Chapter 10 Nicola
THE FIRST TIME I met Greer Woods at the hardware store, the two of us ended up at the picnic table my dad had built on the lawn behind the parking lot.
We sat among the hollowed-out carcasses of dead appliances, sipping lukewarm coffee that had been brewed hours earlier in the staff room.
She told me about the show, about how the camera crew would follow her around town as she recapped the crimes, questioned possible suspects.
Then she asked if I’d be interested in helping with her investigation.
My shocked guffaw almost sent my coffee splashing over the rim. “Me? Why?”
“Because we’re trying to find whoever murdered your friend.” When that didn’t elicit an immediate response, she tried another tack: “You must have theories.”
I had hundreds, all catalogued on a spreadsheet.
For years, I’d been tracking the whereabouts of every member of our community on the nights the victims went missing.
Mr. Cleary, the girls’ field hockey coach, who claimed he’d gone straight to the athletics office after practice and hadn’t known about Rebecca Stoeffel’s punctured tires.
Lewis Nolan, who’d been working the counter at Double Dips the day Jody Hill was murdered.
There were rumors around town that he’d asked her out, and she’d rejected him; no one could confirm them, though.
Mr. Grunditch, who lived down the street from Heather Dickerson and was on the sex offender registry.
He’d been arrested for indecent exposure—urinating against the wall of our public library, drunk out of his mind on two-dollar draft beers—which, admittedly, had little to do with the crimes, but it didn’t feel right to take him off the list.
That didn’t mean I wanted to share those theories with her, though.
For years, the police had reopened, then closed, then reopened the case.
The cycle had become exhausting, and while I understood that Greer Woods would bring new resources to the table, there was no way to be certain that she was doing this for the right reason.
She was a wealthy attorney from Los Angeles with a multimillion-dollar TV contract—a contract that she probably wanted to get renewed.
What were the chances she was here because she wanted to honor Claire’s memory instead of profiting off the darkest moment of my life?
“Sure, I do,” I said. “Why do you care?”
“I want to get justice for these women. Did you know I’m the reason why my dad’s in prison?”
I did but stayed silent, wanting to hear what she was about to say.
“A woman knocked on our door in the middle of the night, panicked and injured. I was home alone and too afraid to answer, so I called nine-one-one.”
When the police arrived, they’d discovered the woman—barely alive.
I once watched a physician on a true crime documentary explain how she’d survived by throwing herself across the hood of Tom Woods’s approaching car, to avoid being struck head-on.
Rushed to the hospital, she was treated for splintered ribs, a ruptured spleen, and a fractured ankle.
She spent weeks in the ICU before emerging as his final, and only surviving, victim.
“It never occurred to me she was running from my dad,” Greer said. “I thought her car had broken down maybe, that she’d gotten turned around in the woods.”
“You saved her life.”
“Yeah, by accident. The police found thirty-four other women buried on our property. Didn’t do fuck all for them, did I?”
“You didn’t know—”
“No, and I’m never going to make that mistake again.
I’ve heard you’re the local expert on these murders.
I’ve tried consulting with the police, but between you and me, they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.
I think you do, though. And I think that if we worked together, pooled our information, we could get further than they ever did. ”
She shifted on the bench so we were staring at each other dead-on.
Her eyes were the same color as the silt my dad and I burrowed through in the summers to find crayfish.
We’d dab nail polish on their backs before setting them free, so that if we ever found them again, we’d know that they were ours.
“Don’t you want to know the truth, Nic?”
Now, in the backyard, we all gawk at the classic car parked in the driveway.
The driver’s worn-out boots settle on the dirt.
I know those boots, those frayed laces. Greer Woods steps out into the clearing.
Her black curls are tied back into a ponytail that’s too short; half the strands have fallen loose and are spiraling around her face.
She’s effortlessly cool—like a cigarette ad from the nineties.
Effortlessly cool and looking for all the world like something that’s bound to be bad for you.
Her gaze sweeps the backyard until it finds mine, and the rest of the clearing melts away, washed into a mist of greens and blues and whites.
My mind starts sprinting in circles: Say something.
Keep quiet. Walk over to her. Stay where you are.
