Knows.
About.
Lizzy.
Angrily, I swipe at the sweat over my eyebrow. It’s Saturday morning, but the road’s empty like always. No old ladies walking their yappy dogs. No kids pedaling their bikes to town. No cars pulling in and out of driveways. Nothing at all but me and my early-morning rage. And the shiver of the gum trees as they watch me run.
You’d swear this street was home to nothing but ghosts.
I sprint faster until the backs of my ankles burn and the neighbors’ gardens rush past in smears of primary colors. Despite its reputation, it’s still a pretty street. I’d be happy to be here, if it weren’t for this Lizzy shit.
Black Wood was meant to be a fresh start. Another one. But if someone knows about Lizzy and what happened…
I brush away the sweat dripping down my jaw. The tree shadows look like angry hands trying to snatch me up. I run faster, the back of my calves uncomfortably hot. It hits me that Janet Campbell was running down this same street. But unlike me, Janet was fleeing for her life while her father swallowed tranquilizers in the upstairs bathroom.
God, that poor girl.
A sharp pain wrenches my chest. I slow down, but it’s not my frantic pace that hurts.
I think it’s disgusting that you bought their house, and even more sickening that you clearly hope to profit on it.
The comment from my website flashes through my mind, and for the first time ever, I feel a twinge of guilt.
Janet inherited Black Wood after the murders, but she never returned. No one has a clue where she went or what became of her. Even the estate’s executor couldn’t locate her. For all we know, she could still be in Beacon.
What would she say if she saw me knocking out walls and dreaming of six-figure profits from her childhood home? Of using the tragedy of her family history to make a name for myself? She’d be angry…maybe angry enough to send me threatening notes.
I walk for a bit, thinking, as a magpie warbles his morning song. I remember the magpie on the porch at Black Wood from moving day. Someone’s been feeding it.
“Janet,” I find myself whispering. “Where are you, Janet?”
It’s strange to think of Black Wood House without the murder. Strange to think that to Janet it was simplyhome.A home where she atecornflakes at the kitchen table while Bill read the paper beside her and Susan busied herself in the kitchen, packing a sandwich into her lunch box. I’ve seen pictures of Janet smirking at the camera as her parents stood stiffly behind her. She looked cheeky, spirited. The sort of girl who stuck her tongue out when the teacher’s back was turned, maybe. She’d be in her late fifties now. If she’s still alive.
She was a redhead, Janet. I imagine her as a young child riding her bicycle down that gigantic driveway, bag slung over her shoulder as Susan stood on the front porch, waving goodbye. I can also imagine Janet pointing an accusing finger at me, flame-red hair falling over her shoulders, mouth twisted in rage.
How could you? How could you? How could you?
But a moment later her face blurs like I’m seeing it underwater, and when it clears, it’s not Janet I’m seeing.
It’s my sister.
How could you? How could you?
A gleaming Lexus drives slowly toward me. I wave hello to the driver, an elderly man in his seventies with a silver goatee. He stares back, impassive and unsmiling. I drop my hand, embarrassed, and he zooms past.
I dart glances at him over my shoulder as he pulls into the driveway of a pretty colonial with a gable roof and double-hung windows. It looks like a giant dollhouse. He stops at the mailbox, climbs out of the car, leaves the door open. He reaches for his mail and pauses.
Then he glares down the street at me. We lock eyes, and I’m the first to turn away. So this is how it’s going to be, is it?
I pick up my pace again, sprinting down the street like someone’s chasing me. I’ve never been the type to let consequences stop me. Until now, I saw that as a strength. And for the first time, I have an uneasy feeling that maybe it isn’t.
Maybe it never was.
I run with my head down, farther and farther from Black Wood. It almost feels like I’m running for my life. Like I’m Janet all over again.
I glance over my shoulder, feeling stupid, and eye the tangled mess of forest. The trees are still and silent, but I feel them watching me. I wonder if they remember a flame-haired girl on February4, 1980, running for her life down this same street. Are they thinking of her as they watchme?
I haven’t stepped foot in the forest since that first night. Some woods are inviting. Some woods are just sad. But Black Wood is full of secrets. I can’t shake the feeling that it knows something and it’s dying to tell me.
