“Standing up for myself,” I admit. “I haven’t done it in a very long time.”
Her eyes glisten with amusement. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s true. According to Aunt Myrtle, that’s all you’ve been doing since you left Charleston.”
My eyes meet hers, and behind the party-girl glint, I see deeper things—sadness and pain. Innocence lost. Things that can’t be spoken but must be carried. Things I understand intimately. “It wasn’t Charleston I left.”
She pats my knee and stands up, looking down at me after she finishes her toddy in one big gulp. “One demon at a time, cousin. One demon at a time.”
17Beth Ann’s
I shouldn’t be here. A bitter chill brushes against my skin in the bluing dark, the morning sun trying valiantly to crest the trees and chase away another long night. I couldn’t sleep, rattled as I was by the conclave and the afterparty, not to mention Myrtle, Lattie, and Donna singing “Poison Ivy” by the Coasters at the top of their lungs at 3A.M. Finally, just before dawn, I tiptoed into the kitchen where I pulled a quilted jacket over a hasty outfit and went outside. But the woods were as restless as I was, their leaves rustling loudly in the shadows, and the women of the venery still felt too close for comfort.
Burrowing my hands in the pockets of Myrtle’s borrowed coat, I found the keys to her ancient Subaru and decided a drive would clear my head. Myrtle probably wouldn’t be up for hours. She’d never even know I’d gone. I was circling the edge of town when the itch struck, a sinister yank at my gut. It felt similar to my poisonous cravings but with a powerful shift, like the wind changing direction. When I couldn’t shake it, I parked along the narrow shoulder and walked down the lonely drive waiting behind the shelter of the trees.
It’s only now, as I stroll up on the familiar firepit, that I realize where I am. But I have no idea why. I let my eyes crawl over the piled stones, the metal ring inside, the black patch of cold ash. Paces away stands her timber house, a muted blue with white trim, dark behind the windows, the front porch just high enough for a raccoon or a possum to slide under. It’s silent. Empty.
Beth Ann—the last victim of the Saranac Strangler.
The trees are still around me, their branches dipping toward the ground like feathers. I look down. My dusky-green suede boots feel louder here, as if my feet are screaming my presence with every trespassing step. I’ve bound the laces too tight. I can feel the strain across the top of my foot. But I don’t bend to loosen them. That would be assuming a vulnerable position. Unwise, I think, given the location. My arms prickle with apprehension.
There is a pattern in the dirt beside the firepit, as if it has been brushed one way and then another. I stare at it, wondering if she struggled, if they fought, if she was dragged like old lumber. Did she try to run? Did she bolt for the cover of the trees? I glance at them sidelong, a barricade of arms, and picture her blond hair flying. Her place feels suddenly like an arena. The stage where people go to die.
Did she even know what was happening?
My heart rate begins to pick up, and the longer I stare, all I can see is that clearing in the woods Henry drove me to. Everything around me transforms, shifting from morning to night, cold to warm, here to there. His long fingers press into my neck as he rocks against me, eager to see the deed finally done. His breath is stale—garlic for lunch, decaying meat. I wanted to believe, when I jumped off that bridge, that I left Henry behind forever. But I realize standing here that he will always haunt me. I’ve made a crucial mistake. I saved my life when I should have taken his.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a familiar voice calls from the drive, echoing my own thoughts.
Everything spins, South Carolina falls away. I startle and look over a shoulder to see Regis coming up, his uniform snug against his thighs and shoulders, the sunlight trailing behind him. When he reaches my side, he crosses his arms.
“You’re up early,” he says, taking in the sloppy state of my dress, the loose layers of my hair.
“I could say the same.”
“This is a crime scene,” he tells me. “And private property.”
I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come here. I… It was an accident.”
His eyes find mine, probing, as if they are always asking a question I can’t answer. “You look pale. You okay?”
How can I tell him everything I’ve learned, the weight of it on my chest, what I’ve been asked to do? I worry he sees the three dead men in my eyes, that the danger inside gives me away, but he only looks concerned and my heart clenches.
“Motion sickness,” I lie. “I just needed to pull over for some air.”
He nods as if he believes me, but his eyes cut away. He knows there’s more to it than that. The tether that allows me to read him gives him the same insight into me.
“I met her,” I tell him, staring into the firepit. “On my first day here. She was… nice. She was more than that actually, but I never got the chance to find out what.” When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “Did you know her?”
“I know everybody around here.” He looks at the ground.
It’s not really an answer, but the truth floods into me like biting into a cherry cordial. “She was your girlfriend.”
He stares at me, brows slanted, wonder collecting in the crease between them, then sighs. “Yes, when she first moved here. We hadn’t seen each other in some time. It didn’t end well.”
I don’t ask why. It’s none of my business no matter how desperately I want to know.
“She used to bring maple-iced cookies by the sheriff’s office sometimes with her cat, Snowball. Never knew anyone who had a cat that liked to ride in the car,” he says with a small laugh. “Despite our history, Beth Ann was good people. This shouldn’t have happened to her.”
“Bad things happen to good people all the time, we just don’t like to think about it,” I say. Without thinking, I reach out to squeeze his hand. It’s warm, smooth, more comforting to me than mine probably is to him. He doesn’t let go right away. “I’m sorry.”
