Fifteen
It’s still light out when we make the trek back to the welcome center.
It shouldn’t be surprising—we were barely at the mechanic shop for more than two hours—but I still give a big sigh of relief when I have to throw on a pair of sunglasses.
There might be something deeply wrong with this town, but so few horror movies take place during the day for a reason.
It’s a hell of a lot harder to get away with murder when the sun’s bearing down on you and who knows what outsiders are roaming around town searching to add to their Christmas ornament collection or try local fudge.
“I bet Natalie’s computer is hooked up to ethernet or whatever,” I say. “She could check if the mechanic’s bullshitting us.”
“Are we being na?ve to just let Natalie in on what’s happening to us, though?” Beck replies.
Honestly, I’m not sure what kind of people become park rangers.
But you need to get a degree, right? She must either not be from here or have left for a bit.
She’d have had time either to not drink the Kool Aid or to have been deprogrammed.
“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck as we cross to the next block.
“She did feel a little weird the first time, but it felt more like how I feel weird around people. I kinda think she genuinely would help us.”
Beck gives me a nod. “Okay. If you think so.”
A lot of pressure, but okay. My first instinct is to backpedal and come up with another plan, but this one truly is our best shot right now. “We can start simple. We can ask her if fuel lines can just break. That’s a pretty innocuous question.”
Beck’s nods intensify, giving me a pretty clear sign she’s fine with this. So, we finish our walk to the visitors’ center in silence.
Despite my own belief that Natalie is trustworthy, my heartbeat picks up again when we walk through the visitors’ center door.
There’s one other person in the room with Natalie, an Asian girl a few years older than us in a camp T-shirt and fraying jean shorts.
She takes the same route Beck did earlier in the day, walking past us without giving us a second glance.
Natalie types for a few seconds before looking back up.
“Hey,” Natalie says. “Any issues setting up your campsite?”
“No,” Beck says, digging her hands into her pockets. “We had another question, though.”
Natalie plants her elbows on the counter and leans toward us. “Shoot.”
I hold my breath as Beck speaks.
“So we found my car with the fuel line broken.” Natalie’s mouth twitches, giving me a bolt of hope. “The mechanic in town—”
Natalie’s eyes narrow. “Gerry.”
“—yeah, Gerry. He said that can just, like, happen?”
Natalie pauses, taking a long breath. She looks up at the ceiling as if asking God for assistance before saying, “I…don’t like that explanation.” She glances between us and the computer. “But at the same time, I only know a lot about ecology. Want me to google?”
I exhale, relief softening the ache in my lungs. She really was just awkward-weird with us the first time. “Yes, please,” I say.
Natalie’s keyboard clacks again. She purses her lips as she gets her answer. “So, according to the not-AI internet, yes, that can happen. Says the line can wear from age, exposure to heat, weather conditions, or a manufacture defect.” She looks back to us. “That sound right?”
Beck cracks her knuckles, her focus on doing that. “I dunno. It’s my mom’s car.”
“Did she ever complain about it?”
“All the time.” It occurs to me that I think Beck’s embarrassed by her mom’s shitty car. It’s kind of endearing. When I catch her gaze, I mouth, “It’s okay.” She softens. It’s such a quick interaction that Natalie doesn’t notice.
Natalie shrugs. “You didn’t happen to see if the line looked like it was cut, did you?”
Beck pulls out her phone, dropping it on Natalie’s side of the counter. “I can’t tell.”
Natalie scrutinizes the pictures for what feels like an eternity. “I honestly can’t tell either. Crap.” She sighs.
I can’t help but wonder if the texter is the one responsible, but if they were blackmailing me to get me out here and “off” me, why would they have not shown up when we agreed to meet? I made it easy for them.
“I mean, your safety is our number one priority here. I can’t say that any of the losers on the local police force will even know what a cut versus broken fuel line looks like, but we can give them a call if you want.” She pauses. “How old are you both again?”
“Twenty-one,” Beck says, impressively fast with her fake ID age.
“Eighteen,” I say. But the lie doesn’t come out as smoothly.
Natalie raises her brows. “Really?” She looks to Beck.
“For what it’s worth, they’ll scan both your IDs if you give a statement.
” Her voice comes out calculatedly slow, like she’s saying something she’s rehearsed before.
“If you happen to be under the age of eighteen, parents will be called. I don’t care either way. ”
I wilt as her words sink in. If we decide to report this to the police, our parents will be called and we’ll be hauled back to LA.
All for what has a very high chance of being a mechanical error.
There’s no way in hell we’ll be able to return to this town if our parents catch wind of this.
There will be no justice for Paisley, Harlow, and Opal.
I’ll never be able to find Paisley’s phone and delete that message.
I look to Beck, who crosses her arms, seemingly just as conflicted as I am.
I exhale. “If something were wrong and we didn’t call the police…”
“Hey, look,” she holds her hands up, “I’m no fan of cops. Especially racist small-town ones. I get it if y’all don’t want to.” She clicks her tongue. “Here. I think I can give a backup.”
She produces two walkie-talkies.
My heart sings at the sight.
“If anything starts to scare you both, contact me here.” She clicks them on, a buzz of static the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
“Honestly, service is so terrible around here that this is safer. I have a car that can go off-road, and there’s also my partner, Evan, who can help out.
I know everything’s been scary in the news, but this place isn’t some murder forest. Promise. ”
When I reach for the walkie-talkie, though, something catches my eye.
A little woven basket labeled LOST AND FOUND.
And among the lost key chains and trash is a little doll. Just like the one Cheryl was selling but wrapped in plants.
“Hey Natalie,” I say, picking up the doll. “Do you remember where this was found?”
And all the color drains from Natalie’s face. “It was, uh, found in the campsite of those girls who died back in the fall.”
The first item that’s actually from my friends.
“Dark,” Beck says, exchanging a look with me.
As Beck grabs the walkie-talkies, I slip the doll into my pocket.