The path more or less followed the shoreline, but far enough away that I stayed in the shadowy woods. The forest was mostly pines here, a few deciduous trees mixed in. The ground was covered with pine needles, fallen leaves and branches, lush moss, although the path showed signs of having been used recently. I noticed the occasional footprint in wet ground, broken twigs and branches. I stopped to pick up a cigarette butt. One of Lauren’s?
As I made my way along the path, I tried to imagine I was Lauren, creeping away from the cottage after dark.
It wasn’t so hard, really. To remember what it was like to be thirteen and full of secrets, sneaking around in the dark.
* * *
HOW FAR TO the wildlife sanctuary? Would I even know when I got there?
After nearly half an hour of walking, I was kicking myself for not bringing my knapsack. I was thirsty and being eaten alive by mosquitoes.
Five more minutes, I told myself. If I didn’t see anything, I’d turn around, go back, and try again later. This might not even be the right path. Maybe, I decided, it would be best to head to Loon Cove from within the wildlife sanctuary, then try to find the path that led back to Lauren’s cottage. Reverse engineering.
Just as I was about to call it quits, the path opened up and I came to a larger trail, more like a dirt road. A painted wooden sign pointed to the right: LOON COVE .25 MILES. The preserve’s Silver and Red Trails were to the left.
Another metal sign like the one at the sanctuary’s front gate, this one pockmarked with holes—bullet holes—stated that it was open from sunrise to sunset and that motorized vehicles, camping, and fires were prohibited.
I turned right, and the road narrowed to a footpath downhill over rugged terrain: roots and rocks. Eventually I reached rugged and worn stone steps carefully built into the bank. They were old, no longer level and crumbling in places.
I followed them down to the water, stepping carefully. The last thing I needed was to turn an ankle out here—no bag, no cell service.
The cove was small and secluded, surrounded by birch and pine trees—the perfect place for teenagers to come and party. A beach covered in little pebbles showed the remnants of a campfire. The firepit held two empty beer cans, some cigarette butts. A big worn driftwood log was set up as a bench just in front of the firepit. I sat down on it, ran my fingers over the initials and words carved into it.
S.W.
FuK off
Tansy wuz here
No note from Lauren or Rattling Jane hinting at what might have happened here, where she might be. Of course not. What had I expected?
I looked out at the water, the way the light was playing on it, making it dance. I let myself imagine a figure surfacing: a woman made of fish bones and sticks, weeds and mud.
I stood, walked around the perimeter of the cove. It took some looking, but eventually I found the hollow tree the kids had told me about. An old white paper birch with a knothole a little over six feet up, the perfect place for a kid to hide her stash. And the perfect place to leave a secret gift.
I reached up, stuck my hand in blindly, wondering if I’d find a pack of Lauren’s cigarettes or a plastic bag of pot.
But my fingers felt something smooth, hard, and rectangular. And beneath it, a little paper bundle of some sort.
I pulled the items out.
An old gold Zippo lighter with a butterfly engraved on the front. A lined piece of notebook paper with three holes punched in the side—the kind we once used for our monster book—folded into a neat rectangle, tied up with a piece of dirty garden twine.
Heart racing, I turned the lighter over in my hands, ran my fingers over the engraved initials: HEH
It couldn’t be.
But it was.