25

Willow

The air is as warm as lava. Yet I try not to shiver.

It’s happened again.

They found another dead girl today.

I think about what it means as I sit by the fire, Beau by my side, his friends Grant and Pax across from us.

“It’s unreal,” I say, stoking the fire with a twig, earthen fingers playing in the embers, flicking them into the air to be swallowed by darkness.

Rocks circle the pit. Beau and I sit atop a blanket to keep the bugs off us.

“That makes three girls,” Grant says.

“First Samantha,” Beau chimes in. “Then Julie. Now Maggie. I knew them all.”

By “knew them” he most likely means “dated them,” but I try not to think about it.

“They say Samantha was on her way to see you,” Pax says. “That Julie was hiking. And that Maggie had rented an airboat for a sunset ride and taken it out on the swamp.”

I think back to the news reports this morning.

“The boy she was with, supposedly her boyfriend, was afraid of the woods, especially at night,” I say. “Who wouldn’t be? Who, besides locals, would voluntarily choose to come here knowing a killer is loose? Word has it that Maggie was an adrenaline junkie and dragged him with her. So the boyfriend stayed in the boat even when she didn’t. She taunted him that if anything happened to her, it would be his fault because he wasn’t there to protect her. Then the crazy girl laughed all the way into the woods. That’s the last anyone ever heard of her.”

They checked the boyfriend’s handprints. Compared them to the ones left on Maggie’s cold, blue body. Not a match.

“What a chickenshit, that boyfriend of hers,” Beau says, wrapping an arm around me. “I would never leave you alone in the woods.”

“That poor boy must feel destroyed now,” I say. “She meant it as a joke, but it came true. Imagine, her death is now on him. Her own words.”

Beau nods. “Parting words are nothing to mess with.”

“You think he saw something but just doesn’t want to say?” Pax asks, his hair flopping in front of his face like a mop.

“Possibly,” Beau replies. “But then that’d mean that he’s scared shitless. Too worried that the killer will come for him next, maybe?”

“What’s the motive?” I ask.

I puzzle it out. Three girls. No witnesses. Same killer, according to the crime scenes. Signature throat bruises.

“Don’t know,” Beau replies. “Simply to kill?”

Part of me refuses to believe it because it’s too ugly.

“Maybe the killer was linked to them in some way. They all go to our high school. All females. Something matches them up,” Pax says.

“Maybe not,” Beau counters. “Sometimes people are evil, plain and simple. No reason. No rhyme. Just devil evil.”

“Maybe it is the devil,” Grant says jokingly.

Mention of the dead girls, along with the dark night and too many shadows, begins to make my nerves spike. My heart beats a haunting tune. No one knows who the killer is. He could be out in the woods right now.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” I say, holding my arms tightly.

“She’s getting scared,” Grant replies. “Guess maybe she should be. She’s the one dating you right now, Beau, and we all know how that’s been turning out for your previous girlfriends.”

“You ass,” Beau says with a sharp glance at Grant.

I can’t believe Grant’s words. I also can’t believe how true they ring. I could be next.

“Don’t listen to him. I’ll protect you, Willow Bell.” Beau brushes my hair from my face. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Well, we have to go,” Pax says. “Grant wants to hit up Devon’s party in town. He has the absurd idea that he might actually be able to get a girl’s number without you there, Beau.”

Grant punches Pax on the arm. “I will. You wait and see.”

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Pax asks Beau. “You’re welcome to join, too, Willow.”

Beau looks at me as he answers. “Nah, I’m good right here.”

“Thanks anyway,” I say.

All the lights of a party hold nothing to sitting under a blanket of stars.

Pax and Grant offer goodbyes on their way out.

“You sure you don’t want to go?” I ask Beau as they start the car.

He grins. “Do you know what guys go to parties for?”

“Beer?”

“No. Girls. Beer is just an added bonus. And I have the only girl I want right next to me, so you do the math.”

“You telling me that you stayed here to keep yourself out of trouble?”

I can’t help the small smile that works its way across my face.

“Possibly.”

He takes my hand and kisses the back of it softly.

“You want to come inside?”

I instantly picture his den filled with books and kisses.

“Yes,” I say.

I try not to worry what will happen if I meet Mr. Cadwell face-to-face. The man in the photographs who changed Gran’s life.

