OVER THE NEXT few hours, the agents ended up removing every book, file, and scrap of paper from my dad’s office, packing them up into plastic tubs and loading them up in their sleek black car. They took some papers from his bedroom, too, and all of the spare notes that had collected over the years in the junk drawer of the kitchen. They snapped photos of every inch of the house, opening every drawer and cupboard. They even searched my room, not that there was anything to find except for bags of old homework and bottles of dried-up nail polish.
The agents had only taken seven boxes total, but now that they were gone the house felt emptier. Like it was missing something vital.
I was still sitting on the couch, wondering what to do next. My laptop was open and stretched across my thighs, but I was struggling to concentrate. My eyes skipped over my folder full of notes for my Northwestern article. Instead, I clicked to open a new folder and paused before naming it, finally settling on one simple word—DAD.
I spent the next few hours typing up everything I knew about Dad and the bodies in the woods. It was early evening when my phone rang, Micah’s name flashing across the screen. I paused briefly before picking up, unsure what to expect.
“Hey, Micah.”
“Penny, some FBI agents just left my house,” Micah said, with no preamble. He sounded agitated, even a little panicked, which was at least better than the zombielike trance he’d been in the night before.
“Yeah, they came here, too,” I said. “What did they want from you?”
“They asked me some questions about last night, but . . . mostly they wanted to know about you. And your dad.”
My heart stuttered.
“I told them I didn’t know anything about your dad, but they kept asking questions. They really freaked out my mom. I haven’t seen her this bad in a while.”
“Are you okay? I can come over.” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I had time to think about them.
There was a pause on the phone, and I wondered if I was overstepping. Micah had just lost two friends, and now federal agents had upset his mom—because of Micah’s tenuous connection to me—and, therefore, my dad. What if I was the last person he wanted to see?
But to my surprise, Micah breathed out a relieved-sounding sigh. “Yeah,” he said. “That would be great.”
It took roughly twenty-five minutes to pedal over to Micah’s house. He lived off a country road, about a mile from Millers’ barn. The small ranch house looked like it was fighting a battle with the Michigan elements and slowly losing. The front yard was meticulously mowed, but the porch steps were broken in a few places. The windows were spotless, but the roof was sagging after one too many winters with heavy snow. It was getting dark as I walked toward the front door, and only one room in the house appeared to be lit.
When Micah answered the door, he looked terrible. His eyes were hooded, his hair unwashed. He clearly hadn’t shaved, so there was a fine line of stubble along his jaw.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, his voice subdued. He moved aside to let me in.
I took three steps into the house before stopping in my tracks. The living room was clean, bright . . . and a veritable shrine. The walls and shelves were covered from top to bottom in framed photographs, trophies, and ribbons. Pictures of Micah in his football uniform, one for every year since peewee league. Framed photos of his teammates from every year as well. Micah in an elementary school graduation photo, Micah holding a fish, Micah with his first buck, Micah in a homecoming crown.
“My mom likes to frame stuff.” He smiled, a bit sheepish and embarrassed, which was at least better than the grief and worry that had been coming off him in waves just moments before.
“I can see that,” I said, trying to smile back.
“She says it helps her remember the good things,” he added.
In the middle of the mantelpiece was a giant, framed photo of Micah’s dad. I recognized Mr. Jameson from the dozens of newspaper articles I’d read about the plant closing. In the picture, Mr. Jameson was thin, with hair that curled over his forehead. I thought about the file I had on him that was sitting on my laptop and felt guilty again for keeping it from Micah . . . but now definitely didn’t seem like the time to bring it up.
“Where is your mom, by the way?”
Micah gestured down a dark side hallway. “Resting. This has all been kind of hard on her. It’s been hard on everyone in town, I guess.”
I thought again of Cassidy’s parents, how they’d looked standing in front of the police station, like the whole world around them might crash to pieces at any second. Like maybe it already had.
“Yeah,” I replied softly.
Micah sat down on the cushion of a pink love seat, and I hesitated for a moment before perching on an armchair nearby. He looked over at me and rubbed one hand nervously over his knee before clearing his throat.
“I never got the chance to apologize to you,” he said.
“What?” I asked, surprised.
“For last night, before . . . well, during our date—I really didn’t know that Kevin and those guys were going to show up.”
“Oh. Right.” So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that I’d almost forgotten how I’d come to find Bryan and Cassidy’s bodies in the first place. How Micah had laughed instead of defending me.
“I mean, I told them where we were going, but I didn’t know they’d come out. And when they showed up, I just . . . I didn’t handle it well. Sometimes it feels like I do that stuff without thinking, you know? Kevin makes a joke and I laugh, I go along with it. It’s just second nature to not . . . rock the boat, I guess.”
“Hmm,” I said, not sure how else to respond. It was kind of a lame apology. But in that moment, Micah looked so empty that it seemed cruel to hold that against him. “It’s okay. I really haven’t given it much thought since everything that happened. But, um, thank you, for apologizing.”
The corners of his mouth lifted, just a little.
