“Starbucks. With Petra. Nice girl, you don’t know her,” I call back. I consider telling her that Alice might join us for extra insurance, but I can’t afford tripping her antennae right now. “We’re going over biology for the exam this week. It’s on the nervous system of a hare.”
“Fun. Fix yourself lunch, please. I won’t be eating.”
Neither will I, I think, stomach tight. I throw myself into flaking wax off the granite counter. Next, I attack chunks of pumpkin innards, a nasty mess of threads and dangling seeds. I pry them from their sticking places and dump them into a large wooden bowl. I think of bits of melon rind I saw once, in the woods, in the pit, along with other things. I grab the edge of the counter, which is smooth and gloriously man-made, reminding myself I am not in the woods, and that pumpkin is not melon. I shake my head loosely and notice Mom’s phone, lit with messages. Six from postdocs, none from Erik, which feels like a bad sign, as far as the evolution of their unrelationship goes. I wonder if he’s still hungover too. In the distance, Mom snores. I snatch a pen to write a sticky note, then stop. Promising a return time will only complicate things. I crumple the first piece of paper, peel off a new one, and stick it on the fridge. I write “Feel better!” with a smiley face for good measure.
But for a shiny black SUV, my car is conspicuous among the beat-up numbers parked in the Parlee entrance lot. My brand-new Dodge Dart SXT is one of the many new things Mom threw at me for coming out of the Fells alive. If she couldn’t protect me, paying for ten standard air bags, front crash prevention, and a body that weighs 2,750 pounds might. The car feels downright sparkly, and since break-ins along with roaming sociopaths are not uncommon in the Fells, I tuck my car next to a Parks Department truck.
Yellow caution tape flaps between saplings at the trailhead, sending a trill through my nerves. There’s a fresh memorial pile on the bottom of the steps. Stuffed puppies and kittens. A light blue T-shirt that says Real Doctors Treat More Than One Species. A Brazilian flag. Flowers trapped in cellophane. It’s a smaller pile, I imagine, than the one that’s cropped up at the main entrance by now. But the main entrance is too main for my purposes.
My stomach hardens. Get down to business.
I slide my backpack off my shoulder and bend on one knee, checking my notebook against my watch. The sun sets at 4:25 p.m. The hike to the fire watchtower is 4.3 miles. Walking on a flat trail at an average pace, I can expect to walk three to four miles in an hour without stopping. Since the half mile before the tower is rocky and steep, I figure about a half to one hour just for that section. The entire trip should take no longer than two and a half hours. I could figure more, but this isn’t intended to be a sightseeing stroll.
“Your answers aren’t in there. Trust me. I’ve already been.”
Paula Papademetriou appears at the trailhead. I check past my shoulder like she’s talking to someone else, but we are alone.
“Did you follow me here?” I ask, startled.
She steps over the yellow tape in hiking boots, jeans, and a short quilted jacket with buckles. Her ponytailed hair is damp at the temples. Her face is bare, with pointed cheekbones and a square jaw. It’s a face to apply makeup to, slip glasses onto, try any hairstyle. Strong bones under her clothes too. If I put my thumb and index finger around her wrist, there would be a half finger’s length between them before they met. It’s a weird thing to think of, Paula Papademetriou’s thick bones.
Even her bright teeth look powerful. “I came out of the woods, remember?” she says, looking at me sideways, teasing. “I was here first?”
“Right.” I shrug awkwardly. “Obviously.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t have a feeling you’d be here.” She holds out her hand, tanned, with squared, French-tipped nails. A thin diamond bracelet flashes on her wrist. “It’s really nice to meet you in person. I’m Paula.”
Her voice isn’t the high one I heard gossiping in the tavern. It’s low and throaty, the kind of voice owned by a dame in a dime-store detective novel. Closer to her TV voice, but not that, either. I wonder how many voices she has.
I tug off my thin glove to shake her hand. “I’m Julia.”
She laughs, and it’s kind of musical. “I know who you are.” She brushes her hand against her thigh. “Sorry I’m a little sweaty. The hike was longer than I estimated.”
“It’s 4.3 miles to the fire watchtower. If that’s where you were going.”
Paula’s eyes narrow slightly. “You have my number,” she says, then seizes the opportunity to get literal. “And now I have yours. You sent me a text last night. You’re a woman of few words.”
I blush. My “hi” text was the equivalent of a giddy prank. “I wasn’t sure if I had the right number.”
“Well,” she says, digging through a slouchy bag slung over her shoulder, “now you do.” She hands me a business card with raised lettering and her phone number. “My business card, with my private cell. It’s old-fashioned, I know.”
It says:
PAULA PAPADEMETRIOU