Thirteen
The moment Beck and I exit the visitors’ center and head to the parking lot, the sun is blazing and ready to punish everyone who came unprepared.
I put on sunscreen, but I can still feel the beams cook my skin.
Sweat beads along my hairline and under my arms, but it’s not just from the weather.
I try to keep stride with Beck, but my legs shake under me.
“That was weird, right?” I say as Beck unlocks her trunk.
“She knows we knew Pais, Harlow, and Opal,” Beck replies. “Think it’s a problem yet?”
She lugs out the tent bag, the heaviest thing in our stuff.
I sling it over my shoulder. “No, it was—” That she recognized me from what I did that night.
I swallow that thought with a dry throat.
When Beck places my backpack on the ground, I gulp down water from my reusable. “She seemed to know something.”
“Ahh.”
But Beck doesn’t elaborate. She just pulls out the cooler and other supply bag and shoulders more than she needs to.
I grab one of the smaller bags from her and we start our walk.
Clearly, we’re both one-trip-inside-with-groceries-type people.
It might be cute if I were discovering it in any other context.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t want to burst your bubble.”
The tent bag slams against my right hip with each step, but I savor the pain for the distraction that it is. “I think I’ll survive.”
“Why would the texter say they couldn’t come see us if they were literally a couple hundred yards away?” She adjusts one of the bags and squints against the sun. “I think we can keep her on the suspect list, but there are a lot more people to talk to.”
I sigh; that’s an entirely fair observation, especially given I couldn’t even say what really made me suspect Natalie. A prickle of warmth hits me. I’m so glad Beck’s here. It gives me hope that we’ll actually get somewhere mixing our two very different brains together.
I chuckle. “So we’re not following Ranger Natalie’s advice?”
“Yeah, no, we’re gonna have to disappoint Ranger Natalie big time.”
My chuckle rises into a full-on laugh, the digging pain in my shoulders and the gnawing anxiety in my stomach briefly forgotten.
Memories flood back to me as Beck and I set up camp.
My dad adored camping, used to say it was his favorite way to center himself.
He’d bring his notebook out with him, but Owen and I would demand every second of his time.
Hikes to the highest vistas, dips in creeks, birdwatching.
Owen trying to play an oversized guitar around a campfire, Dad being forced to attempt whatever internet-famous campfire recipes I would find prior to the trip.
Making Dad tell us the scariest ghost stories and hold us until we fell asleep because we were terrified despite insisting we wouldn’t be.
Maybe he got to write, but it must’ve been in the latest hours of the night.
But once Liam came around, and he vehemently hated the outdoors, Dad started taking my brothers and me on other weekend trips when Mom needed a few days of no stimulation after a hard series of shifts.
As I set up with Beck, those memories are a woolen coat to me through the storm of this situation. This place isn’t inherently evil; whatever evil got to Paisley and the gang won’t hit Beck and me. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.
“Damn, you put that up so fast,” Beck comments as I secure the last anchor for our two-person tent that looks a lot smaller than I remember.
“Yeah,” I say as I stretch my back. “It’s pretty easy after you practice it enough.”
With my dad and brother, our tent was sturdy and kept us warm and had mesh that allowed me to look up at the stars at night.
With Beck, I rub my thumb and index finger over the fabric, my stomach hard as I think how easy it’d be to cut through it.
I look around the campsite and spot every break in the trees that stretches on into oblivion.
I wouldn’t be able to see if someone were lurking in the shadows sharpening an ax.
The couple hundred yards to the car feel too long.
And it’s still light out. I can’t imagine how wigged out I’ll be come nightfall.
“We need to pick a part of town to start asking around,” I say as I take a seat on one of the logs we bought.
“Where ya thinking?” Beck replies as she secures our food up to a bear-safe level in the trees.
“So the texter said to talk about the witch.” I seek out her eye contact. “Does this town have any witchy or goth stores? Someone who might be more receptive to it even in a tourism way?”
Beck fishes her phone out of her short pocket and scowls. “I would google it if I could.”
I look at my own phone. No service either.
I rub my hands together. “But yeah, that feels like a good direction. If that doesn’t exist, we could always go to places around the national park. Proximity to the crime and all.”
