“We’re going to a lookout tower,” I tell Beck. “I think maybe the killer went there before killing Paisley, Harlow, and Opal.”
Beck stands and brushes the dirt off her pants. “Let’s go.” She snaps some more pictures. “Do you think it’s kinda weird that we’ve found trace evidence of what happened to Pais, Opal, and Harlow, but not that missing woman?”
“I don’t know.”
I dig out my toothbrush, toothpaste, and water bottle and wash out my mouth a few times.
Beck stares at the spot where I spit in the dirt. “We’re leaving a lot of DNA around here, aren’t we?”
I shrug as I wipe my mouth. “Everyone leaves DNA everywhere. It only matters if we’re doing something wrong, right?”
Beck raises her brows. “Fair enough.”
Once I feel clean again, Beck’s words about the missing woman race through my mind.
Natalie knows exactly who was here in the national park. You’re not allowed here at night if you’re not camping. The only women registered to a campsite were Paisley, Harlow, Opal, Ivy, and Vanessa. Ivy didn’t do it, and three of the girls are dead.
We’d assumed all this time that Vanessa was dead, but all Ivy knew was that she wasmissing. But a woman was spotted that night by two people. A little girl saw a bloody woman run into town and I saw a woman, no longer bloodied, in the parking lot.
It hits me like a wrecking ball.
Of course.
Paisley said in her video that a lady told them about the witch. What if that lady was Vanessa?
What if Vanessa’s disappeared becauseshe doesn’t want to be found?
I swallow the fear digging into my throat and grab my pepper spray as we start walking again.
Maybe we’ll find outjustwhat happened to her when we reach the watchtower.
* * *
Exhaustion creeps in as a surprise. The walk to the watchtower is half a mile, a nothing hike that wouldn’t even be enough for Beck to walk her dogs and get them tired out. But after the poor night’s sleep, the hikeout here, and losing what little caloric energy I had to the summoning circle, I can barely keep my eyes open as my feet drag through the dirt. I’ve managed to keep water and half a granola bar down, but I know I need more energy, and that I can’t take in any more for a while.
Beck is equally sluggish after her panic attack.
The fact is, we need to rest. This terrain could easily cause us to twist ankles. Every wise decision my dad would be expecting me to make isn’t being made all in the name of my newest hunch about the watchtower.
But we keep walking, pushing through stray tree branches that grow harder and harder to avoid as the minutes go by. I find myself drifting off, listening to bushes rustle and imagining what easy prey we’d be if any predator animals wanted to take down two big meals.
“You know,” Beck says, reigniting the conversation for the first time in about an hour, “I have this delusion that I could beat a coyote in a fight. Like, I could drop kick one off its feet if he ever got near my dogs when I’m out walking in Sherman Oaks. Now, damn, I’m not so sure. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a coyote up close. Maybe they’re a lot bigger than I think they are.”
“I think they’re pretty small. Bears around here aren’t that big either.”
“Are there mountain lions?”
“Not sure.” I press my hand to my forehead, mopping up the sweat. “Don’t think so.”
But when I hear a twig cracking somewhere behind us, we both jump.
“What was that?” Beck asks.
I don’t have an answer.
But we have reached the watchtower.
In another life, I might’ve called the watchtower cute. Somewhere Owen and I would’ve been exhilarated to discover as kids on our camping trips. It’s about the size of a large treehouse, lined with a wraparound porch and standing proudly at the top of three wooden platforms accessible by a rope ladder that could be pulled up each time you go up. It reminds me of an old children’s book, although I can’t remember which one. I’m not usually huge on heights, but as Beck and I climb and pull the ladder up level by level, the tightness in my chest loosens the higher we go.
