December 21st. There was a boy at the girl’s campsite. He had wavy, brown hair and is very big next to her. He yelled at her and pushed her. She seemed scared so I shot my slingshot at him because Cooper says you should step in when someone needs help. The guy stopped and looked in my direction and then started toward me so I slipped into the woods. He would never catch me, and if he got close I would hide. I’m an excellent hider. I want to tell Cooper, but he would be livid if he found out I went down there and the two of them saw me. Livid = very mad.
December 22nd. I should’ve mentioned yesterday that I have another new friend. She came last night in a blue car. My whole life, my only friends have been Jake and Scotland, and Cooper, but he’s my dad, so I don’t know if he counts. And then, over the course of three days, two new friends?!? And just in time for Christmas. My newest friend is Jake’s sister and her name is Marie. She brought supplies because Jake asked her to before he died. Marie has soft, brown hair and eyes like a doe. I love her. I tried to get Cooper to go back to the river, but he wouldn’t. It snowed, and we went sledding! I hope my other friend is okay.
Late at night, Finch wakes, pushing herself up. The dull glow of the coals in the woodstove illuminating her face. I reach out, tuck her hair behind her ear. “You feeling better? Need something?”
She looks at me. Hears me, I know she does. Those eyes—they’re not distressed, not confused. Her lip trembles, and she holds my eyes.
“Finch?”
She blinks. A tear slips and slides down her cheek.
“Sugar.”
She just keeps on looking at me. A blankness, there. A spark that’s gone out.
* * *
The next day we stay close to home. I sit on the porch, keeping an eye on the woods, watching for movement, listening for the slightest sound. A twig snapping beneath weight, leaves crunching. Every hour on the hour, I circle the cabin, checking for any sign that someone has infringed.
Finch doesn’t even leave the porch, and she still hasn’t spoken. Not a single word.
I will admit: the silent treatment, when it’s just two of you out there in the middle of nowhere—it’s a powerful way to exert your wrath. All that chatter, the nonstop questions about who made the world and have I ever noticed that insects have barbed legs and which Whitman poem is my favorite: I miss it.
And moreover, the silence gives me space to start thinking. Which feels like a dangerous thing to do. Ever since the day I got Finch back from Judge and Mrs. Judge, I’ve been getting along by not overthinking because that’s when things get dicey, when you let yourself contemplate the choices you’ve made. Better to just do what needs to be done, and deal with the aftermath. But Finch’s silence is throwing me off: no constant stream of conversation and I’m thinking about everything, and soon I’m buzzing with guilt and doubt and fear. Just keeps gurgling up, one thing after another.
Casey Winters with her red hair.
The promise I made to Marie, and broke.
A killer who knows that Finch saw him hurting Casey Winters. According to the papers, he hasn’t run, which means he’ll be back. The body, the destroyed campsite, maybe even the murder weapon. All of it just sitting there, all those clues, waiting to be discovered. Not to mention a witness. Maybe immediately, maybe not, but at some point, he’ll have the urge to tie up loose ends. Which means that this place that has been our home, our sanctuary—it’s no longer safe. It may never feel safe again. And it’s not just because of what I did.
Well, it is because of what I did, deep at the heart of it all, which is hard to stomach.
But somehow just as troubling as the rest of it is the change in the way Finch looks at me. There’s no longer that wonder and regard. Something magical about the way your kid looks at you and even if they don’t say it, you know that they think you’re the smartest, strongest, most interesting person on the face of the planet. That they trust you. That your existence offers a sense of meaning and security. Maybe I’m being sentimental about this, but I’m telling you: something has shifted in her. Whereas before, she possessed a sort of confidence in her limbs and countenance, now there’s doubt, and it flickers and looms and radiates out. Like she has somehow gotten smaller, like she has grown less sure of the world.
That shift in Finch just about breaks my heart. Because if your own child, the person for whom you’ve sacrificed everything, for whom you’ve broken laws as well as your own personal sense of boundaries, has lost confidence in you, and in turn, in themselves and the world at large, then what’s the point of any of it?