This time when Beau opens the front door, he gives me a tour. The living area. The kitchen. His room. He points to Charlotte’s and Mr. Cadwell’s rooms. I peer through the open doorways. They’re perfectly cozy.

Beau grins. “You look nice tonight.”

I’m wearing jeans, a shimmery top, and boots. My hair is wavy and down. Beau likes my hair down. He runs his fingers through it and makes me lean into him.

“Thanks. Where is everyone?” I ask.

He removes his hands from my hair and places them in his pockets. Then he leans casually against the wall, his eyes glinting.

“Charlotte took Grandpa into town,” he says. “So it’s just us.”

I think I understand the look he gives me.

“Want a tea?” he asks.

I do. “Sure.”

“I’ll make some,” Beau offers.

He walks to the kitchen and reaches toward a top shelf. He pulls down a canister, but there are no tea bags inside.

“We’re out,” he says. “There’s more in the storage shed. We keep extra food supplies there. Give me a minute.”

He grabs a key from a hook by the door before entering the side yard. From the bay window, I observe him as he unlocks the shed. Thanks to the outside lights, I can see him clearly. And because something draws me to this house, I look around more closely. Floorboards squeak in high-pitched protests as I bear down on them, making my way through the living room. Beau’s place is clean. It doesn’t look as lived in as Gran’s or Jorie’s house.

I venture into the hallway. Black-and-white photographs of old barn houses dot the wall. I wonder what their significance is, and then I think maybe they don’t have one. Maybe they simply fill a spot where family photos should be.

I glance back outside, looking for Beau. He’s disappeared into the shed.

At the end of the hall, I find a bathroom and step inside. I check my reflection, smoothing down stray strands of hair and adding a layer of gloss to my lips.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something glint from a jewelry box on the counter, the bottom of three drawers ajar. I edge closer, peer inside, and make out a garnet as red as blood attached to a silver chain and an emerald brighter than a flower stalk set in an old, tarnished broach. I admire a turquoise stone framed by an intricately carved ring, but suddenly my blood turns cold. There, just next to the ring, is a silver earring, a chunk of green-amber dangling down. I inhale sharply.

I know this earring. I found its match in the woods. Left there by the person in the cloak, who I happen to think is the Mangroves Murderer.

The door creaks behind me, and I spin around, nearly face-to-face with Beau.

“Everything okay?” he asks. “I heard you gasp.”

“Beau.” His name is barely a whisper on my lips. “Whose jewelry box is this?”

“Charlotte’s.” The smile drops from his face the moment he notices my expression.

“You’re sure it’s hers? She didn’t have a friend over who accidentally left it? Or maybe your grandpa had a visitor who left this here?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “It’s Charlotte’s, I’m sure of it. It used to belong to my grandmother.”

I slowly turn back to the box.

“Look inside,” I say.

He steps up to the counter, peers at the jewelry, and stills.

“Is this what I think it is?” He pulls out the earring.

“You tell me.”

I’m standing in the house of the girl who wore those earrings in the woods.

“The police were right,” I say. “These didn’t belong to one of the victims.”

I brush past Beau and into the living room, trying to get to the front door.

“I’m afraid,” I say, “that they instead belong to the killer.”

Beau’s sister could be the killer. I’m in her house. She could return at any moment.

“Where are you going?” Beau asks.

“I’m leaving.” God, Gran is right, isn’t she? “I need to go.”

I take a step away from Beau.

“There has to be another reason,” he says. “Maybe Charlotte found the other earring. How do you know it’s hers?”

“I…” Well, actually… “I don’t.”

Beau trails a finger down my arm, stopping at my fingers, which he winds his through.

“And how do you know she’s not helping the investigation in some way?” he continues.

“I don’t,” I repeat. “But this is pretty damning evidence. Why didn’t she take it to the police? Why didn’t she tell anyone she found the earring?”

“Maybe she did, and we just don’t know. Or maybe she didn’t think anything of it. We never told her about the match, remember?”

“True,” I say.

“Until we know something, let’s not jump to conclusions. Let me talk to Charlotte. If she can’t give me a good reason for the earring being here, I’ll hand her over myself.”

“You’ll turn her in?” I ask skeptically. “Your own sister?”

“I will damn sure make certain she never hurts anyone again, if that’s what you mean.”

He watches me close-like. His penetrating gaze burns my blood right up. And there, in his stare, I find truth. If Charlotte is the killer, Beau will stop her.