Chapter Twenty-Three
"The boy is alive," Mitch announced from the doorway.
We tried calling the siblings after getting the text, but neither of them answered. Nick and I were left guessing and anxiously waiting for their return.
Mitch rubbed his eyes and sank into the chair. June dropped her bag on the floor and leaned against the wall, spent after too many hours in a car, her blonde hair a mess.
Assuming they’d be hungry, I’d made more cold turkey sandwiches and kept them in the fridge.
Now I was glad I had. The siblings immediately dug in, though June first inspected her sandwich with meticulous care, plucking out the tomato slices and giving me a dirty look.
I forgot she didn’t like them, apparently because the skins were ‘too yucky.’
"We spoke to a few people at the parish," her brother said. "Word is, the Reverend got the boot for betting with church money."
"What?"
"They wanted to keep it quiet, so he packed up and moved to Black Water."
I was still trying to make sense of it all. "But what does that have to do with Sammy?" I asked.
Mitch took another bite of his sandwich.
We impatiently waited for him to chew and swallow.
"From what we were told, the Reverend showed up two days ago with Sammy. Said the kid was in danger. He thought it had something to do with Sammy’s family.
Claimed he had the paperwork ready. Everything looked official enough. "
"This is strange," I said. "Did he kidnap the boy to keep us from talking to him, or was he protecting him from someone else?"
"No idea," June said, then added knowingly, "but the woman at the parish said the Reverend begged them to take Sammy in."
"How did you get them to tell you all that?" Nick asked.
Mitch tapped a finger against the table, faintly smug. "We told them the Reverend sent us to check in on Sammy. You’d be surprised how much people like to talk in a small church like that."
Something still didn’t add up.
"If the Reverend was hiding Sammy to keep someone else from finding him," I said, more thinking out loud, "then why would he kill Duane?"
"Can’t be sure he did," Mitch said, reaching for his second sandwich.
"But he painted over the symbols in Duane’s house."
"I hate to say it," Mitch said around a mouthful of bread, "but perhaps it wasn’t the Reverend."
Nick continued, "Or maybe the Reverend knew what was going on and was trying to beat whoever it was to the kid."
"So you think it’s the Sheriff?" June asked.
"That’s our most likely lead," her brother responded, still chewing, the words coming out a bit garbled. He’d long since given up trying to swallow whenever it was his cue to talk.
"Richmond isn’t far," I said, half to myself. "We followed the Reverend’s trail easily enough. What if someone else does too?"
"I doubt that," Nick said. "We knew what we were looking for. Whoever else is out there might not even be after Sammy, let alone know what that boy’s uncovered. My guess is it’s just a precaution."
"Did you get a chance to talk to him? To Sammy?" I asked.
Mitch shook his head. "No. They got pretty hinky when we started asking questions, so we figured it was time to bail."
I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been since Sammy disappeared. But now, the pressure eased from my chest. We hadn’t gotten the boy killed with our digging. He was alive, though taken from his family. But after his stories, maybe this was for the best, too.
Now, it was our turn to share the information. I told them about the Facebook group.
"I sent a request to join," I said, expecting at least some recognition.
A flicker of panic crossed Mitch’s face. "What? Why would you do that? What if the killer’s in the group? What were you thinking?"
My pride deflated instantly, replaced by a wave of embarrassment. Using my real name and account was reckless. I glanced at Nick sheepishly, but he avoided eye contact.
"There are thousands of people—" I trailed off, attempting to justify my actions. But it was too late. Once again, I tried to take the lead, but only made a fool of myself.
The sheets felt damp with restlessness as I tossed again, unable to sleep. The rain had stopped earlier in the evening, giving way to a thick fog that pressed against the windows by midnight.
I scrolled through my phone, checking my dormant social media profiles, which I hadn’t updated in two years, as well as the news, sports, and politics. Too dull to read, but not dull enough to lull me to sleep.
My eyes drifted to the blue bag in the corner, the one June had packed. Resting on top was the book she’d borrowed from Mathilda’s store. I got up, grabbed it, and headed downstairs to make some tea.
The oversized T-shirt I wore barely covered my thighs, and the room felt colder than I’d expected; the fire in the hearth long since dwindled.
