JENNY’S BODY WAS found in the woods bordering one of the Emersons’ cornfields. A quick thunderstorm in the early hours of the morning had washed most of the scene away. Mitch Emerson’s black Lab found her body before anyone even knew she was missing. She was left in the open, a flower tucked in her hands, which were folded over her dirty, damp, bruised, bloody body.
The nearest houses other than Jenny’s own were on Sanford Hill, a half mile through the woods. One of those houses was Mark Renkin’s, and as I stood in the place they found her body, I knew my trajectory would take me there.
The edge of the cornfield was about a hundred yards from the road, so the body was assumed to be a dump job by someone who hadn’t anticipated the farmer’s morning walk. A small radius around the body was searched for evidence. No one combed the woods. They were out of the way between Jenny’s house and the body. It didn’t fit the narrative they wanted.
As I thought about marching toward Mark’s house, my motivations became mush. My confidence imploded. If I found something near his house, could I go to the front door? Could I demand he tell me what he knew? Would he invite me in, convince me he wasn’t involved, and then we would just talk? Talk until it was dark and then he would ask me to stay?
I shook my head at my own insanity. I hated him, right? I wanted so bad to find something in those woods, but I didn’t know why. Part of me wanted to show Brandon up, prove I was right. Part of me wanted justice for Jenny. Part of me, a growing part, wanted something to point to Mark. I wanted him involved. I wanted to see him, to talk to him, to have him plead his innocence to me. More and more, though, I wanted him to be guilty, guilty of something unimaginable that would cement his status as a bad man so I could finally let go.
I meandered through the woods for over an hour. I was expecting a dark, scary, unforgiving forest that wouldn’t think twice about allowing a murder inside, but at that hour, with the sun rising through the trees, it was so peaceful. The leaves were changing into shades of orange and red, the pine trees green as ever. Squirrels and other wildlife I didn’t want to think about were busy preparing for winter, creating just enough of a soundtrack to keep my mind from wandering to a dark place.
I didn’t find her backpack like I’d irrationally expected. I didn’t find much of anything other than some empty beer cans that had been there for a lot longer than a few weeks. The trees began to thin, and I knew I was close to Mark’s. I had no real navigation skills, so the first house I reached was actually the home of the Castletons, a well-known family with a handful of kids. I had been the same year as the oldest, Billy—a short-tempered wrestling star with the worst bacne. The Castletons lived a few houses before Mark’s, so I stayed in the woods and wandered uphill.
After a few minutes, I saw the log siding. I loved that Mark lived in a log cabin, or at least a house manufactured to look like one. It was the perfect escape for me for years. Smoke billowed from the chimney. He was proud of his fireplace and the money he saved on heat. He fired that thing up at the first sign of winter. I remembered sweating in the afternoon with the house like a sauna. We’d laugh, strip down a few layers, and talk about going to the beach.
I inched toward the edge of the tree line, still disguised by a massive oak. It was after seven, but both cars were still in the driveway. Mark’s green Blazer and Hunter Willoughby’s navy Accord. I guess she stayed there a lot. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. The man who ended it with me so we could both live our lives before settling down had settled down. It felt like a lie, a great hoax to dispose of me. When we were ready, we were supposed to get back together. He hadn’t come back for me.
The front door slammed shut, but I couldn’t see it from where I stood. I waited until I saw Hunter stomping into the driveway toward her car.
“Hunter!” Mark shouted from where she had emerged.
My body tensed.
“I’m going to be late and so are you.” She hustled to her car as he came into view, jogging from the front of the house.
“Wait!” he yelled, but she ignored him.
As she reached for the car door, he caught up and grabbed her arm. It was a firm, aggressive grip that stopped her in her tracks before he yanked her body around to face him.
From the woods I could see panic cross her face. His voice was calm, but his body language was intimidating. He never acted that way with me.
“You’re overreacting,” he said to her, possibly the worst thing anyone could say to someone.
“What’s it going to take for you to fully commit to this? To us?” she asked.
“Is this about moving in?” he said, dismissing her feelings by citing a topic that must have been a sore subject for her.
“I don’t know why I’m even with you. You make me hate myself. You do horrible things to me,” she said, trying to turn away from him.
What had he done? As he held her arm, I couldn’t help but wonder if he hit her, maybe once, maybe all the time. I couldn’t process what I was hearing or seeing. This man I was watching wasn’t my Mark. The only explanation was that they didn’t have what we had.
Hunter held back tears and tried to hold her ground. After a beat, Mark released her arm with a violent shove that made her whole body fall back. She went with the motion and continued to spin away from him, climbing into the car without another word.
He moved closer to the vehicle. “I’m sorry, OK?” he said as she slammed the door in his face. He rested his arm on the roof and leaned down to her level, inches apart but separated by the glass. “Do you hear me? I’m sorry. Can we talk tonight?”
Hunter reversed with abandon, and Mark slammed his fist down on the top of the car before it slipped from his reach. I watched Mark watch her leave. He crossed his arms over a small stomach that had developed in the last eight years. He stayed in the driveway even after she was gone. He was just staring, a man admiring his property.
The world was silent until my phone screamed out a repetitive screeching ring that could be heard on Mars. It broke Mark’s tranquil moment, and he spun around toward me. Of all the places to have perfect reception in this town. I ripped the phone from my pocket, but my grip was overaggressive, and when it caught on the edge of my pocket, it flew through the air, landing in a pile of leaves. I dropped to my knees, crawling toward the ringing, begging for it to stop.
I lunged forward, swiping across the screen, stopping the sound, answering the call. The screen lit up: BRANDON COLSEN. I grabbed the phone and crawled behind a tree, praying Mark had gone back inside.
“Virginia?” Brandon’s voice projected from the phone in my hand.
“Shhh,” I whispered, finally placing it to my ear.
“What’s going on?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pick up. I’m busy. I’ll call you back later, OK?”
“OK—”
“Don’t call back,” I said and hung up.
I peeked around the tree just in time to see Mark step into the woods, the leaves crackling under his feet. I whipped back behind the tree and said a small prayer to anyone who would listen.
Beep. Beep. Beep. A text message. I lifted the phone to silence it. It was from Brandon, that asshole. Across my screen read: GIL ANDERSON. 28 W. 47TH ST. NEW YORK, NY. Brandon had found him. From a name and a city, he found him in less than three days. I was a little impressed.
“Well, this is awkward,” Mark said to my back as I stared at my phone, lost in the land of Brandon and Gil.
I turned to face him, having to look up from my desperate positioning among the leaves. “Great reception here,” I joked, holding up my phone. What else could I say?