Chapter 26
This is a bad idea.
That’s the first thing I think as I push past the thicket at the edge of the trail, branches snagging my sweater.
The camera around my neck bumps against my boobs and slinged left arm, which makes the trek even harder as it throws off my balance.
I slip my arm out of the sling, gently running my fingers up the ACE bandage that doesn’t seem to offer much protection.
Although every muscle aches from the exertion so soon after my hospital stay, I remind myself that the cabin picture wasn’t stolen off my studio wall for no reason.
Someone wanted me to come here. Honestly, if the culprit could send me a memo clarifying their villainous intentions, that would be helpful.
But until that happens, it’s up to me to figure it out.
I reach the clearing where the trees thin out and the cabin appears, looking exactly the same as it did in the photograph.
Although the lush green foliage backdrop has been replaced by bare skeletal branches, nothing else has changed.
In fact, I had taken the picture from the spot where I now stand.
The two-room structure looks harmless enough: weather-beaten logs, moss crawling up one side, a roof that sags with depression.
The front door is closed, the lock rusted.
I jiggle the handle just to be thorough, then shove my good shoulder against the door.
It won’t budge, and it looks like it’s been locked and sealed for generations.
Two windows flank the door, and I test each one, pushing up to see if either will slide open.
My injured wrist immediately regrets it as pain shoots up my left arm.
I peer through the dingy glass and my breath fogs my view inside.
The cabin is hollowed out by age. Dust lies thick on the plank floor, dulling the wood to the color of bone.
A table squats in the center of the room, its surface scarred with knife marks and dark rings where cups once sweated.
A single chair has fallen sideways, as if it gave up waiting for someone to come back.
Cobwebs stitch the corners together, trembling faintly in the stale air.
The light inside is thin and jaundiced, sunlight filtered through grime.
A stone fireplace gapes at the far wall, cold and black, its mantel crowded with nothing but dust shadows where objects used to be.
The walls smell like damp rot even through the glass.
Everything looks paused mid-breath, abandoned in a hurry or forgotten on purpose.
I can almost hear the echo of boots on wood, the ghost of heat from a fire that hasn’t burned in decades. The cabin stares back at me, empty.
No Ivory. And no secret message carved into the wall reading: Shari, you’re getting warmer. Just ancient artifacts and dust. For a moment, doubt slithers in. Maybe this cabin has nothing to do with Ivory’s disappearance after all. I force myself to turn away, hiking back along the river.
The trail to the waterfall is no joke. Only the most stubborn nature lovers attempt the climb, and yesterday’s downpour has turned the path into a slick, muddy deterrent.
Shafts of sunlight pierce through the burgundy and gold leaves still clinging desperately to their branches.
The narrow dirt trail snakes along Doomwood Falls, weaving around the thick, knotted roots of trees settling in for winter.
I breathe in the damp, woodsy air, hoping it will calm me.
It doesn’t. The panic crawling under my skin refuses to ease.
Within a few minutes the rumble of rushing water grows louder, drowning out my thoughts, vibrating through my bones. Mist sprays my face, and I step closer to the shoreline to reset my expectations to hopeless.
I thought getting out in nature might loosen the knot between my shoulders, but after the week I’ve had, that feels laughable. Ivory’s disappearance. Luca’s fistfight. My home break-in. Detective Yankovic’s grilling. The hit-and-run. It’s all too much for one person.
And the package my attorney gave me with my blood-soaked necklace has me on edge.
I have no idea what to do with the private investigator’s collection of information that may or may not lead to Ramsey Shenk—a man I prefer stays gone.
I can’t shake the feeling that my past has finally caught up with me, and its claws are tearing me apart.
I’m nearing the edge of the river when something sizable drifts into view, instantly giving me the sense that my day is about to get worse. As if that’s possible. Some people look at nature and see peace. I look at it and start rehearsing alibis.
