Page 73 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

“Nice artwork,” he says. “A little creepy, but that’s you, isn’t it, Sam? A little creepy.”

“You—you did this.”

His eyes widen. “Me? No.” He steps closer, and I shrink back, hitting the tree. “Youdid this, Sam, and if you tell anyone, that’s what I’ll say. I saw you chopping up the squirrel with your hatchet.”

I boomerang back to the present, scrubbing my hands over my face. I didn’t kill that squirrel. I did not, for one second, believe I had. The smirk on Austin’s face told me who’d done it.

It’d been a threat. Not just the promise to claim I’d done it, but the squirrel itself. Do as he said… or else.

I’d taken that threat seriously. I’d been a child, with no coping mechanisms for anything like what I endured with Austin. The only thing I could think to do was to get through the summer.

Until I couldn’t.

Until I broke and told someone what was happening to me and—

I rub my face harder. Don’t think of that. Focus on the present.

Did I chop up a dead rabbit and fox? No.

Did I drag my aunt into the lake? Absolutely not.

I’d been a mess that night, and it’s no wonder I don’t remember taking off my shirt and shorts. Hell, I don’t consciously remember getting changed last night either. It’s an automatic part of going to bed.

Gail was wrong. I’m not responsible for any of this. I can’t be.

Someone is framing me.

How easy would it be to bloody that hatchet and gloves? I’d left them outside. Equally easy to take my clothing from the hamper and do the same. Gail had been the one to lock the cottage door—I keep forgetting, as if this place makes me a child again, expecting someone else to do that.

But why put the wet clothes in the shed? Who was likely to see them? Not Sheriff Smits. Ben?

Or me.

The most likely person to find that hatchet and gloves and wet clothing was me. I’ve been the one going to and fro, checking out the shed, getting the hatchet, in there once or twice a day.

Someone wants me to think I’m losing my mind, that I dismembered those animals, that maybe I even drowned my aunt. Someone with access to the—

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

I wheel, see Ben striding through the forest and back up, slamming into the tree trunk, just as I had all those years ago with his brother.

Ben stops short. “Sam?”

“Where have you been?”

His face screws up, as if he doesn’t understand the question.

“Where have you been?” I repeat, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You got here hours ago and then vanished.”

“I’m dealing with a problem.”

“What problem?”

“Caretaking. Which is my job. What’s up with you?”

He peers at me and takes another step. Then he must see my expression. He stops, hands up, palms out.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m not coming any closer. What’s wrong, Sam?”