“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she says, so quiet I can barely hear.
It’s the first mean thing she’s ever said to me. My whole life, people have said such things, but coming from Finch, it hurts. A pang of sadness ricochets through my chest.
I am, I want to tell her. I am ashamed of myself.
THIRTY
The next morning, I wake with a heaviness, the weight of the previous night’s conversation with Finch a burden that has swelled into something physical: dull pain pulling at the shoulders. Sadness, fear. I sit up in bed, then stand. My feet resisting the weight. I get dressed slowly, stumble into the kitchen. I pour the water in the kettle to heat and then slide into my coat to go out and get the eggs. At the door I freeze, jacket half on.
The shovel isn’t propped against the door handle, nor are any of the locks locked.
“Finch?”
Fast as I can, I climb the ladder. Blanket, pillow, Walt Whitman curled up in the thick of it and purring loudly. But Finch isn’t there.
I shuffle back down the ladder and slide into my boots. Dart to the bedroom to get the Ruger, tug a beanie over my ears. The kettle begins to sing, loud and piercing, steam spewing from the spout and dancing across the stove. I grab the kettle and place it on a trivet. I step outside.
“Finch!”
I know she doesn’t hear me. And if she did, would she answer, anyway?
You should be ashamed of yourself.
My heart pounds, pulse drumming at the ears. Panic: a freight train, thundering down the track, closer closer closer because she is out there, Finch, and if the guy she saw in the woods has come back scouring the place to clean up after some dark deed—if he’s looking for her, and finds her—God, who knows what might happen. Who he is, what he might do.
Slow down, Cooper. Think. She didn’t just run away, she’s not lost. She’s checking on her. What did Finch say? Near where we saw her but higher up the valley. The ground is still patched with snow, a collage of brown and white. Not enough snow that I can easily pick up a trail. I head west, moving fast, up the slope behind the cabin, through pines that sigh and whisper. Feet sliding on the lingering ice. It’s not quite light, the woods just coming awake with bird songs. Cardinal, wood thrush. Northern flicker, stuttering at a tree. But mostly, silence. Funny how what is usually so calming and reassuring can become so terrifying. I run past the big rocks, descend. Cross the stream, which is now bloated with ice. Clamber my way up the other side.
At the top of the next hollow I pause, leaning, listening: the rush of the river below. The valley is choked with fog. Dense and glaring and I can barely see ten feet in front of myself. I circle around the side of the hill and head into the mist, so thick I can feel it hitting my skin, dense and palpable.
“Finch!” I yell, fully aware that if by chance someone is close by, every noise I make could pull them closer.
Nothing.
The forest floor grows soft, my feet sinking in. All the snow melted and the ground saturated in this place that is, even at dry times of the year, wet enough to grow cattails. I push through the alder, red and looming and catching my jacket. The ground heavy and pulling with each step, my feet covered in mud.
It’s getting light, fast. The valley brightening.
It’s hard to see but ahead, a flash of color that’s out of place—pink. Thirty, forty yards. I take off, fighting the sand and mud, almost quicksand but not quite. Finch’s new glove, snared in greenbrier. I tug the glove free from the thorns. On the ground, her notebook. I pick it up and tuck it in my jacket. Pull the Ruger from my pocket. Then, hair. Red, long and spread out but clumped with sand and mud. The upper half of the body visible, arms, neck, head. The lower half sunk into the mud. With the snow melting, the river swells this time of year, moving dirt and even shifting its course sometimes. The land, it’s taking back the body. The cold weather has kept it from decaying, the face swollen and white, the lips purple and wide and cracked. Still, the girl we saw, that picture the police officer left with Marie, the long red hair—she has changed significantly but it’s her. Casey Winters.
With a quick scan I see that she has done some work here. Straight ahead is a fire ring: stones stacked in a circle, charred wood in the middle, a metal grate for cooking. A tent, brown and tan, with a large camouflage tarp draped over the top and staked down a few feet beyond the tent, like an awning. A piece of rope tied between two trees with a shirt draped over it. But also a green camp chair, turned over, its top deep in mud. Strewn about the campsite, a blue enamel kettle, a fork and knife. Beneath the awning, a cast-iron skillet, blood caked along the rim. I swear under my breath and walk back to the body. Kneel down, force myself to look at her. I didn’t notice before, but now I see it: the bruise at the left eye, the delicate skin cracked at the cheekbone. I grab a sycamore leaf, dry and dead, wrap it around my hand, and lift the girl’s head. Blood caked on the broom sedge beneath her, blood at the back of the head. A wound that gapes.