“No, see, I have a subtle and insightful metaphor that proves I know you deeply,” he said, rubbing the back of his head.
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s because I’m prickly.”
“It’s because you’re prickly,” he confirmed, wincing.
“You didn’t come. At the hospital. Or after,” I said. “You didn’t call. I never heard from you at all.”
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to,” he said. “The way we left things…”
“I don’t know if I would have wanted to see you, either,” I said. The question hung in the air between us—was it different now?
I didn’t know the answer to that, either. When I’d thought I was dying, I’d wanted to forgive him. Now I wasn’t sure. Anger and relief and affection and betrayal fought tooth and claw for dominance.
I shook my head. “I want it to be easy to forgive you. But it isn’t.”
“It shouldn’t be,” he said. “Things like this should never be easy. That’s how you know it’s real, if you manage it.”
I held the hedgehog in both hands, wiggling its paws idly. “Cody was my hero,” I said. “He saved me. And he turned on me. How am I supposed to trust anyone ever again?”
“That’s the thing about trust, isn’t it?” Ethan said. “You gather all the evidence you can, use your brain, weigh character and past actions. But the final inch of it—that’s faith. Trust means believing in someone. It’s not just a conclusion. It’s a choice.”
“That’s a pretty way of putting it. You know, you should be a writer or something,” I said. “Maybe start a podcast.”
He gave a dry chuckle, though it hadn’t been particularly funny. “I’m working on one, actually,” he said.
“Serial killers of the Pacific Northwest?”
He shook his head. “This one’s more personal. It’s about my father, but it’s more about me. It’s about the crimes my father committed, and the ones he didn’t, and what it means to me. I have most of it written already. There’s a big piece of it missing, though.”
“What piece is that?”
“Yours. That day changed our lives. My father might not have attacked you, but from that point on we were connected, you and I. I can’t tell the story of what didn’t happen without the story of what did. And that belongs to you. I need your help if I’m going to do this right.”
“Ethan…” I folded my arms over the hedgehog. The sun hit my eyes, giving me an excuse to look at the ground. “We only knew each other for a few days. And that whole time you were lying about who you were.”
“You’re right. You don’t actually know me, and I don’t know you. I’m not asking to be your boyfriend, Naomi. I’m not even asking to be your friend.”
“Then what do you want?” I asked.
“A trade,” he said. “A question for a question. Just the way we started. But this time, we’ll both tell the truth.”
I looked off down the road. The way it curved, you couldn’t see far before the trees swallowed everything up. Anything could be around that corner, and I could never decide if that felt like a threat or a promise.
Trust was a choice, he said. A matter of belief.
I looked back at him.
“Naomi?” he prompted.
“Ask me a question.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I was in elementary school, my two best friends and I spent all our time lost in an elaborate game—the first rule of which was that we never acknowledged it was a game. Spells and potions, monsters and magic, they were all real—and so were the dark forces hunting us because we knew. The thing I remember most is the desperate wish that if we acted as if it was all real, it would become real. We believed enough to scare ourselves, sometimes—like when we found a perfect stripped skeleton of a bird in the middle of a field or when we sensed something huge and malevolent lurking in the thick fog beyond the apple tree. This book wouldn’t exist without those days and years of surrendering ourselves to our imaginations, so thank you, Katie and Audrey, for being the best friends a girl could ask for.
I also owe a debt to the incomparable Jay Ridler, who told me years ago that I should be writing thrillers; it took me a while to get around to it, but you were right. The No Name Writing Group is a constant source of support and insight, so thank you to Shanna Germain, Rhiannon Held, Corry L. Lee, Erin M. Evans, Susan Morris, and Rashida Smith—with a special thank-you to Erin and Susan, who were in the trenches with me from the start with this book, and to Rhiannon for her help on environmental compliance details. Dana Mele and Amelia Brunskill also provided invaluable feedback on drafts along the way. My agent, Lauren Spieller, transformed the manuscript with her keen editorial eye and championed it on submission, finding it the perfect home.
My editor, Christine Kopprasch, understood this book immediately, and her insights shaped and honed it into its final form. It has been an absolute joy getting to work with Christine and with the whole team at Flatiron—thanks especially to Megan Lynch, Maxine Charles, Claire McLaughlin, Erin Kibby, Jolanta Benal, Erin Fitzsimmons, Kelly Gatesman, and Susan Walsh.
A special thank-you to my son, who tells me that I write boring books and they should have pictures in them—someday you’ll think I’m cool. And to my daughter, who does think I’m cool, but mostly because I give her Goldfish crackers. I love you to bits.
And always, always, always: thank you to my spouse, Mike, and to the rest of my brilliant, funny, generous, creative family. I couldn’t do it without you.