Chapter Thirty-One
The trees behind our trailer park had gone nearly bare with October, their remaining leaves crisp as old paper beneath my heels while my stepmother fussed with the camera.
The little clearing beside the woods always smelled faintly of damp earth from the river and rusted metal from the abandoned factory nearby.
That night the cold air carried the sweet burn of someone’s bonfire smoke drifting low through the pines.
It clung to the hem of my dress as I stood still beneath the branches, Andy’s hand spread warm against my side.
The dress had taken me three weeks to finish.
Green and gold jacquard curtains I’d found at a thrift store in Salisbury for four dollars, thick enough to hold shape like something expensive, heavy duty zip ties in place of boning in the bodice.
Under the dying evening light the fabric caught bronze at the seams, vines woven into the material curling around my waist and down the flare of the skirt.
Andy’s tie matched it exactly, though he’d complained the whole time I stitched the thing into place because he said it made him look like a couch cushion.
Now he grinned lazily over my shoulder while my stepmother cooed behind the disposable camera.
“Lola, your dress turned out so nice, honey.” She adjusted the flash attachment with careful fingers. “You look just like one of the Boleyn girls in that movie.”
I stared straight ahead while the camera clicked. Andy’s thumb rubbed absent circles against my jutting hip bone.
My stepmother turned toward my father, who stood near the trailer steps with his arms crossed against the cold. “What was that actress’s name, honey?”
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, yes you do.” She waved him off. “We just watched it recently. The pretty one. All the men love her. She’s in everything.”
“Scarlett Johansson?” Andy offered, glancing down at me with a teasing squint.
“No, no. The other one.”
Recognition lit his face. “Oh—Natalie Portman.” He laughed softly. “Yeah, you kinda do look like her.”
I smiled automatically because that was what girls were supposed to do when someone compared them to someone pretty, but the compliment settled sour in my stomach anyway. I didn’t want to resemble women men loved collectively, like a public opinion everybody shared.
Movie stars seemed less like people to me and more like polished things trapped behind glass.
My father’s church loved women like that in theory—soft spoken, lovely, admired—but only if they stayed untouchable.
The second a girl became real enough to want something, people stopped worshiping her and started naming her sins like items on a grocery list.
My corsage itched against my wrist. Baby’s breath and gold ribbon hot glued together framing a magnolia I was sure Andy must’ve picked from the tree at the church.
“Can we go now?” I asked.
My stepmother sighed dramatically. “One more picture.”
Andy leaned close enough for me to smell his cologne beneath the starch of his suit jacket clinging to his shoulders. Pine and citrus. Masculine in the expensive, department-store way his mother preferred. “Smile, Los.”
I did. The flash popped again, bleaching the woods white for half a second. In the brief glare, the trees looked skeletal. Bare branches hidden deeper in the forest reached upward like crooked fingers.
“Perfect,” my stepmother declared.
Andy immediately moved toward the truck, tugging his keys from his pocket.
Gravel crunched beneath our shoes. The trailer behind us glowed yellow through the kitchen window, soft and dim and tired-looking, the aluminum siding catching moonlight in dull silver streaks.
From inside came the muffled hum of the dishwasher and the distant drone of Christian radio my father always left playing low enough to haunt the walls.
Andy opened the passenger door for me with a dramatic bow. “Your carriage, m’lady.”
I rolled my eyes affectionately and started toward him, but my father’s voice stopped me.
“Lola.” Something in his tone made me pause.
I turned back. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his work jacket. The porch light cast shadows beneath his eyes, emphasizing the exhaustion carved permanently into his face. For a moment he simply studied my features, and it unsettled me more than if he’d started yelling.
“Your dress looks nice,” he said finally.
The words hit strangely. My father noticed plenty of things about me—he noticed skirt lengths and tone of voice and whether I crossed my legs in church—but compliments from him were rare enough to feel ceremonial.
I smiled politely. “Thanks, Dad.”
But when I turned to leave again, his hand brushed gently against my elbow.
“You look just like your mother,” he said quietly.
