Scrolling down, I see that there’s no mention of Hope Hanover beingone of the lost hikers in the Underground. It’s good that Skye hasn’t gotten wind of it yet. It’s also, frankly, shocking.
She’s watching a video now. My ears perk up when I hear the wordsEden National Parkandfatalities. Plural?
What do they know?
“Hey,” Skye says. “Have you seen this yet?” She holds out the phone so I can look, too. She hits the Replay button. It’s a clip of a police officer speaking to a crowd of reporters on LikeMe, posted to an account that uses the handle @unofficialedenpark.
A thirtysomething man and woman are standing in the parking lot where the SAR team and the police have been staging the rescue. Across the bottom, the caption readsChildren of Ed and Jean Harrow, couple confirmed dead in flash flood.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see guests coming in the main entrance of the tent, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the families and friends, the loved ones, of the missing. The gone.
The daughter is tearful. “We’re heartbroken,” she says. “But if they could have chosen how they went, it would be like this. They were together doing what they loved most.”
A movement catches my eye. I look up to see Ash and Caro standing at the desk.
“They loved drowning in fear together?” Ash mutters, and I catch my breath. That wasdark.
But I get it, and even though it’s wildly inappropriate to do so, I want to laugh.
“Oh my gosh,” Caro says to Ash, but you can hear a note of almost-laughter in her voice, too. They’re both on the edge, a feeling and place I recognize. “Let them believe what they need to believe.”
“Sorry,” Ash says. “But when you know how it actually was—”
“We don’t know how it actually was,” Caro says. “We weren’t them.”
“That’s true,” Ash says.
Skye is looking from one woman to another as they speak.
“Sorry,” Ash says to Skye. “Would you mind if we took a look at that clip again? We were in the canyon with the people who died.”
“Oh, ofcourse.” Skye hands them her phone. “I’m so sorry about what you guys have been through.” I can see her perking up. Is she going to try to get in good with them? Is she going to film them for content?
And she doesn’t even know that Hope Hanover is their friend who is missing. She will soon, and she’s going to lose her damn mind when she finds out.
“Itisthem,” Ash says sadly as the video plays again and the faces of the couple who died come up on the screen.Couple celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary dies in flood, the caption says.
“Damn it.” Caro’s voice is exhausted and sad.
They hand the phone back to Skye.
“If there’s anything I can do to help,” Skye says, dropping her voice in sympathy, “please let me know.”
The women nod.
Skye gives a satisfied smile. She’s probably picturing herself posting about the inside scoop she has on the tragedy, how she’s BFFs with the women who lost their friend. The selfie potential! The increase in followers! Another guest comes up to the desk with a question about checkout time, and as Skye speaks with him her eyes track Ash and Caro. She thinks she’s in.
Oh, Skye,I think,you don’t have any idea how far off you are.
37
ASH
“IS THIS HOW HOPEfeels all the time?” Ash mutters as she and Caro run the gauntlet into the police station. Spencer took them to retrieve Caro’s car from the trailhead parking lot earlier, and they’re driving it now, but they had to park several blocks away, thanks to the crowds.
The town of Spring Creek is charming: ice cream and sandwich shops, outdoor equipment rentals, Mexican restaurants, pizza parlors, art galleries, rock shops, electric bike rentals, hotels—all tucked in pioneer-esque buildings or newer, tasteful, modern ones against the base of towering red-rock cliffs. And it’sbusy. To Ash, Spring Creek feels like the opposite of Story, the dead little town on the other side of the Devil’s Backbone.
The police station is also charming—a red sandstone exterior with wooden beams and xeriscaping. It looks fairly new. A small army of reporters, paparazzi, and hangers-on are milling about, and when they got wind that Ash and Caro are Hope Hanover’s friends, they moved as one in their direction, like a school of fish or a flock of birds. It’s unsettling.
