Page 118 of Take This to Your Grave

I follow the ridgeline until the trail curves around the mountain and the trees thin enough to give me a clear view into the valley below.

From here, I can see the place where my last walk went wrong.

I find the section of the slope where I lost my footing last time and stop to study it from the relative safety of the trail. It’s still steep, still covered in loose rock and dead leaves, and still a terrible place to attempt a descent. At least I’ve learned something from the experience.

I'm about to keep walking when something below catches the light.

I squint.

There's a car parked near the fence.

Not unusual by itself. There are several structures down there, and despite appearances, abandoned properties have proven surprisingly popular in Stillwater.

This car is the unusual part.

Even from this distance, I can tell it doesn't belong.

Stillwater has trucks. Subarus. SUVs with mud caked into the wheel wells and bumper stickers that have survived three presidential administrations.

This is sleek and black and polished enough that the late-afternoon sun flashes off the hood.

I pull out my phone.

The camera struggles when I zoom in, the image pixelating around the edges due to the distance, but the car comes into focus well enough.

I stare at the screen.

I don't know enough about cars to identify it beyond rich person, but I know enough about Stillwater to know I haven't seen anything remotely like it since I arrived.

I take a picture, then I send it to Tamsin.

Serena: Is this car as fancy as I think?

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Tamsin: Good afternoon to you too.

Serena: Is it?