“So you said the FBI came here, too?” I asked, leaning forward.
Micah looked grateful to have the conversation move on. “Yeah. At first I told them the exact same things I told the cops—how we found the bodies, how it was Bryan’s truck . . . but they didn’t really seem to care about that stuff.”
“You said they asked about me? And my dad?”
“They wanted to know what you and I were doing out in the woods, how well we knew each other. They asked me if you were close to your dad or if you knew anything about his work. They thought you might have been lying about not knowing where he is.”
“They actually said that?” I asked.
“Well, not outright. It was just clear they didn’t think you were telling them everything, and they thought you might have told me more. Because we were, you know, out there together . . .”
“What did you tell them?”
Micah shrugged. “I mean, nothing really. I told them we went out looking for your dad in the woods, but we didn’t find anything. I told them you didn’t seem to know where he was, and you hadn’t heard from him since you got to town. I mean, that’s true, right?”
I thought of the email and shifted my eyes away from his gaze.
Micah’s own eyes widened. “Oh, crap, is it not true? Did I just lie to the FBI? Or not lie, exactly, but, like, mislead—”
“No,” I interrupted, putting out my hands. “You didn’t lie. Or mislead. I honestly have no clue where my dad is right now.”
And that much was true. There was no need to bring up the email. Micah probably wouldn’t believe me if I told him it had been written by someone else, but sent through my dad’s account. After all, if the sheriff hadn’t believed me, why should he?
Dex did, answered a small, defiant voice in my head.
But I pushed that thought away. Dex also believes aliens built the pyramids.
I focused my attention back on Micah, who was looking at me intently. “And that’s all the FBI wanted to know about?” I asked.
“Yeah, basically. They kept pushing the issue, and that’s when my mom started to get upset. She can be . . . pretty protective.”
Glancing quickly around the living room again, I thought that might’ve been a bit of an understatement.
“Penny, sorry for asking this, but I . . .” This time it was Micah who shifted his eyes away from mine, looking uncomfortable. “I mean, do you think . . . is it possible your dad . . . might have something to do with all this?”
And there it was, the question I’d been struggling with for hours. The question I was no closer to solving. But somehow, hearing it come out of Micah’s mouth felt like an affront. Him asking that question was different than me asking it, or Dex asking it. I felt my defenses rise as I quickly straightened my back.
“No,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “My dad is out there somewhere, missing. There’s no way he hurt Bryan or Cassidy,” I said, sounding confident. “Or that he’s involved in this.” I was less confident about his general involvement. But I didn’t want Micah to know that.
“Okay,” Micah said, giving a quick nod. “Okay.”
But he didn’t fully believe me, I could tell. I sat taller.
“The more time the FBI spends focusing on my dad, the less time they’ll put toward looking for the real killer.”
“But if he’s hiding from them . . .”
“He’s not hiding from them. He’s . . . well, I don’t know what he’s doing. But I’m going to find out. I’ll find him, Micah, if I have to search every inch of the woods to do it.”
I said the words so forcefully that I almost believed them.
But Micah looked taken aback. His eyes widened, and he lurched forward and grabbed my hand tightly. “Penny, no, you can’t do that,” he said.
I looked down to where Micah’s fingers gripped mine. They were long, calloused from football, cool to the touch. I was reminded of the night before, just before everything went wrong. When he’d leaned forward, ready to kiss me . . . so much had happened since then, but I still felt something when his hands wrapped around mine. Something that was hard to shake. Something I wasn’t sure I wanted to shake.
“Please, Penny,” Micah said.
I tried to focus and ignore his hands on mine.
“What do you mean, I can’t? He’s my dad. I have to find him. You were helping me just yesterday. . . .”
“But it’s not safe now. People are winding up dead in those woods, people I know, and . . . and I don’t want you to be next.”
“I’m not planning on dying, Micah.”
Micah looked like he wanted to say something, but then stopped. He pursed his lips together instead and looked down at our hands, still entwined. He ran one of his thumbs over the tops of my knuckles. For a second, I let myself enjoy how that movement sent a shiver from the base of my neck down my spine.
“Okay, but, please . . . just don’t do anything stupid,” Micah said. “I know you think your dad’s not involved, but, I mean, you’re his daughter. Don’t you think that could make you just a bit biased—”
I pulled my hand back quickly. “No. I don’t think I’m biased. I know how to examine facts, Micah. No matter what they are.” My voice wobbled a bit.
“I didn’t mean . . . I just . . . I don’t want you to go chasing after a murderer and getting hurt. Is that so bad?”
I shook my head and stood up, suddenly tired. “My dad is not a murderer. And yes, there’s a killer out there, but like I told you before, I’m pretty good at taking care of myself. You can trust my judgment or not, but you can’t ask me to just leave my dad to the wolves. Or worse.”
Micah blinked once, twice. Eventually, he nodded. “Okay. I get it. And I do trust you.”
“Good,” I said.