The current nudges the object closer, knocking it against rocks as it bobs downstream. A sharp crack behind me pulls my focus away. The sound sends a chill up my spine, reminding me of the constant feeling that I’m being watched—a feeling that’s followed me since Ivory went missing.
Another snap is followed by leaves rustling.
“Hello?” I call, hoping to scare off a malevolent animal… or a malevolent human. At this point, either seems possible.
No answer. The brush is too thick to see through, so I turn back to the water.
The surface glitters harmlessly in the sunlight, all sparkly and cheerful.
It’s a lie. The shape drifts nearer and catches on a branch along the bank.
For a second, I convince myself it’s just a log.
But it’s the wrong shape and wrong color.
The current frees it, coughing it up onto the pebbled shore downriver.
Mud grips my boots as I slog closer. I don’t understand what I’m seeing until I’m almost on top of it.
My breath stutters when the definitely not-a-log slowly turns in the water, spinning in a grotesque, lazy circle.
It’s a body. Face down, with hair floating around the head in dark, tangled ribbons.
Her arms stretch outward, palms open, as if she’s surrendering.
Her clothes cling unnaturally, nearly transparent, and the skin beneath is a dull, horrifying gray.
I freeze. Then, against my better judgment, I inch forward, drawn by a sick curiosity.
Please don’t be her. Please don’t be Ivory.
I crouch, but her face is buried in the mud.
Only the slope of her neck and the back of her head are visible.
Her hair is the right inky color to be Ivory.
Or the wrong color, if my worst fear is justified.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I refuse to let that scenario take shape. Silence rushes in to fill the space, swallowing everything except the frantic thud of my heart. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. With a fragile spark of hope that this person might still be alive, I grip her shoulder and roll her over.
Nope. Very dead.
I kneel and brush debris from her face, only to find features so damaged she barely looks human. Fish—or something creepier lurking beneath the surface—have had their fill picking at her. Whoever she is, she’s been in the river far too long.
Something catches the light. My focus shifts from her ruined face down to something that doesn’t belong in this river, or on a stranger’s body.
The realization of what it is hits me so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs.
My eyes trail down her neck, then her collarbone, landing on something so impossible I lose my balance and hit the ground.
It can’t be real. Except it is. A golden chain clings to her neckline.
It’s a necklace. My necklace, and Ivory’s necklace.
The two lilies woven together. Our delicate matching necklaces because Ivory was like the sister I always wanted.
I touch my neck and mine is still there, which means this is Ivory’s.
It has to be. But this woman isn’t. How did Ivory’s necklace get on this stranger’s neck?
A wave splashes the rocks, soaking my shoes. I straighten, hugging my arms around myself. My mind is spinning too fast to slow down now.
Call the police.
That’s what a normal person would do. Someone with a clean record.
Someone who doesn’t have the kind of past that makes detectives get suspicious.
I can already see Detective Yankovic’s face when he finds out who reported the body.
The little downward twitch of his mouth. The look that says, You again? Really?
I’ve been incarcerated once. I plead innocent, but try telling that to people who hear the word ex-con and stop listening after the hyphenation. To them, I’m a potential suspect with a history of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now here I am again. Wrong place. Worst possible time.
If I call this in, Detective Yankovic will surely look into my past. He’ll trace the necklace. He’ll ask questions I can’t answer. He’ll decide I’m lying even when I’m not. He’ll decide I did this.
I scramble to unclasp it with trembling fingers, shoving it into my pocket as dread settles deep in my gut.
This isn’t a random body. This is a message for me.
It’s no coincidence that the package Bradley gave me had my necklace covered in blood, and now this body has Ivory’s matching one.
If anyone else finds her, my future is over.
This woman’s death was meant to put me behind bars—or in the ground.
Adrenaline kicks in with an urge to survive. I can’t leave the evidence. Even if I swore I had nothing to do with her murder—and I’m now completely certain this was murder—I wouldn’t stand a chance. Not with my record.
