She didn’t quite hit on the right reason I was there, but it was the closest I could afford to tell her. “Everybody knows a killer,” I say, “even if they don’t know they do.”
For the rest of the week, Dad watches me carefully, waiting to see if I’m going to break down the way I did at my last school. He insists on bringing me to a therapist, and I let him, mostly because it makes him feel better.
I’m even cheerful about it. I tell the therapist I’m all right, that I feel bad about McNeil dying, but that I can’t feel guilty about something I had no control over. The therapist appears satisfied but suggests future sessions. I tell Dad I’d rather not, that I don’t want to spend senior year under a microscope. A lifetime of talking to therapists has taught me the right manners to display, so he believes I’m fine, even when I don’t believe that myself.
Because I don’t feel bad that McNeil’s dead. And that frightens me.
Okiku sits in on the therapy session, and I know she’s distressed because she doesn’t count anything in the room. She just stands there and stares at me with her pitted eyes, waiting for me to acknowledge her. I don’t.
For the next day, I ignore her. She says nothing and waits.
***
“How did you know?” Trish asks me. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she looks tired. “About McNeil being…horrible to me? Not even Andy knows.” She’s accosted me in the parking lot en route to my car and refuses to leave until she has answers.
“I know the signs. I’ve seen them before. Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you curse him?”
“What?” I wasn’t expecting this question.
“Like with that doll. I saw his face. I don’t think anything human could have done that to his face.”
I’ve underestimated Trish. Of everyone, she’s hit the closest to the truth.
She surprises me further by drawing close and dropping a kiss on my cheek. “If it really was you,” she says softly, “thank you. I promise I won’t ever tell anyone. I owe you that much.”
I watch her walk away, my hand pressed nervously against my cheek. I have definitely underestimated Trish.
I haven’t been checking my email for the last few days, and by the time I finally work up the energy to do so, it’s Friday. The first email I see, the most recent one, is from Saya. For a moment, I am alarmed, wondering if the McNeil news has reached even Japan, but Saya hates technology and thinks the Internet is some kind of worldwide conspiracy. Her letter tells me something even more frightening:
Tarquin-san, it is Saya. I am asking a friend of mine to type this for me. Kagura once sent me your email and I am thankful I thought to keep it.
Tarquin-san, Kagura-chan’s missing.
What?
I find myself on my feet without knowing I’d stood up, the chair overturned behind me. I stare at my screen in shock as the letter goes on:
She and some Americans went into Aokigahara last Monday, and no one has seen or heard from them since. I am very worried about her. They have been searching for many days now, and police from America have already been alerted. If you know anything about Kagura or this American film crew, please let us know immediately.
Underneath is a small postscript, no doubt added by Saya’s friend:
Please if you can come to help, come quickly. Saya is very frantic.
No. No, no, no.
I scroll though my email and see that Kagura sent me a reply a few days before that I have not read. Heart pounding, I click on the link:
I suppose it would do no harm to show these hunters around. Aitou village has been lost for so long that it is doubtful we will find it even if we spend weeks searching Aokigahara. As strange as it sounds, the more I look through my father’s research, the more I am intrigued by what I learn. He’s been gone for some years, but I almost feel like he is close by, helping me.
I am sending you a photo of the crew—the autographs you asked for are safely with me, but you must come here to get them!
I click on the attachment and wait for the photo to finish loading. I asked for the autograph as a joke more than from any real interest in the crew, but Kagura had taken my request literally.
In the photo, Kagura is standing beside the ghost-hunter crew. There are, I count, seven of them in total, posing for the picture.
At least, I assume this is the crew, because five of their heads are missing.
The only ones with theirs intact are one of the ghost hunters and Kagura herself. They look back at me with distorted faces, nearly unrecognizable and terribly contorted, as if their faces had been rendered in soluble paint and left out in the rain. Only Kagura’s haori tells me that it’s her in the picture.