Wylie grabbed an armful of coats and hats and moved to the living room.
Wylie dressed Becky and the girl in layers of clothing to keep them adequately warm for their journey. Becky seemed to be in a daze. Shock probably. Wylie pulled wool socks over the girl’s hands, a stocking cap over her ears, and wrapped a scarf around her neck so that only her eyes were showing.
“Do you trust me?” Wylie asked. The girl nodded. Together they helped Becky toward the door, Tas at their heels. “Are you ready?” Wylie asked.
“Yes,” came the girl’s muffled reply. Through the opened door, the wind had stilled, and the snowy landscape glittered like diamonds.
“Wylie,” the little girl said shyly. “My name is Josie.” And they stepped out into the brittle sunshine.
15 Months Later
Libraries, no matter what state or city Wylie visited, had the same comforting smell, and the Spirit Lake Public Library in Iowa was no different. The books, paper, glue, and ink—all in various stages of disintegration—had a musty, vanilla-like scent that eased her anxiety.
Wylie looked out over the crowd of fifty eagerly waiting for her to read from The Overnight Guest. A year after finishing the final edits, the book was out in the world and Wylie was on tour, making her way across the United States, inching her way toward Burden. Tomorrow she would leave Spirit Lake and drive thirty miles to the tiny library in her former hometown. Wylie was nervous about it. She hadn’t been back for over a year.
After Becky and Josie’s escape in the middle of a snowstorm and the events at the farmhouse that led to the death of Randy Cutter, they found themselves in the spotlight along with the small Iowa town. After speaking with law enforcement and making sure that Becky and Josie were safe and reunited with family, Wylie went home. Went back to Oregon, back to her son. She had a lot to make up for and she spent every minute of the past year doing just that.
Speaking in front of groups of people, large or small, never got easier, but libraries and bookstores did their best to make her feel comfortable, at home, and this library was no exception. All the folding chairs were filled, and more people lined up against the back wall.
As the library director introduced Wylie, she searched the crowd for Seth who had reluctantly agreed to come on tour with her. Now fifteen, Seth had a summer job and a boyfriend.
Wylie understood his reluctance. “I want to show you where I grew up,” she told him. “I want you to see where my story took place. Why I’m the way I am.”
Seth had grown quiet. “Okay,” he finally agreed. “But can we please go see the Dodgers when they play in Boston?”
Wylie laughed. Seth loved baseball as much as she did. “It’s a deal,” she promised.
And there he was, sitting in the back row, head bent over his cell phone. He glanced up, saw Wylie looking at him and gave her his thousand-watt smile. They’d come a long way in the last year.
As the library director finished her introduction, the room filled with polite applause and Wylie stepped to the podium.
“Good evening,” she began. “It’s such a joy to be back in my home state of Iowa, to be here talking with you tonight. As a true crime writer, I’m used to writing about other people’s lives. I write about regular, everyday people who have unimaginable things happen to them. I write about the impact it has on families, on communities, on those left behind. I also write about the perpetrators—try to delve into their backgrounds, their upbringing, their psyches in order to try and comprehend why they commit the terrible acts they do. The Overnight Guest was a very different project for me. It was personal.”
This was where Wylie read from the book. She always chose the first few pages.
At first, twelve-year-old Josie Doyle and her best friend, Becky Allen, ran toward the loud bangs. It only made sense to go to the house—that’s where her mother and father and Ethan were. They would be safe. But by the time Josie and Becky discovered their mistake, it was too late.
They turned away from the sound and, hand in hand, ran through the dark farmyard toward the cornfield—its stalks, a tall, spindly forest, their only portal to safety.
Josie was sure she heard the pounding of footsteps behind them, and she turned to see what was hunting them. There was nothing, no one—just the house bathed in nighttime shadows.
“Hurry,” Josie gasped, tugging on Becky’s hand and urging her forward. Breathing heavily, they ran. They were almost there. Becky stumbled. Crying out, her hand slipped from Josie’s. Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees.