Genevieve letting him take the blame for what happened would be a blessing if it meant he could stay under Blanche’s care and not hers, but that’s not how it works. Everything changes after he’s sentenced. He’ll be transferred to a psychiatric correctional unit for kids. Those are terrible places. Ones where the kids get worse instead of better. Where two-year sentences grow into ten. I can’t let that happen. I’ll do anything to prevent it.
The security gates swing open, and I sit up straight in the front seat, instantly alert. It’s a black Mercedes, but that doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people at Camden Estates drive the same car. The Mercedes makes a left out of the gate and heads in my direction. I cover my face with my hand as it drives past and sneak a peek inside the car.
It’s her.
My heart speeds up. I quickly whip the car around and follow behind her, making sure not to get too close or do anything to draw attention to myself. I rented a small Honda Civic so that she wouldn’t recognize me, even though I highly doubt she knows my car. Dad laughed at me the first time I pulled up in it and explained the purpose, but there was a bit of hesitancy in his laugh. He hasn’t outright told me that he sides with Detective Layne about letting the case go, but he drops hints about being too enmeshed or moving on to new projects. But that’s not happening until I figure this out.
Genevieve normally drives fast. She’s one of those angry drivers who jut in and out of lanes and tailgate people to make them go faster, but she’s slow and deliberate as she weaves her way through the other gated communities nestled next to hers. She never goes past the speed limit. Are the bags and suitcase in the car? How much cash is inside them?
A thrill of exhilaration shoots through me at the prospect of catching her and setting the record straight, bringing Genevieve to justice. This could be the day, and my excitement only grows stronger as she drives past the mansions and long asphalt driveways, leaving the fancy clubhouses and pools behind. She heads toward Clark and makes a left at the stop sign. Instead of making a right at University Boulevard and heading downtown like I expected, she takes a left and moves in the opposite direction, heading out of town. It’s not long before she’s making her way through the outermost housing developments skirting the northwest side.
She slows as we drive through the development. There’s nobody around. The houses are empty and void of life since most people in this neighborhood work nine-to-five jobs. Lots of them work two so they can afford the overpriced mortgage the city offers them in exchange for living down here. People who wouldn’t normally be able to afford a house eagerly grab the opportunity to own their own homes. Despite the program, every third house is boarded up with a forbidding foreclosure sign tacked on the front door. Genevieve’s shiny black Mercedes couldn’t stick out more among the Ford trucks and decade-old minivans parked in the cracked driveways.
She drives all the way to the end of the last cul-de-sac, where the housing development backs up to a patch of woods managed and maintained by the city planning commission. The protected woods are encircled by a broken and beat-up chain-link fence. There’s a huge gap in the fence where it’s been ripped to the ground and driven over countless times. The city gave up fixing it years ago, since every time they put that section back up, someone tore it down and drove over it. There’s a trail behind it, beaten and worn down by generations of teenagers driving their trucks down to the clearing. There’s a huge bonfire at the center of the clearing—the party pit—which has been there since I was a teenager. Probably longer.
I expect Genevieve to park, but she hops the curb and rides through the main opening in the fence. She takes it really slow since her Mercedes isn’t built for any kind of off-road driving. I wait anxiously at the top of the street for her car to be swallowed up by the trees. As soon as it is, I fly to the end of the cul-de-sac and park. I whip open the door and take off at a dead sprint, following her into the woods.
My breath is ragged almost immediately. I’m so out of shape, but it doesn’t matter; the adrenaline fuels me forward. I stay off the path and crash into the woods so she can’t see me following her. Dead leaves crunch underneath my feet. Pine needles slash at my face, and I swipe them away as I run. The air burns my lungs. I leap over a fallen branch, slip on the mud, and catch myself against a maple. I hunch over, hands on my knees, taking a second to breathe and listening for the sounds of her car. All I hear is the buzz of insects everywhere coupled with the blood roaring in my ears and pulsing through my body.
The path to the party pit is on my left. I just have to stay to the left, and I’ll find her. She can’t be that far ahead of me, since she’s got to be driving slow. I take off again, pushing myself up the hill as sweat drips down my back. Thorny bushes grab my legs and stick to me. I hit the first fence post and veer left down the curving road. That’s where it heads downhill and opens up into the clearing. I’m almost there. A few more feet.
My feet thud against the uneven ground, and then suddenly I’m on it.
I crouch off to the side, hiding behind the crusty bark of a pine tree. My eyes sweep the scene in quick snippets. The charred remains of hundreds of bonfires the focal point. Empty cardboard boxes and cheap bottles of wine litter the ground around it. There’s so much trash. Fast-food wrappers and toilet paper scattered everywhere. Where’s Genevieve? There’s no sign of her or her car. I scan the horizon, but she’s nowhere to be found. Dense woodlands wrap around the space, and there’s no way to drive into those trees. She didn’t come down here. She must’ve gone the other direction at the post. She’s headed to the swamp. Why is she going down there? Nobody goes down there unless it’s on a dare.