Suddenly I remember the noise I’d heard in the woods and I scan the trees. Did someone see me take the necklace? I strain for any sound—footsteps, breathing, a phone notification, anything. There’s nothing. Just a heavy, unnatural quiet. Me and the dead woman. It’s just us, I hope.
So what now?
I could run. Get back to my car. Disappear into another town, another state, another country.
Indonesia pops into my head, sunny and extradition-free.
I checked. But my feet won’t move and I’m so tired of running.
An awful idea forms, and before I can stop myself, I step toward the body.
Then another. Then I do the worst thing possible.
I touch her.
First the sleeve, then her arm. Her flesh is rigid and far heavier than she looks.
Her skin is swollen with water, and I picture flesh and muscle tearing loose as I grab hold and start dragging her into deeper water.
Something animalistic takes over, and I don’t question it until I’m already committed.
I scramble up the bank and grab a rock. Then another. And another. My body moves on instinct, disturbingly practiced. Covering tracks. Hiding proof. Apparently I’m good at this now.
My hands turn numb and raw, nails packed with mud as I gather stone after stone.
When it feels like enough, I wade back in, hauling her farther into the river.
My heart slams against my ribs. Icy water creeps through my clothes, seeps into my bones.
I keep going anyway, boots slipping, balance wavering.
When I can’t go any farther, the body makes a low, awful sound—a wet groan that bubbles to the surface. I yelp and jump back, half-expecting her eyes to fly open. They don’t. The sound fades and she stays dead.
With water up to my chin now, I drop the biggest rock onto her chest. It splashes uselessly, sinking her barely an inch.
It’s not enough. I unload the stones stuffed into my pockets and shirt, cramming them into her waistband, her sleeves, wherever they’ll fit.
Slowly, grudgingly, she sinks, as if reconsidering.
I agonizingly go back for more again and again. Until finally she disappears beneath the surface. At last she’s gone.
I drag myself onto the shore and collapse, lungs burning, muscles quaking. Relief doesn’t come because someone will eventually find her. They always do. And when they do, they’ll find me next. When that happens, I’ll do what I’ve been doing since I arrived in Doomwood Falls.
I’ll vanish. Hopefully not the same way she did.
The river looks calm again. That’s the part that gets me, the way it smooths itself out so quickly, like nothing ever happened beneath the surface.
Just water gliding past rocks, catching light, whispering over itself.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the place where she sunk and hoping the water won’t reject what I’ve done and spit her back up.
By now the chill has burrowed deep in my bones, a damp ache that won’t leave.
My sleeves are soaked. My hands are numb, scraped raw, nails rimmed with mud and memory of her dead skin beneath mine that no amount of washing will ever remove.
I wipe them uselessly on my jeans anyway, smearing brown streaks across the denim.
The footpath waits, narrow and winding back to my car.
The sunlight has shifted and thinned out, turning the forest the color of bruises—purples and yellows.
Leaves crunch under my boots, and every sound feels amplified now.
A bird takes off, and wind combs through the branches. My own breathing is fast and uneven.
I’m tempted to look back but I don’t. I keep moving, forcing one foot in front of the other, following the curve of the trail away from the waterfall.
My car feels impossibly far away. The muck thickens as I climb, tugging at my boots with every step.
I stumble and catch myself on a tree trunk, the bark roughly scraping my palm.
The clearing where I’ve parked is in view when I see footprints cut cleanly through the mud just off the trail, darker where water has pooled in the impressions.
I stop so fast my stomach lurches. They’re not mine from the trek up, because they’re heading in the direction of my car ahead of me.
Next to the footprints are paw prints from what looks like a large dog.
My pulse roars in my ears as I crouch, hovering over the prints without touching them. They’re fresh. The edges haven’t softened yet. The mud still holds their shape.
I track them with my eyes. An anxious feeling fills my chest, spreading fast. I straighten slowly, every muscle locked.
They’re heading into the parking area toward my car.
I step forward, then hesitate, scanning the trees one last time.
The forest stares back, silent and secretive.
Then I follow the footprints until they disappear at my car door.