I sink down the porch stairs as the door clicks behind. At the last step, sunlight cuts through the clouds, a momentary, milk-white explosion. I reach for the porch rail and hold on, waiting for the memory of when I topped the crest of the Hill, before the Sheepfold. It comes, and in a moment, I am back. I am in control. I am out of the woods.
I cut through the evanescent haze toward my car, hand in my bag. When I reach the trash can I lift the cover and drop my notebook inside. I don’t need to write Donald Jessup in the blank cat’s eye, the seed shape, the space common to Liv, Ana, and me. It is no longer relevant. It’s not a bad thing, to be irrelevant.
This is the last time I will leave the Victorian. I cross the lawn and touch the edge of the staked sign advertising Park Pro Painting. A contract will be canceled, a stop payment placed on a check. The sign will disappear, because there is a new project to occupy the owner’s time. The house will blister and peel into reptilian cracks, then bare wood.
In the parlor window, a silk curtain moves aside, and a bandaged face smiles through pain, waiting to carry her suitcases out the front door and find her own version of perfect.
EPILOGUE
400 Days After the Woods
A flutter of porcine blinks. “Who are you?”
Liv hops from foot to foot, panting and shaking out her hands. “It’s me, Liv!”
Jessup presses his palm to his forehead and paces on short legs, three steps, two steps, one step. “You can’t be Liv.”
“I know you’re confused. Listen, I don’t have much time. I’m not alone.”
He freezes and lowers his head, peering from the rim of a black knit skullcap. “Not alone?”
“Don’t you get it? I’m the girl you love! We’re finally meeting in person!”
His jowls quiver. “You sound like her. But you don’t look like her.”
“Describing myself differently was something I had to do,” Liv says. “I thought you deserved to know I wasn’t truthful. You loved me, and that proved something I needed to know my whole life. I’m grateful for that.”
Jessup stares stonily.
Liv steps closer. “This is the real me. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He bares small teeth. “You’re perfect.”
“I—what?”
He touches her smooth cheek. “Perfect.”
“Oh my God! You’re pleased. You’re happy I look this way!”
“Of course I am!”
“Of course you are?”
“I mean, it’s better. For the game.”
Liv staggers backward. “I’m not here for the game.”
“It’s okay!” He stalks up to her. “It’s more than okay. I think it’s great.”
She covers her face and groans through her hands. “It’s a relief to you, that I look like I do. It’s a bonus.”
He does a fluttery pantomime to calm her. “No—wait—what?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? I am not what you fell in love with! If anything, you should be disappointed.” Her hand meets his face with a shallow slap.
He raises his palm to his blooming cheek. His eyes slit and spark. “Don’t. You. Ever!”
“You prefer that I look this way. You’re saying Mother’s right. You SUCK!” Liv winds up and gives him another slap, harder.
Clanging buckles. She whirls backward and meets the ground with a thud, him on top. Digs her heels into the earth, kicks up gravel, tries to get out from under him, while he rocks and shifts his weight.
“Let her go!” I scream.
Jessup jerks his head as his body goes rigid. He looks from Liv to me. His pupils jitter. What next, he wonders? Seconds ago, the universe had gifted him a jumbo check from Publisher’s Clearinghouse, the winning Megabucks ticket, a girl-sized box wrapped in a bow. But his anger made him blow it, and he succumbed to his worst self. Now she is under his thumb, where for so long he was under hers. The experiment is over. It was unsuccessful. Deborah will always be right.
“Who are you?” Jessup wails to Liv.
Metal at her throat. I howl like an animal. His eyes move between us, hovering on Liv. When she squirms, he pulls the knife away from her neck, for this is not his plan, not her plan. Not at all.
“Walk away and forget what you saw! Now, or her blood’s on your hands!” His pitch wavers.
I break into a slow smile, because this time, I know Donald Jessup had it backward. I will remember everything I see, and his blood will be on her hands.
“I’ll end her life, right here!” Jessup says.
I laugh, a long, low, glorious, empty-belly laugh. Donald Jessup was so very wrong.
Right here was where Liv’s life began.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The following people must be thanked for their guidance, inspiration, help, and love.
Thanks to Janine O’Malley, for her sure hand and deft editing of After the Woods, and for understanding Julia from “statistically speaking.” I am also grateful to Angie Chen, for her meticulous editing and delightful ways; and to Beth Clark, who conveyed perfectly Julia’s predicament and the revelations to come in a haunting, beautiful cover.