Curled up on the couch with a mug in hand, I pulled a blanket from the backrest and opened the book—not to read, necessarily, but to flip through the pages until I felt sleepy enough to head to bed.
A single sentence leapt out at me, sending my heart racing, sleep forgotten. I set my tea aside and clutched the book like a life buoy.
"Growing up in these Appalachian hills, I heard many stories from my grandmother. This one she’d tell me every fall, when it was time for farmers to harvest their crops.
She was nearing seventy but still worked tirelessly on her land, growing her own food.
Ever since my grandfather’s passing, she’d managed alone, her resilience forged in the fire of hardship.
Every time the Harvest Moon was full, she’d sit on the porch, smoke curling from her pipe, and tell me a story about the Harvest Keeper. It had many names, an entity that ensured our land remained fertile and our crops thrived.
Some said it dated back to the early settlers, who learned from the Cherokee to honor the land’s dark spirits. Others claimed it was older still, a relic of forgotten civilizations.
"It’s a thing that lives in these woods," she’d say. "It wakes on Harvest Moon night, looking for its gifts."
It was said that if you left offerings—corn, cider, or else—the Harvest Keeper would bless your land. But beware: once it knew you had something to offer, it would return, year after year.
"Like bears," old-timers would say. "Once they know you’re feeding them, they won’t forget."
I never questioned Grandma’s tales of the Harvest Keeper, but as I grew older, I started to wonder. Would neglecting the gifts truly bring withered crops and ailing livestock? I’ll never know.
What I do remember is this: every year, right before the Harvest Moon, Grandma would mark a chicken with paint, a small, crimson shape on its feathers. She’d carry it deep into the woods, whispering prayers I couldn’t understand.
I don’t recall if the chicken ever came back."
I sat frozen. It all matched: the Harvest Moon, the disappearances.
On paper, the tale seemed innocent enough, but in reality, it was a sinister blueprint.
If someone was trying to bring ‘gifts’ to worship something in the woods, whether it was real or not, it was a motive.
No one ever said motives had to make sense to everyone, just to those committing the crimes.
I got up, still clenching the book with both hands, headed to Nick’s room without a second thought, and knocked on the door.
When there was no response, I waited a bit before knocking again, this time a little louder.
I needed to talk to him, and I couldn’t wait until morning.
Finally, the creak of a bed and the rustle of sheets broke the silence.
Footsteps followed. A few seconds later, he opened the door.
"Look at this," I said, turning the open book toward him without apologizing for waking him.
Nick looked like I’d roused him from a deep sleep—weary, disheveled, and vulnerable, his usual composure softened.
"Doesn’t it sound familiar?" I asked.
Nick’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the lines.
I rushed him, impatient. "What do you think?"
He paused before responding. "This might give us a general idea of what’s happening."
I nodded. "It’s just like you said. It must be in the woods. If we can pinpoint the location, we can find out who’s behind it and stop it."
"Nellie?"
"What?"
"This could also just be a legend."
"But the symbols, the Harvest Moon, the sacrifices? Doesn’t it all match?"
"It does," Nick agreed reluctantly, still studying the book.
I exhaled, "So?"
He looked up, and then down, his gaze drifting over my bare feet and legs before meeting my eyes again. "This can wait till tomorrow," he said, his voice low and soothing, as he grasped the hem of my T-shirt and gently pulled me into his room.
The night enveloped us, a shroud of quiet and still. Nick’s steady heartbeat pulsed like a metronome, grounding me and anchoring my thoughts as they scattered in every direction. What was I doing?
"I should go back to my room," I murmured.
Nick’s hand found mine in the darkness, stopping me from pulling away. "Stay," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "They won’t know."
I hesitated, then relented, leaning into his arms.
The morning crept in with a gray reluctance. I drifted in and out of slumber, unaccustomed to sharing a bed with someone. Nick lay beside me, deeply asleep, the gentle rush of air from his exhalations tickling my skin. I didn’t want it to end, and it scared me.
Sometime after six, I quietly slid from under his arm, took the abandoned book that brought me here—maybe just an excuse my brain, hungry for connection, had conjured—and left, closing the door behind me.