Chapter 2
RUE
“One diver has been reported missing in the search for escaped convict, Thomas Noah Peterson,” the news blares from the living room, the volume louder than the rain pounding the windows. “Rescue attempts will resume when the storm passes.”
My vision goes blurry as I stare at my clasped hands, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away the image of that fucking hand on the branch.
There was nothing there.
But there was. I know there was. I’m not fucking crazy.
“Why were you down there?” my mom suddenly reprimands me, her presence suffocating from behind.
“I was just…watching,” I answer her, trying my best to ignore the crushing sensation in my chest.
“I don’t know why you would do that.” She exhales sharply. “You were drawing attention to yourself. You had to be escorted home, Rue. That’s the best way to get all the attention on yourself. What do you think they’ll do once they figure out you were entangled with a fugitive?”
I chew the inside of my cheek as I sit at the table in a fresh pair of black sweats. My blondish hair reeks of my coconut shampoo, and my body of something fruity. Every fucking trace of Noah is gone from my skin.
And I hate it. I’d rather smell like the lake that swallowed him.
I should’ve moved faster. I should’ve stayed with him.
“Rue?” Mom snaps at me, poking my shoulder so hard it stings. “Are you even listening to me?”
“No,” I peer up at her, my tone icy and voice distant as I hold her gaze. “I’m not listening to you, because I don’t give a flying fuck what you have to say to me. You’re not even that injured.” I gesture to the boot on her foot. That she’s standing upright on.
“You entitled, little—”
“Oh, shut up for once,” I slap my hand against the table. “Call Eliza if you want someone to feel sorry for you.” I shove myself back from the table, knocking the chair over. I spin around to face her, my skin blazing.
Her eyes widen as she blocks the exit of the dining room. “You’re scaring me, Ruth.” Her voice dips dramatically, her hands held in a low, surrendering pose. “You need to calm down.”
“Or what?” I tilt my head. “Are you going to tell on me? Call the police and say I stabbed Matthew and pushed him into the lake? Noah was right. They’ll never believe that I did it.”
She narrows her eyes at me, her hands falling to her sides. “Your dad would be so disappointed in who you’ve become.”
I laugh dryly, my fingers curled into a fist. “You’re right. He would. He’d be disappointed in all of us.” I glare at her. “Including you. I mean, do you want to talk about the affair you had for the entire last half of your marriage? Hmm?”
Her thin lips twitch downward. “You need to get some rest. You’re hateful when you’re tired. I’m going to call Eliza to see if I can get some real help around here.” With that, she turns on her booted foot and then thuds her way down the hallway, slamming a door behind her.
I stand in the kitchen, my eyes dropping to the tipped-over chair. My eyes shift across the living room to where Bullet is sleeping peacefully on the couch, unbothered by this entire situation. I wrap my fingers around the back of the chair and right it, then push it up under the table.
The once-broken TV is still blaring, and numbly, I make my way to the living room, picking up the remote from the side table. I pause to look at the radar, a large reddish-purple center hovering over Moccasin Cove.
Noah is out there in this. I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for another sob, but the tears don’t come. Instead, my finger finds the power button on the remote, and the sound and light disappear.
I’m left with just the sound of the storm battering the house.
I listen for a few beats, feeling frozen in place. What am I supposed to do now? My eyes flutter open, just as lightning illuminates the front window. A strange shadow casts across the glass, and my throat constricts.
But I don’t startle.
I just run my fingers through my tangled hair and then head for the coat rack, grabbing my mother’s raincoat. Bullet watches me from the couch, but then rests his head down and closes his eyes.
I don’t blame him for not wanting any part of this.
I slide my feet back into my still-damp tennis shoes and then go for the front door, turning the knob. A blast of cold precipitation hits my face, splattering across my jacket.
I’m not scared of the storm.
Or the goddamned lake.
I head out into the rain, unable to hear anything except the sound of the storm. My feet are numb before I even round the house and head for the trail that leads to the lake, and my coat does nothing for the horizontal wall of water assaulting me.
I cross the meadow quickly, breaking into a run to reach the trees.
But even once I’m there, the wind tries to throw me off the path. It lifts branches like clubs and hurls them at my face, and it hisses up my sleeves and pounds rainwater into my eardrums, but I don’t stop.
I promised. I’ll never let you go, Noah.