I felt a twinge of guilt. Was it such a crime for him to be worried? And to suspect my dad? I couldn’t blame Micah for not trusting in Ike Hardjoy as blindly as Dex did. As blindly as I once had.
When I was still full of so much doubt as to who my dad really was, I couldn’t really hold Micah at fault for his suspicions.
But still.
I wondered if it would be possible to recapture where we’d been just a few moments before. I could sit back down, reach out, move forward. But exhaustion was settling over my shoulders, and my feet were moving toward the door instead of toward Micah.
He stood up and smiled, as if he was looking for a way to smooth things over, too. “I’m glad you came over, Penny. I wish things weren’t so screwed up right now.”
“Me too.”
“I can’t imagine a first date going worse than ours did.” Micah laughed, but there was a hollow sound to his words.
“It was pretty epically bad,” I agreed. “I don’t think a first date’s supposed to give you PTSD.”
“Probably not. And I broke out the homemade pie and everything,” Micah said with a smile. “I think we still have leftovers, actually. Do you want some?”
“Thanks, but . . . I should get back home, actually. I’m staying with Cindy, and I don’t want her to worry.”
“That’s nice that she looks out for you like that.” Micah walked me to the door. “I’ll see you soon, I hope,” he said.
“Yeah, me too.”
Micah smiled one more time and shut the door behind me gently, and I walked out into the warm air of an early summer evening. The humidity was just starting to pick up, and I saw a swarm of mosquitos hovering near a streetlight at the end of Micah’s driveway.
As I crossed the grass to my bike, I felt the strangest sensation shoot down my back—like I was being watched. I looked back at Micah’s house without breaking step, half expecting to see his form at the window, checking to make sure I made it on my way okay. But he wasn’t there. I turned back around and picked up the pace, ignoring the goose bumps that rose over my neck and arms. I was halfway to my bike when I heard it—a soft rustling sound. Like someone moving slowly through a pile of leaves.
My limbs froze as I looked over to the source of the noise. The tree line at the side of Micah’s house was thick, with large and small trunks alike packed together densely. The leaves of the trees were still full, blocking any sight of what might be hiding underneath them. I peered in the direction of the noise, trying to train my eyes to see through the impenetrable darkness. I barely realized that I was holding my breath.
I heard the noise again, the soft rustling, a shh-shh sound. It was at the edge of the tree line, and it was moving toward me. Something darker than the shadows was stirring, pushing through the blackness, coming closer.
Years and years of my dad’s stories flowed through my head, one after another. I knew, I knew that they were all lies. The Bigfoot in the woods; the lake monster under the waves; the long-fingered, long-toothed sprites that prowled the trees, hunting for bad children. But all that knowledge meant nothing. It was like the last seven years hadn’t happened, like I was ten years old again, terrified to go out in the dark in case the monsters got me.
Something was out there. And it was coming.
I heard a sharp cracking noise, like a twig snapping, and it pulled me back into myself. I forced my arms and legs into motion, twirling to run—to sprint—to my bike. But the second I turned, I nearly crashed into a figure standing in my path.
I screamed.
The figure didn’t even flinch, and barely seemed to register I was there. It was a woman, standing eerily still in the middle of the grass, blocking the way to the street. She was about my height, with long, dark hair that fell down from her head in tangles. She wore a loose white shirt and white pants over bone-thin bare feet, and her arms hung limp at her sides. She lifted her head slowly, jerkily, and her eyes were a bright, unnatural blue. They looked empty, and for a second I was struck by the thought that there was nothing inside this woman at all.
Then her eyes locked on mine, and suddenly they were no longer empty. They began to fill with anger.
“Who are you?” the woman asked, taking one quick step in my direction. I stumbled back, a second scream building up in my throat.
“What are you doing here? Who sent you?”
The woman came even closer, driving me back toward the house. I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice wasn’t there. She didn’t give me time to answer, anyway.
“What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?”
“Mom!”
I turned around to see Micah racing out of his front door and across the yard, a look of panic on his face. He rushed right past me, up to the woman in white, and put one large hand on her shoulder.
“What are you doing out here, Mom?”
The woman blinked once, then again. Hearing Micah’s voice seemed to wake her up in a way, and I watched as the anger faded from her eyes. She tilted her head a bit, leaning into Micah’s shoulder the way a toddler might lean into a parent.
“They won’t leave us alone,” she moaned, putting one hand over her face. “Why don’t they leave us alone?”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Micah said, slowly patting her back. “Let’s go back inside.”
As he started to gently lead her away, I noticed that Mrs. Jameson’s fingernails were lined with dirt, as though she’d been digging in the ground. I also saw that her clothes, which had appeared spooky and ghostly only moments before, were really a tattered T-shirt and sweatpants.
Micah looked up at me as he led his mom away. “I’m sorry, Penny. I—I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
I nodded, unable to think of anything else to say.
As soon as Micah and his mom were safely inside the house, I ran to my bike and jumped on so hard I knew I’d have a bruise on my thigh the next day. I pedaled fast through the darkness, not stopping once—not even to look behind me—until I was in sight of Dex’s front door.