the trails, when I can’t take the silence anymore.

“I’m not sorry you were called in,” I say. “I’ll take all the help I can get. But I am sorry that Sheriff Smits is being an asshole.”

“He has to be. Otherwise, I’d die of shock and you’d be down one searcher.”

“I don’t understand what his problem is with you.”

“None of your business, Samantha.”

I let it go for five steps. Then I say, “It’s Sam. You know that. You’re being a jerk, and I’m asking you to stop.”

“In all correspondence with your grandfather, he refers to you as Samantha.”

“Becausehewas being a jerk. That’s the word for someone who insists on calling you by a name you don’t like, Benjamin.”

He shakes his head and keeps walking. Every few steps, he’ll stop and peer into the forest, and I really don’t know what Smits’s problem is, because I’m sure Ben would search just as thoroughly without me here.

We’ve walked another fifty feet, both of us scouring the sides of the path, when he says, “There’s no riptide. It’s a lake.”

“Don’t argue semantics. Undertow. Riptide. Giant wave.”

“Giant wave?” He turns so I can see his eye roll.

“My grandfather said the waves can get up to thirty feet high.”

“In a storm. Waves require wind,Sam.”

My cheeks heat, and I snap, “Fine. You’re right. So maybe Gail just walked into the water and drowned. Driven to it by the hell of being locked up here with me.”

He keeps walking. “My point is that I don’t think your aunt drowned. It makes no sense. And, yeah, I heard that shit about footprints and drag marks, but I can give you a dozen explanations for what would look like drag marks.”

“So she just left? That’s what you think?”

“I think you two should have damned well let me camp out when I asked.”

My face screws up. “You asked to camp here?”

He turns to study me. “Your aunt didn’t tell you?”

I shake my head.

“After you saw someone in the shed and got that rabbit on the front porch, I said I should stay on-site at night. Camp in front of the cottage. She refused. She said you both didn’t want that.”

So she made the decision without asking me.