“I don’t get it,” he finally says, throwing up his hands. “Is he waiting around the corner or something?”
“Yeah, he is.”
He stares at me.
I trudge back to my car, reaching into the boot. And I watch his face fall in shock when he sees what I’m holding.
A shovel.
—
Minutes later, he’s a fewsteps behind, feet crunching on the dirt.
“Quiet,” I hiss softly, “you need to be quieter.”
He gives me a suspicious look. “Are your mates waiting for me up ahead or something?” He pretends to scan the tree line, like he’s waiting for the townsmen to come charging out. “Hope you’re not thinking of doing me in, Melanie.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve thought about that.”
He snorts, treading quieter now, eyes wide with anticipation. If he does find this guy, it will make his career. I know he’s thinking of the story he’ll write, the breaking news, the pats on the back, Donny’s grateful, heartbroken family.
“When we find the body, we’ll call the police,” he says, serious now. “They’ll come and declare it a crime scene. They’ll want to know how you knew the body was here,” he adds nervously, as if afraid to scare me off.
I don’t answer, and he finally stops talking.
We walk in total silence. It’s a clear morning, no wind. To our right is a lily pond, looking like something out of a children’s book. The giant lily pads are the size of dinner plates and home to two softly croaking green frogs. It’s beautiful but odd, completely out of place. Makes you wonder what else there is to find here. My chest feels too tight; I keep rubbing the soft place over my heart again and again.
Finally, we come to the fork, and a Bell Miner bird calls out in clear warning. Chris brushes past me, and I grasp a fistful of his shirt, slinging him back. “No!”
I must have snapped it, because he gives me a wounded look.
“Sorry,” I mutter. I don’t add that there’s a place just ahead that I don’t want him to see. A creek.
Two evil things happened in these woods. One, to Donny Granger. The other, to my grade-five classmate Amy Anderson. I’ll only tell Chris about Donny. He can write up the story, take the credit, and get me a job. I don’t want him finding out about Amy.
“Well.” Chris raises an eyebrow, waits. “Which track?”
“Neither.”
I veer off the track until I’m parallel to it. I face a sign, knee-high and faded.
It Is Prohibited to Cross the Fire Access Track
I step onto the fire track, and Chris shuffles into step behind me. I can hear the change in his breathing, the anticipation. He’s stepping carefully, lost in dreams.
And I creep forward, lost in nightmares.
—
The fire track has beenswallowed by the bush. A tunnel of tea trees closes in around us, their flaking limbs arching overhead toform a scraggly steeple. It’s impossible to walk without tripping over a mass of roots or fallen branches. I feel like I’d have to suck in my stomach or inch sideways like a crab just to move around.
And that’s just the beginning. The deeper you get, the more the woods begin to close in. Vines twist around my ankles, and the undergrowth scratches at my legs like grasping fingers. Branches rake across my face, clawing at my clothes as if trying to hold me back. As if they’re saying,Don’t go farther. You won’t like what you find here.
Behind me, Chris falters, crying out softly in alarm. I whirl around, afraid. Chris flattens his back against a tea tree as a wallaby bounces past, half hidden among all the gray-brown bark. I watch it rush by, snorting at his fear.
“You’re all right,” I tell him, wiping the sweat from my upper lip. “Skippy won’t kill you.”
He gives me a look. “Feels like something will, though.” He frowns, looking up at the bony branches of the tea trees. “This place is creepy.”