Beck gives an extra tug, making the tree rattle. Birds fly out of the green, cawing as they flap away. A pang hits me, and suddenly I’m wishing I could do the same.
“Works for me. The sun’s too direct here anyway,” Beck says, looking around our area. It seems like the other campsites aren’t occupied yet. “Wouldn’t mind walking those shaded streets in town.”
Paisley would’ve wanted to go into town too. My throat itches at the realization. She did go into town, and I need to keep an eye out for her phone as we investigate, just in case the texter doesn’t actually have it or ditched it at the very least.
We reapply sunscreen, lock our valuables in the car, and head off to town in our sneakers.
Beyond the campsite, the two nearest buildings are a general store and the motel.
In the sunlight, the motel isn’t as scary, but the best place to find the people running in and out of the woods would probably be the general store.
Still, we start with a walk through the rest of Main Street.
There are more people out today walking into shops, trailing big dogs behind them, and reading the newspaper at outdoor tables at mom-and-pop coffee shops and bakeries.
It’s a lot of middle-aged couples, mostly white people with some Latinx folks.
Every other person wears a baseball cap or cargo shorts, gives stiff smiles if we accidentally make eye contact, and greets other community members good morning.
It all feels so quintessentially small-town.
But among all that whiteness and small business politeness, there’s nothing even resembling a witch store. In fact, based on the number of hand-stitched crosses and LIFE’S GOOD! signs in random storefronts, I think a store like that might make someone have a conniption here.
So, nursing exceptionally delicious iced coffees, we settle for the general store to start asking around.
“We should have a signal for if things get creepy,” I say as we approach the store.
“Let’s keep it simple,” Beck says and taps her forehead twice. She fishes out her pocketknife. “I know I’m the one who pushed you to come out here, but it’s kind of blowing my mind that we might find a murderer somewhere in this town.”
I exhale. Now that we’re really here, I’m not so sure whether I want to find them. “Well, we’re doing it for Opal, Harlow, and Paisley.”
I know my script. Do some small talk, ask about the witch, and field their reactions.
I take a strong pull off my coffee and push the door open. Fan air hits us, a little stale and not quite cold enough for the temperature outside.
One step inside and we’re greeted by the smell of dust and a country song.
American and California flags crowd in display cases by the register, turnstiles full of postcards and key chains with names.
Footsteps sound from beyond the buzzing fridge and souvenir aisles.
One old brown man with his black hair tied up in a ponytail reaching down his back stands behind the register as a heavyset white man in an American flag shirt pays for a pack of cigarettes.
A gaggle of teenage girls convene around the baked goods display, giggling and grabbing and putting items back in at random.
“Don’t worry, Em,” Beck says. “Watch me and repeat.”
I hang back as Beck strides into the fray at the dessert case. And she doesn’t even have to say anything. The girls all turn around as soon as she’s within a few feet of them, as if she has some strong smell. Two of the three girls move aside, opening a gap to get to the baked goods.
I don’t think Beck even notices. She just says, “Hey,” in that tone that usually has my stomach swooping. She lingers on one girl in a flowy black floral dress. “I like your dress. Did you make it?”
There’s something about the way Beck flirts that makes it not even matter these girls may not be queer. You could be anyone and be mesmerized by receiving her attention.
“No,” she says. The girl in the dress looks away as her friends size up Beck. “It’s from Etsy.”
“It’s witchy.”
The girl runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”
Her friends giggle around her. A middle-aged white woman towing an eight- or nine-year-old child sifts through dried goods beside me. The child watches Beck and the girls with yearning in her eyes, but it’s probably for the donuts.
“It is for me,” Beck says. She leans on the baked goods counter. “So, I hear this town’s pretty witchy.”
I hold my breath.
The girl in the black dress smiles, but her attention falls over to her friends. They all meet eyes, laugh together, and the girl in the black dress retreats.
“I gotta go,” she says.
And with that, all three of them move away from the baked goods section without another word. Natalie’s warning rings in my head, but I take a deep breath, stuff my sweating palms in my pockets, and approach Beck.
“Maybe they didn’t know anything,” I offer.
Beck scrapes her hand along her face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was blushing. “They absolutely did, the shitheads.”