The longer we stare at each other, the faster my heart wallops against my ribs.
A crunch redirects our attention to the car that’s started rolling backward down the road.
“Shit!” Greer dashes to the car, wrenches the door open, and catapults herself across the seat to shift gears.
“Sorry,” she says, clambering out again.
“The hand brake just pops off on its own sometimes. Need to shift it into first.” She rests her forearm against the roof. “So, what’s happening?”
“We’re wrapping up the bonfire ceremony.”
Imogen’s words sound pinched.
“That new?” Greer nods at the stick.
“It’s a talking stick.”
Greer leans toward her and whispers, “And what does it tell you?”
“What?”
“The talking stick. What does it tell you? Because if it’s telling you to kill people, you might want to chuck it back into the woods. We’re genetically predisposed to shit like that.”
Imogen summons her better nature and offers Greer the talking stick. “We were just about to hear from Nicola, but if you want to contribute…”
Greer’s eyes find mine again; my pulse jumps in my throat, like a bowling ball skidding into the gutter. She seems on the brink of saying something, but instead, she reaches into her car and opens the glove box. She removes a slip of paper and tosses it into the bonfire.
What was on that paper? I want to ask her. What is the famous Greer Woods so eager to leave behind—other than me?
“Nicola?”
Imogen holds out the talking stick, which seems ridiculous now, thanks to Greer. I take it anyway.
“Well,” I start, trying to think of something they don’t already know. “I never helped my dad murder anyone, despite what you may have seen on TV.”
Greer’s gaze drops to her combat boots. Her shoulders draw up, the collar of her jacket brushing her ears. She looks ashamed. Good.
“I always assumed that, if things went bad, there were certain people I could count on. When my dad had a stroke a few years ago, they dropped off tinfoil-wrapped casseroles, so we wouldn’t have to cook.
They drove him to physical therapy when we had parent-teacher conferences, and stopped by to help with chores.
I thought that meant they were with me for the long haul, but after To Catch a Killer premiered, no one would take my calls.
No, wait—that’s not entirely true. There were people who’d take my calls, but only because they wanted to record them and sell them to the press.
I don’t know who to trust anymore, so I don’t trust anyone.
I can’t even begin to tell you how lonely it gets.
There’s no one I can call, no one I can visit. And I just…”
My words falter because even surrounded by this group, the next part’s still unspeakable: I just want my daddy.
My gaze tips toward the treetops, the milky white sky, as I try to blink back my tears. “I’m really glad to be here right now. With all of you.”
Something warm encircles my hand. I look down to find Zach’s palm pressed against mine, our fingers linked together. So much for blinking back those tears.
“Is there anything else you want to put into the space?” Imogen asks.
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Then throw in your paper.”
Heat needles my skin as I draw closer. Greer fiddles with the zipper on her jacket, clicking it up and down the track.
Is she wondering what’s written on my paper?
My outstretched fist falters above the bonfire.
I should’ve written down her name; more than anything, I wish I could burn away all the feelings she dredges up in me.
I throw my paper in.
As soon as it hits the flames, they explode into crimson. I stumble backward, and Zach catches my elbow, anchoring me. “I know, right?” he whispers. “All very for the approval of the Midnight Society.”
“Right on,” Greer says with a cheer that seems forced. “Let’s get this party started.” She turns toward Connor. “I didn’t bring my cell phone, and this clunker”—she slaps her palm against the hood of the car—“is from the seventies. No electronics on board.”
He picks up his tablet anyway, checks the screen for little colored dots, then gives her the thumbs-up; her car’s dot-free.
She pops the trunk and hauls out a camping backpack, easing the straps over her shoulders.
The others start filing into the lodge, all except for Zach, who’s Velcroed himself to my side.
Greer jogs across the clearing but slows when she reaches me. “Hey.”
Dread curdles in my stomach. Even though this was what I wanted, why I came here this weekend, I don’t feel ready.
“We should probably talk.” She leans around me. “How’s it going, Zach?”
“Fine.”
“They’re serving dinner inside.”
“I know.”
“You don’t want to, you know, go check it out?”
“I’m good here.”