Even if that means dragging your dead body back to the woods you loved.
My tennis shoes are so wet I might as well be barefoot, even if they’re numb. With every stride, cold water squelches up between my toes, and the mud is so deep at the base of the pines that the shoes nearly slide off my feet with each step.
The sky is torn open with lightning every minute or so, and every time it cracks I expect to see a body hanging from the trees, or standing between the trunks with a pistol pointed at me, or maybe my own shadow, skeletal and hunched, limping along like a wounded animal.
And to think, this place was once my sanctuary.
A tree root snags my right foot, and I almost go face-first into a patch of stinging nettles, but I jerk myself upright at the last second, biting back a yelp.
Fuck. Just focus, Rue.
The deeper I get, the more the wind howls. It batters the pine needles into my face until my cheeks sting, and my hair whips out in front of me, blinding me for a second, but I shove it away and keep my eyes up. I have to see.
I have to.
I make it to the final stretch of the old trail—and stop, bracing a hand against the trunk of a dead Oak. My heart beats out of my chest, and my brain erupts with the one scene I don’t want to remember.
Fucking Matthew.
The last time I saw him alive plays like a movie. He’s half-crying, half-laughing, mouth full of blood, his hand wrapped around the knife in his gut. The sound of his breathing gurgling in his throat is louder than the wind. It echoes even now, every time the thunder cracks.
Oh god. Oh god.
Why the fuck did you have to make me do it, Matthew?
My grip on the tree tightens until the bark flakes off under my nails, pale and rotten, and the tree feels so fragile I could rip it out of the ground. My whole body is shaking now, but I force myself to breathe, to be present.
What was that thing I learned in therapy?
I force my eyes open and down at my feet. In a flash of lightning, I catch sight of my shoes buried to the laces in dark mud.
I count to ten, then lift my head. My vision blurs for a second—tears, sweat, rain, whatever—but I blink until it clears.
No one is here anymore.
I focus on the trail and start moving again, albeit slower this time, making my own steps more careful.
“They always die,” slips from my lips, my voice foreign to myself, but the words evaporate, drowned by thunder and the slap of rain on my shoulders.
I keep walking, and finally the wind picks up, bringing with it the scent of moss and rotting fish.
That’s when I realize how close I am to the water’s edge.
Noah just walked this path twenty-four hours ago, trailed by dogs and marshals.
The trees thin out abruptly, replaced by a marshy stretch of reeds and black mud. The water’s higher than usual, whitecaps breaking on the stony shore. In the distance, some sort of lights from the dock cut through the sheets of rain, throwing long beams across the lake.
They didn’t completely desert the place.
I crouch low behind a fallen pine, keeping out of the floodlight’s reach. I shiver beneath my jacket, my body completely soaked.
Lightning bursts through the nights, and for a split second, the whole shoreline lights up electric blue.
And I freeze.
There’s a body-shaped lump on the shore, half-concealed by driftwood. My lungs seize up, and I almost break cover, charging down the slope to see if it’s him. My hands clutch at the hem of my jacket, and I dig my knees into the mud, feeling the water soak up through my jeans further.
“Don’t,” I hiss at myself, hearing my heart pounding in my ears now. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”
My eyes cut back to the thin haze of searchlights. I think they’re too far away to see me. But… I still wait until they’re pointed in the opposite direction.
Then I sprint down the slope.
The mud is worse here, sucking at my shoes, slowing every step. Rain slaps my face and slides down my back. My breath comes in rasps, and my side cramps.
I reach the driftwood heap and fall to my knees, scraping my hands and shins on the rough bark.
You have to be kidding me.
The lump is… just a pile of rotting lake weeds and some empty beer cans, probably from the last group of high school kids who got drunk out here before the world ended.
I could laugh at my own fucking audacity.
He’s not here. No one is here.
I’m alone, and I’m fucking soaked, and every inch of me hurts. The tears that finally come are hot, and I rub them away with the sleeve of the raincoat, though it just smears lake slime across my cheek.
A fresh roll of thunder hits my ears, and I wish the fucking sky would open and just end me with one solid strike.
But then the searchers start panning back toward me.
Shit. I duck behind the heap of debris. My eyes peer over the top, and I watch for the lights. I wait for them to finish their scan.
I count to three, ready to rise and retreat.
But then a hand clamps around my mouth, yanking me off my feet and into the wet blackness.