She ran.
In a few strides she hit the tree line, and then she was in the dark. Everything was different here, like the trees had tugged her out of the world of open water and night skies and into an empty void. There was an electric buzz to the woods. Footsteps pulsed against the packed dirt from all directions. She ran deeper into the dark, clinging to the sound because it meant she wasn’t imagining him.
He had been here the whole time.
The trees fell away and she came to a small clearing. Moonlight sifted through the trees, streaking the dirt silver. Ashley leaned against a tree to catch her breath. For a moment, she thought she’d lost him. The footsteps were gone. There was no more wind, no more stars, no more crickets or rustling branches or water lapping lazily at the shore behind her.
Instead, there was the black silhouette of a cabin, stark against the night.
And there was breathing.
It was measured inhales and calm exhales. She recognized the sound from years of comfortable silence—it was Tristan’s breathing. It was as familiar to her as the shape of his back disappearing into the trees. She smelled him here, coating the trees in the scent of diesel fuel and mowed grass. He was here, but the clearing was empty.
“Tristan,” Ashley croaked.
Tristan’s breathing changed, quickened like he was afraid. Ashley scrambled to the middle of the clearing, but Tristan was nowhere. She’d seen him by the lake. She heard him here. There was no way she was alone.
The breathing changed again, faster, rattling like there was something caught in his throat.
“I…” Tristan’s voice crackled.
“Tristan?” Ashley fell to her knees and the trees spiraled around her.
“Ashley.”
Not Tristan. Ashley looked down at her trembling hands. Dirt crumbled between her fingertips. She whipped around, searching the shadows.
Behind her, there was a flash of red.
“Ashley, what’s…？”
Ashley blinked. A figure emerged from between the trees, but it wasn’t Tristan. Fran knelt next to her and put a hand on her wrist. Her sweatshirt was bunched up, hair mussed like hands had been knotted in it. John stood a few feet behind her with his arms folded over his chest. His red swim trunks glared in the dark.
“Did you say Tristan?” John asked. “Where is he?”
Ashley shook her head. Her heart hammered. She sucked in a ragged breath, trying to find her footing.
“Ashley, Tristan isn’t here.” Fran’s grip on her wrist tightened. She turned to face John. “She’s freaking out. We should take her home.”
“Where did you see him?” John asked again.
“John,” Fran snapped. “She’s—”
Ashley shook her head and it was like the world shifted with her. She wanted to stand—to keep looking for Tristan—but her chest ached. She doubled over into Fran’s arms and cried. Tristan was here, but she couldn’t reach him. Something kept them apart, cold and dark and lonely. Ashley was looking, but she couldn’t reach him.
She was afraid.
9
The Choking Light
Logan is in the kitchen.
The lights are off and the kitchen is dark, save for the searing green numbers on the microwave that read 2:34 a.m. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling so that the night spills onto the black tile floor. The San Fernando Valley unfurls into a basin of noise and light outside. It isn’t lonely here like it is on the road. But it’s still empty.
The front door clicks open.