I worried on the way here that it would be crowded. I imagined a police cordon, sniffer dogs, onlookers straining for pictures or videos of the place where her body was found. But there is no one in sight. The wind rustles the dead undergrowth, and cars whisper on the highway in the distance. Any police presence that was here is gone now; apparently they’re not too worried about copycats. The morbid and the curious have already come and gone. It’s not exactly a photogenic place. The only thing that made it special was a corpse.
I pass between a couple old oaks and emerge on the bank of the river. The water level is lower now, and the water doesn’t run so fast, but I still wouldn’t want to get in. The river is slate gray and glitters in the overcast light. Large rocks and fallen tree branches jut out of the current.
I’m still shivering. I shouldn’t be here, and if someone finds me, they’re going to confront me about it. I expect to see someone standing on the far bank, or in the trees, or hidden in the waving stalks of grass. I close my eyes and put myself somewhere else. Insomeoneelse.
In the first Children of Hypnos book, Emery and Wes go on a hunt for a dangerous rogue dreamhunter. They’re doing a job; if they have a lead, they follow it. They don’t stop to question if they should.
I don’t know what my job is, and the only lead I’m following is the whisper in my head that says Alissa was here, Alissa chose this place, and I need to find out why. If I understand why Moss River, maybe I can understand why anything else. Why did she want to die?
The clearness of that goal—find out why—makes it easier to breathe. I open my eyes and take in the scene again. Not far from me is a space where the weeds have been cleared out. A fisherman might have stood here. From this position, I have a clear view of a grouping of rocks downriver. I imagine a blue windbreaker with white stripes caught there, battered by the current. Alissa got that windbreaker freshman year. She loved it, would have been upset to see it ruined. Why did she wear it when she went into the river?
I haven’t heard anything about where she entered the river, but police guessed it was near the park and her car. The only way to know for sure is to scout around, see what I can find. Maybe she camped somewhere along the way. Left something behind. Mom will be home before long, so I can’t do the entire distance today, but I’ll search this area more thoroughly than anyone else would have. If someone else was here with Alissa, I’ll figure it out.
I start upriver. The trees rustle around me, branches still bare. The wind bites at my nose and cheeks. People go tubing on the river in the summer, but this time of year the water is too fast andtoo cold, the kind of cold that steals your breath and turns you blue. I catch something going by and whip around, but it’s only a dark branch bobbing in the current. Did anyone see Alissa and think she was just a branch?
No. No one would have seen her. It’s too barren out here, too cold, too remote. If that fisherman hadn’t been around, it could have been weeks before someone found her.
A sharpcrackcomes from my right, upriver, and I instinctively duck. My hair is the same color as the reeds, so I hope I blend in. I hold my breath while I scan between the trees, waiting for movement and—there! A person comes into view, walking my way. A man. His coat catches on a bush, and as he rips his sleeve back, he swears loudly. He flips his dark hair out of his face to look at his hand.
Not a man. A boy.
Ash Whitaker.
His hand is bleeding. Enough that I can see it from here. He swears again, breaks the branch that cut him, then turns and chucks it into the river. “Fuckingnature. Who even likes being out here?”
I stifle my laugh. He sounds consternated, his nose scrunched in disgust, leaves stuck in his hair. I shouldn’t laugh; I know why he’s out here. The same reason I am. He looks at his hand, holding his wrist, then glances around as if he’s trying to figure out where he is. “Shit.”
If I move, he’ll see me, and if I stay put, there’s a good chance he’ll keep coming my way and find me. Besides, I don’t want to feel like a coward. The only thing worse than being a coward is feeling like one.
And if his hand is really hurt, I can help him.
I stand and say, “Hey, Ash.”
He spins, eyes wide.
“Not a cop,” I say, holding my hands up. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” he says. His expression smooths over, defenses in place. The scar across his lip makes him look angry, but I’ve known him long enough to realize he isn’t, at least not at me. “What are you doing out here?”
“What areyoudoing out here?”
“I asked first.”
“Oh, we’re doing that?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been out here all day, searching for... anything. But I just cut my hand. Come over here so we don’t have to yell at each other and attract every cop in the county.”
I cover the ground between us, keeping my eyes down in case Alissa left anything around here. I see nothing out of the ordinary. When I reach Ash, I slide my backpack off my shoulders and take my small first aid kit out of the front pocket.
“Let me see your hand,” I say.
“You carry a first aid kit with you?”
“You never know when you’re going to need it.” I give him an antiseptic wipe to clean the blood and dirt, then the antibacterial ointment. The branch sliced open the side of his hand and across the back, not too deep, but enough to bleed a lot. I cover it with gauze and wrap it quickly. I try not to touch too much of his skin, not because I don’t want to, but because I worry he doesn’t want me to. I like my personal space—why wouldn’t everyone else?
“Have you found anything?” I ask, packing up my kit.
Ash flexes his hand. His jaw clenches.
