Jerome stumbled through the foliage, thorns and prickly leaves scratching his skin. He had insisted on taking the lead, determined to prove to himself—and to Helen—that he was unafraid of the natural world. But now that the light was beginning to fail, his survival instincts were kicking in.
“We should probably head back. It’ll be dark soon.” He slowed his pace until Helen was by his side. She was proving to be equally inept at negotiating the forest paths.
“We’ve only been gone five minutes,” she said, stopping to brush cobwebs from her face. “Besides, we have to meet your friend Emily Swanson by the lake.”
She marched on, cursing as she stumbled over a fallen tree branch, and then shooting a warning glance at Jerome when he failed to suppress his laughter. But Jerome’s amusement was short-lived. He peered over his shoulder at the sea of tree trunks. It didn’t matter that the house was just a hundred metres away, it was beginning to feel as if they were lost in the wilderness, miles from civilisation.
Helen had gained some distance. Jerome quickened his pace and stumbled over an exposed tree root.
“Damn it! Helen wait up! It’s not a race you know.”
“So, you and Emily have known each other for how long?” she asked once he’d caught up.
“About eight months.”
“Is that all? You seem like old friends. How did you meet?”
“She moved into my building.”
“I see.” Helen walked on a little more. “And how come she’s taking antidepressants?”
Jerome stopped in his tracks. “How did you know that?”
“A little bird may have flown into her room earlier and told me.”
“Bloody hell! Do you have any boundaries whatsoever?” Jerome barked, ignoring Helen’s fluttering lashes. “Clearly not, seeing as how you convinced Sam to cut Oscar down! Well, you won’t be getting anything else from me.”
He ploughed forwards. Helen struggled to keep up.
“Come on, Jerome. What are you hiding? Emily Swanson—I know that name. I’m sure I’ve heard it before. Why won’t you tell me?”
“Forget it!” Jerome quickened his pace, then ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch. “Emily’s been through enough without some hack journalist wannabe digging things up all over again. Stay away from her.”
“Hack journalist wannabe? And what do you do that makes you so much holier than me?”
“As a matter of a fact, I happen to be an actor.”
Helen’s laughter rang out through the forest.
Up ahead, Jerome slipped and struck his shoulder against a tree trunk. He twisted around, anger searing his insides. “You think you’re Barbara Walters but you write for some shitty magazine no one’s ever heard of! Emily isn’t part of the so-called story you’re chasing. And speaking of your story, as much as I hate this hell hole, Meadow Pines is Pamela’s business, her livelihood. I hope you bear that in mind when you’re writing your snappy headline.”
Helen closed the gap between them, then hurried alongside, trampling vegetation beneath her feet. “You know, you’re pretty narrow-minded, Jerome. In exactly the same way not all actors are narcissistic, egotistical children, not all journalists are complete assholes.”
Jerome froze. He stared off into the distance, squinting in the half-light, the fight instantly forgotten. Several metres ahead, the trees parted. A wooden shed, which had seen better days, sat in the centre of a small glade. Tangerine light bounced off its mossy, corrugated roof. A dirt encrusted window stared back at them.
“Okay Barbara, what do you think they keep in there?” Jerome said, pointing a finger.
Helen strode forwards. “Shall we find out?”
“We’re supposed to be looking for Sam.”
“Maybe he’s inside.”
Jerome stared nervously at the ramshackle building. “What would he be doing hiding out in there?”
“Come on, pussy. I thought you men were supposed to be the tough ones.”
“Your attempts to emasculate me using gender stereotypes is both outdated and disappointing frankly.”
“Worked a charm though,” Helen said as Jerome jogged up beside her.
As they approached, the wet smell of mould and rotting wood invaded their nostrils. Standing on tiptoes, Helen pressed her hands to the sides of her face and peered through the window. Using her sleeve, she wiped a corner of the glass.
“I can’t see anything.”
Jerome watched as she moved in front of the door, and with her head cocked, listened for signs of life. There was a bolt on the door, which was secured by a heavy looking padlock. Taking a step back, Helen turned and scanned the ground. She found a rock the size of her fist, lifted it with both hands and carried it back to the door.
“Wait! What are you doing? We’re looking for Sam, not breaking and entering.” Jerome said, mouth gaping as Helen raised the rock. “And I think that huge padlock is a pretty good indicator that he’s not inside.”
Helen’s arms remained above her head, the rock swaying from side to side. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she turned and pitched the rock onto the ground.
“Well, you’re no fun,” she huffed.
“And you’re not quite as monstrous as I thought you were.”
They moved away from the shed and picked up the dusty path on the far side of the glade. Minutes later, the forest rolled out in every direction. They could no longer see the house or the meadow. The path veered to the left, taking them further into the trees and passing by a thick mire of bog water. A stench hung in the air, thick and putrid like sulphur. Above them, the sun continued its descent. Shadows grew long and wide, moving through the forest like a black flood.
“So Ms Walters, what do you think’s going on here?” Jerome asked, his eyes glancing upwards.
Beside him, Helen chewed her lip. “As journalists, we’re taught to differentiate between facts and opinions. The facts are that Oscar is dead—seemingly by his own hand, Marcia went for help but has yet to return with any, and now Sam appears to be missing.”
“Don’t forget the delightful Ben and Sylvia.”
“I haven’t, but I think we can eliminate them and the robbery from whatever’s going on.”
“So if those are the facts, what are your opinions?”
Helen was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I think there are an awful lot of facts to be put down to mere coincidence.”
They emerged from the forest and stepped onto the path that connected Meadow Pines to the outside world. Jerome turned his head. A temptation to break into a run, to reach the gate and vault right over it surfaced in his mind. But then his thoughts turned to Emily. It wasn’t as if he had the car keys anyway. Or a driving license. Or the ability to drive.
“Emily doesn’t think Oscar killed himself,” he said.
“I think Emily may be right.” Helen wiped perspiration from her brow. “Regardless of the facts.”
They crossed the path and continued into the forest. They found the trail a moment later, directed by a signpost pointing northeast towards the lake. All around them, insects rustled and chirruped. Somewhere in the branches, a bird called out and was answered by another.
“Whatever’s going on here, the quicker we get to the lake the better,” Jerome said. “If Emily is right, then the last place I want to be right now is running around in the middle of the forest like some hapless idiot from a slasher movie. Let’s pick up the pace.”
Helen peered over her shoulder into the shadows of the trees. “I don’t need to be told twice.”
They fell into silence as they hurried along. More than once, they lost the trail to dense, overgrown thickets. Then, just as the treetops pierced the sun and molten lava spilled into the sky, the ground began to descend beneath their feet. Jerome caught a glimpse of the lake’s shimmering surface between the trees.
Letting out a deep sigh, he stepped off the path, then looked back to make sure Helen was following. Any relief he felt was instantly snatched away. Helen stood on the path, shoulders up to her ears, wide eyes staring off into the distance.
“What is it?” Jerome whispered.
She lifted a hand and pointed into the shadows. “There’s something there.”
Cursing under his breath, Jerome stepped back onto the path. It took a few seconds for his eyes to find what she was looking at. Then, his heart slamming against his chest, he slowly backed away.
“Oh God,” he said. “We need to find Emily.”