The second detective yells over: “You kids should stay out of these woods anyway. S’not safe to begin with. Never has been. You’re asking for trouble, going in there. Hey, shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Thank you, detective.” Liv spins on her heel and charges toward the car, head down, as though counting steps.
Kellan lets me go first. Once we’re out of the detectives’ earshot, I say, “We can still hike up to the Sheepfold. We’ll park at the back entrance in Parlee and walk east toward the fire watchtower. It’s overgrown, but you’ll be okay in sneakers.”
Kellan stops short. “You mean that. You’re serious.”
“I always am.” If I was the kind of GIRL who cared about making myself attractive to Kellan MacDougall, this would be an epic fail moment.
He smiles, warm and wide. I was wrong about his eyes; they aren’t sea glass at all. They’re darker, with depth behind, and a glow, maybe. What does admiration look like?
He takes my arm and gently moves me toward the car. “Dumb and Dumber haven’t figured out who we are. Let’s not push our luck.”
Ahead, Liv slams the car door shut.
I pull away and face him. “Come with me.” My voice sounds breathy and passionate, and I startle myself.
“Listen, I would really like to help you. But do you know how much trouble I’d be in if any of those guys were from Shiverton? We’re lucky that detective happened to be a Parlee guy. Word still might get back to my dad,” Kellan says.
“No offense, but if they didn’t know who Liv and I are, they’re not going to piece together who you are. See, we’re kind of famous around here,” I say as I smile, despite myself.
“Okay, then, reality check: those cops will never let us get near the Sheepfold. If we sneak in, we get arrested for disturbing the scene of a crime.” He steals a look back at the Jeep. “Can I say something that might be completely out of line?”
“Something along the lines of how I could get PTSD?”
He laughs. “Here’s what I’m wondering. You’re the one who got caught by the dude. You’re the one who spent a night in the woods escaping him. So how come Liv’s the one acting like a nutjob?”
I turn and face the trails. It’s midmorning now. A light mist rises from the forest floor. Sunbeams pierce through trees, highlighting their jigsaw edges. It seems that some trees are meant to fit with other trees. Liv, me. Donald, Ana. Parts of the same picture. What happened in the woods is a vast puzzle for me to solve, or walk away from. Solve it, or leave it.
Sneakers in leaves. Kellan’s mouth near the back of my neck. “Julia?”
“Liv wants to leave the woods,” I murmur, my head thrown back, tracing the jagged lines in the canopy.
“Most people wouldn’t blame her,” Kellan says.
From the Jeep, Liv yells at us to hurry up.
I’m not like most people.
I stoop to pick up an oak leaf, twirling its stem between my thumb and forefinger. Veins radiate out, starting and ending at the midrib, the leaf’s spine. I close my eyes and run my finger over the midrib, a distinct indent on the front, an unmistakable ridge on the back. Starting and ending at the same place. Imminently traceable.
“I’m not ready to leave yet,” I say, heading to the truck.
*
Mom chews and swallows and dabs a napkin at the corners of her downturned mouth. Erik has overstepped again, welcoming my questions about the latest news on Ana Alvarez. The fact that he’s required to wear a parent filter when he’s not allowed to act like my parent would, on a normal day, be the elephant in the room. But today, the elephant is Ana Alvarez, and I’m outing her, right here in our kitchen.
“I just wish they would stop the generalities and report exactly where they found the body,” I say.
Erik scrapes the last bit of basmati rice from the takeout tin. “They found her near the fire watchtower.”
“Erik! Really?” Mom refills her glass with cabernet. The frenzy at school this morning has her on edge. I had hoped the wine would relax her instead of making her sullen. Usually one glass of wine and she jokes about her colleagues’ hygiene; three and we’re besties, and does her long hair age her, and should she cut it?
“She needs information to process, Gwen. It’s healthy,” Erik says.
“That rice is healthy too. I didn’t want more or anything,” I say.
Erik scoot-bumps me across the bench. I scoot-bump him back.
Even over Indian takeout, Erik smells good, like grapefruit and glass. I wonder if he rode his bike here from Cambridge.
“Where near the watchtower?” I continue.
“They didn’t say.” Erik steals a look at my mother, who frowns. “But I doubt they’ll get that specific. At least not on the news. Certainly not on public radio.”
Mom sets down her fork. “Can we speak in the dining room?” she asks him.
Erik drags his napkin over his mouth and unfolds his long body from the bench. I shrug at him, and he winks. Once his back disappears, I tiptoe after them to eavesdrop.