29

Willow

Beau’s handprints don’t match the marks left on the dead girls. That’s what I’ve learned this morning. Police took Beau in for more questioning, simple blood tests, and fingerprint analysis. I suppose they needed to be certain that his alibis weren’t lies.

He’s not the killer.

It’s a relief, that’s what it is.

They released him quick-like when they knew for certain that they had nothing on him. And now, here we are.

“Charlotte isn’t the killer,” he says. “The earrings are hers. Someone stole one of them from her.”

His nostrils flare and his eyes twitch. Is he lying to me?

“I’m supposed to believe that she didn’t lose it that day? That she isn’t the person we saw in the woods?”

“I’m telling you it wasn’t her.”

“You sure about that?”

He smiles. “Absolutely positive.”

“How do you know she’s telling the truth?”

He rows gently, his long legs stretched out toward me. In the small boat, our feet touch.

“Talked to her last night. I can usually tell when she lies. Those are the times when she won’t look me in the eyes, but she did last night. Nothing to worry about,” he says. “Strange as Charlotte is, she wouldn’t hurt anyone, I don’t think.”

This is the most Beau has ever tried to convince me of anything, and so I decide to trust him. The police have questioned Charlotte. They don’t suspect her. Beau doesn’t suspect her. Maybe I shouldn’t, either. Yet still, I can’t completely erase my doubt.

I try to shake the thought from my mind, promising myself I’ll come back to it later. For now, I want to concentrate on Beau’s surprise.

“Where is it you’re taking me?” I ask.

“Just you wait,” he says with a mischievous grin.

The bog gurgles beneath us as bubbles rise to the surface and pop, followed by a turtle head. The sun’s rays scratch holes in the canopy, creating shafts of light that form a path through the water.

“You’re up to something,” I remark.

“Always,” he replies.

We turn a bend. I look back, wondering how far exactly we’ve come. A mile, perhaps? Far enough away from home that no one will see us. But not too far that I have to worry about disobeying Mom’s request to stay close to the house.

Up ahead, I make out a cluster of trees that juts out of the water. It takes me a second to realize it’s an island.

Beau stops rowing, and the boat gently floats toward the shore. From beneath his seat, he pulls out a rope.

“What are we going to do on a small island, Beau?” I ask.

A smile slips through. I don’t think I care what we do on the island as long as it involves Beau being there.

Beau does exactly as I suspect. He ties up the boat, places the oars securely inside, and helps me out and onto solid ground. I can see only a few feet into the trees, but I want to see more.

“Are we going in there?” I ask, hopeful.

“Would you like to?”

I answer by taking a step into the leaves. The sun retreats. Tree trunks line up like markers. Bushes dot the landscape.

I make my own trail. Beau follows.

The walk is littered with stones and broken twigs. Leaves rustle like crackly paper. The wind brushes my skin so lightly that it’s almost a sigh. And then, only a few minutes later, I see the thing Beau wants me to see, sitting in the middle of it all.

“What is this?” I ask.

I bound over to it. Tree roots pop up from the ground like veiny scars intersecting a path. The crazy boy has made a platform for us out of wood, with four stilt legs beneath it digging into the ground. The wood is pine and smells like it, too. I run a finger along the edge, feeling where he smoothed it. It’s newly made, I can tell by the flakes that pepper the forest floor like pencil shavings and the rich wood smell. Atop the platform are another four posts with a fifth in the center, and draped over that is a canopy of white fabric. It sways in the breeze like spider’s silk.

“I wanted us to have a place to hang out,” Beau replies. “Where we won’t run into Old Lady Bell, Charlotte, or Grandpa, and where we can both be alone to relax.”

His eyes roam the swamp around us.

The makeshift pavilion is smaller than my room, but still it’s the most beautiful thing. Clear lights are strung around it, reminding me of fireflies. There is not enough space in my lungs for the quick breaths of excitement I find myself taking. I gasp at the beauty of it all.

“How did you get them to light up?” My question is filled with wonder.

“Battery powered,” he says, his grin growing. “Wait till you see inside.”

He helps me onto the platform that protects us from wandering critters below. It’s easily five feet up. I try not to catch my feet on the lights.

Beau pulls back the drape. A small cluster of cushions sits on the ground, fronted by a tiny wooden table topped with freshly fallen leaves and sticks, reminding me of a bird’s nest. A pink magnolia marks the middle, the source of the floral smell that sticks to the air.

“You did this?” I ask, mesmerized.

“All by myself,” he says.

It’s hard to imagine. Sure, I can see how Beau would bring the cushions and lights and tools to the island by boat, and how he could use the resources already here—the trees and stump for the table, the sticks and flower and leaves—to construct everything, but what I can’t see is why Beau would go through the trouble. Isn’t he the boy Jorie warned me about—the one who breaks hearts? Isn’t he the one Gran swore was darker than the night? That Beau doesn’t match the one standing before me, watching my reaction.

“I love it,” I say.

And then I wrap my arms around this surprising boy and press my lips to his. It’s daring. It’s electricity zapping the air. It’s him sighing into me.

Beau’s fingers move to the hem of my shirt, to the base of my spine, where they tiptoe their way to other places. He holds me the way shadows hold darkness, so close that there is no space between us.

“Want to know a secret?” he whispers.

No matter how good Beau is with riddles, for one brief second, so quick I wonder if I imagined it, he is useless with hiding his emotions.

“I’m glad I met you, my beautiful Willow.”

I know he means it the moment his lips touch mine. This time, he adds a hunger that has everything to do with the way our bodies fit together. Want sews itself under my skin. Longing makes my hands explore the planes of his back and the ripples of his stomach. Beau creates a heat in me that even the swamp can’t compare to, and his eyes tell me that he feels it, too, even if his lips won’t speak the words.

He trails kisses down my neck, making me break out in gooseflesh, despite the stifling air. When he slowly moves to the cushions, I follow. He picks up the magnolia and tucks it behind my ear.

“You are perfect, Willow,” he whispers. “And I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but please don’t stop.”

The note of desperation in his voice hooks me. He drapes an arm over my shoulder, and we lean back so that for the first time, I see the hanging lantern he’s constructed out of vines. An artificial candle flickers inside.

Even over the strong aroma of the flower, I smell the scent that is deliciously Beau. Mud and swamp and a lingering whiff that reminds me of a bonfire at night. I could stay here with him all evening. Maybe I will.

He strokes my hair and watches my profile like he doesn’t give one damn that he’s completely transparent. His riddles have, for the moment, been left in the bottom of the swamp. And I think I might like it that way. Now, I see a Beau more real than I imagined possible—a Beau not one person will believe exists—vulnerable and sweet.

Maybe still a little wicked with his grin.