My father almost never spoke about my mom.
In our house her absence existed like a missing tooth you learned not to tongue.
There were no photographs of her in the trailer anymore, no stories shared over dinner, no casual references to her favorite songs or foods or odd habits.
My stepmother had stepped so carefully into the hollow she left behind that eventually even mentioning my mother’s name felt rude somehow, like bringing up an ex-wife at a wedding.
So hearing about her now—here, of all places—felt like accidentally uncovering a grave.
“She’d be so proud of you,” he added when I didn’t respond.
I stared at him trying to determine if he meant it or if he was simply emotional because his daughter was dressed up for formal pictures like some milestone fatherhood moment out of a Hallmark commercial.
“Are you proud of me?” I asked softly.
His grip loosened slightly around my wrist. I watched emotions move across his face too quickly to fully name—surprise first, then guilt, then something almost wounded.
“Of course I’m proud of you,” he said.
I squeezed his hand because I didn’t know what else to do with the sudden ache blooming behind my ribs. Then I put my practiced smile back on—the small, neat one that made adults comfortable.
“Thanks, Dad.” I slipped free before he could say anything else.
The truck smelled like leather seats and Andy’s cologne and the peppermint gum he chewed obsessively before football games. As soon as I climbed in, he reached over the center console and squeezed my knee.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shut the door harder than I meant to. “Just cold.”
He studied me for a second like he knew that wasn’t true, then started the engine.
Behind us, my father still stood beneath the porch light watching the truck idle in the dirt driveway.
My stepmother appeared beside him, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself before leaning against his shoulder.
For one strange moment they looked almost happy.
They felt like mine in a way I’d never experienced before.
The roads into town were slick with old rain, black pavement shining beneath the truck headlights like snake skin. Andy drove one-handed, easy and loose behind the wheel of his vintage Chevy, the other hand resting warm on my thigh whenever he wasn’t shifting gears.
He wore confidence the same way some people wore expensive watches—daily, thoughtlessly, like he’d forget it was there if nobody pointed it out.
“You alright, babe?” he asked again, glancing over at me beneath the red glow of a stoplight. “Thought you’d be more excited for tonight.”
I sat stiff in the passenger seat, careful not to let my pinned curls touch the headrest. My scalp already ached from the bobby pins digging into it.
The jacquard skirt spread awkwardly over my legs, thick curtain fabric rustling every time I shifted.
Outside, dark fields rolled past in long stretches, winter corn cut down to ugly stubble that looked like broken teeth sticking from the earth.
“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Feels a little weird going to this thing while Shannon’s still missing.” I picked at a loose thread on my skirt. “Like… doesn’t it feel selfish?”
It had only been two weeks since Shannon O’Kinzy vanished into the woods behind Holy Trinity Baptist Church like the earth itself had opened up and swallowed him whole.
The search parties had slowed down by then.
People still talked about him, but softer.
Less urgently. Woodland had already begun doing what small southern towns did best—turning tragedy into rumor and rumor into background noise.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the shape in the trees that night.
Couldn’t stop hearing the crack of the rock against something solid.
Andy sighed through his nose, turning the wheel with his palm. “Maybe. But he was a shy kid.” His voice stayed light, almost absentminded. “I don’t think he’d want us giving it too much attention.”
Was. The word lodged itself in my throat, thrumming and thrumming, and thrumming until I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I turned toward him sharply. “Too much attention?” Exhaustion sharpened my tone. “Andy, he could be hurt somewhere.”
“Nah.” He shook his head easily, like we were discussing football scores instead of a missing person. “That kid ran away.”
I blinked at him. “Why would you think that?”
“Because he had a backpack with him.”
“So?” I frowned.
Andy finally looked over at me then, eyebrows raised like the answer should’ve been obvious. “You ever seen him carry a bag to church?”
I opened my mouth, then stopped. Because no. I hadn’t.
At school Shannon always carried that composition notebook covered in taped-on clovers, clutched to his chest like scripture. At church he usually came empty-handed except for whatever paperback he’d shoved in his back pocket. I tried to picture him with a backpack and couldn’t.
