“We’ll go back to the Strouds’ house,” Tom said, relieved. “We’ll call the police.”
He turned to go. Cate didn’t look at me as she moved, her face flinty. After a second, Isabelle followed, still holding the dress against her chest. I thought about telling her to leave it behind, but I couldn’t stand to think of that dress hanging alone, in the trees, abandoned.
Following the others, I stopped at the edge of the clearing. There was something odd about the trees near the charred circle. Their bark looked strangely textured. Tattooed. I went closer, squinting. There were words carved into the skin of the trees, so linear they looked like hieroglyphics.
The markings appeared fresh, exposed skin still raw and pale. I reached out to touch them with my fingertips, like this extra information would help me interpret what was happening. I saw what looked like two Vs right next to each other, and my mind kept thinking V-V, V-V, or maybe five-five, until the two symbols consolidated into one letter. W. Then all at once: Witches. Hewn into the wood with those sharp angles, the S just a harsh series of connected lines. Three slashes. There, below it, another word, not quite identical, but similar. Witches. Another one, another one. A dozen. Some angled. Some written in huge letters, as long as my palm, others so small I could barely read them. The word was always the same, and it spread from trunk to trunk like an infection.
WITCHES WITCHES WITCHES WITCHES
29
I waited outside, listening dully to Tom and Cate argue next to me. Being inside the Strouds’ house felt wrong. Morbid. The TV set flashed bright against the opposite wall, visible through the windows. All those laughing faces playing to an empty room. Those trees screaming WITCH into the silence.
“It’s the right choice,” Tom was insisting. “We can’t go home without knowing what happened to Josie’s mother. If this sheds any light on what happened to her—if this helps us catch the guy—”
“Is this about Margaret? Really?” Cate demanded. “Because I think this is a power play. You just want to show that you know what’s best. And who are you, Thomas Abbott? I understand why Josie’s looking for her mom, and why Isabelle’s here, but I can’t get my head around you—you talked to Margaret one time? That gives you some authority here?”
Isabelle was inside the house, watching from the window. The fighting crashed over me in waves. I kept thinking of my mother. Her voice on the answering machine.
“Josie trusts me,” Tom said, tight. “I’ve been doing everything I can to get Margaret home safely. Everything. I’m helping you find the Homesteaders.”
“You give us addresses? Big deal. You know, the yellow pages can do that too,” Cate snapped. “Last I checked, the yellow pages didn’t rat people out, so they’re starting to seem like a better deal compared to you.”
“This was a mutual decision,” Tom said. “A careful decision. Talk to Josie. She trusts me.”
A scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. Morrow only trusts you because—”
“Cate,” I said, reminding her not to reveal Emily’s secret, but she’d stopped anyway. Down the street, the low rumble of an engine. Cate turned, eyes burning.
“Don’t tell them I’m here,” she said. “I’m going to wait this shitshow out.”
A police car was approaching, and right behind it a truck, their lights catching me in a glare so blinding that I turned away. The vehicles pulled into the driveway. I stood in the spotlight for a second too long, unable to see anything, the world gone white.
The engines fell silent, the headlights fading, winking out. As I blinked to clear the hectic spots of color from my vision, there came the heavy slam of a car door, echoed by two more. Multiple silhouettes were moving toward us in a slow pack. More men than I’d expected. In this tiny town, I’d pictured one politely beleaguered officer.
“Hello, there.” A voice issuing from the shadows. “You the folks who called about something suspicious going on at the Stroud residence?”
“That’s me. Thanks for coming, gentlemen.” Tom hurried down the steps. Watching him reach out to shake hands with one of the men, I recognized that Tom had an automatic confidence with these strangers, perfectly at ease among them. It gave me a funny envy for a minute: how quickly he took control, seemingly without needing to prove anything to them.
Tom consulted with the others in voices too low for me to catch. Before I knew what was happening, two men had left the group, heading with Tom toward the back of the house. The beam of a flashlight bounced and swayed through the darkness before they vanished.