“Did you tell the police that?” I asked slowly. “Or your dad?”
Andy shrugged. “Nope.”
I stared at him. “Why not? That could be important.”
Another shrug. Casual. Careless. “Because maybe he’s got a good reason to run away,” he said. “One that’s nobody’s business but his.”
I started to argue before the meaning caught up with me. Oh. The truck hummed around us. Tires hissing softly over wet pavement. Maybe Shannon had a reason similar to Andy’s deep desire to leave this town.
Maybe he had bruises hidden under long sleeves too. Maybe everybody in this town was trying to escape something unholy. The whole place should burn to the ground, I thought for a brief moment.
My chest loosened with a different kind of ache with the image of Shannon being anywhere else. Somewhere he wouldn’t always have to keep his eyes open.
“I wish you’d planted that thought in my head sooner,” I muttered.
Andy glanced over, confused. “Why?”
I laughed once, dry and humorless, staring out the windshield at the glowing school marquee coming into view ahead of us.
“Because I’ve been stressed out thinking he was what I hit with that rock that night.” My voice cracked embarrassingly. “I thought maybe I killed him.”
For half a second Andy simply stared at me. Then he barked out a startled laugh. “Jesus, babe.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, smiling incredulously. “I told you it was a deer.”
I crossed my arms tightly over myself. “How do you know?”
The smile faltered slightly. Andy winced.
“Look…” His fingers tapped the steering wheel. “I didn’t wanna tell you this because I figured it might upset you.” He glanced at me again before looking back at the road. “But Jack and I found the deer during the search party.” The air left my lungs.
“It’s leg was broken,” he continued more quietly. “The game warden had to come and put it down.”
Something inside my chest unraveled so suddenly it almost hurt. A knot pulled loose after being twisted too tight for too long. My vision blurred instantly.
“Oh thank fuck,” I breathed, and then a hysterical laugh tore out of me.
Andy started laughing too, relief lighting his face boyishly, softening all the hard edges adulthood had already started carving into him. It hit me then how young we really were. Children in formalwear pretending we knew how to survive things like this God forsaken place.
“Well,” he snorted, “I’m glad the dead deer didn’t upset you.”
I slapped a hand over my mouth, horrified by my own reaction even while tears gathered hot in my eyes.
“Oh, fuck.” I shook my head quickly. “I mean—poor deer.” Another laugh escaped me helplessly. “But Jesus Christ, Andy, I’m so glad I’m not a murderer.”
The truck bounced roughly as he pulled into the school parking lot, near the gymnasium entrance.
Music throbbed faintly from inside already, bass vibrating through the cold night air.
Kids in glittering dresses and rented suits clustered beneath parking lot lights smoking cigarettes and taking pictures beside pickup trucks.
Andy shifted the truck into park but didn’t kill the engine yet. Instead he looked at me. “I can’t believe you didn’t talk to me about that,” he said quietly. “We tell each other everything, Los.”
Guilt prickled instantly beneath my skin. Because we didn’t. Not anymore. I wondered if we ever really had. We were so good at dancing all around the truth, but never saying it outright to each other.
I used to think that was romantic, or mature.
That we both knew exactly where each other’s boundaries and vulnerabilities lie, and respected one another enough to never touch them.
But after these past few weeks of August picking at all my seams, and letting him peel back every layer with tender care, I suddenly felt like I’d betrayed Andy by having never done that for him.
Never forced him to talk about the things he so desperately needed to.
I smiled, small and tight and practiced. “I’m sorry.” I adjusted the corsage around my wrist. “I thought you were gaslighting me.”
The word hit him harder than I expected. Something flickered across his face—not anger exactly, but injury. Like I’d accused him of becoming a criminal. Someone like his father.
But then, almost immediately, he smiled again. Easy. Charming. Handsome Andy Spires. The expression slid back into place so smoothly most people wouldn’t have noticed it happen.
But I noticed. And in that moment I understood something strange and terrible: Andy was good at pretending too.