Chapter 4

Kate

Marlowe is angry, but beautiful. He’s cleaned himself up and slipped into one of the outfits he picked up at the vintage clothing place. Tight, dark jeans, boots without bones hanging off of them, and a purple t-shirt that complements the strange color of his hair. Shimmery on top, black underneath.

I like him better in the witch hat, too small t-shirt, and women’s sweatpants. Also, he has a cigarette in his mouth, but hasn’t lit it. I haven’t seen him touch a cigarette yet, but on the way over here, he insisted.

“Do you need a minute?” I ask as we stand at the end of a small curved walkway leading up to the porch of a very 1970s style house. It isn’t a trendy mid-century modern comeback, but something that’s been here long before the internet ever existed.

Brooks wasn’t around when this house was built. The thought pings hard against my brain, and I look over to see him standing next to me. He’s too big and too creepy and wearing an unbuttoned red flannel shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. White muscle tank underneath. I think there’s a look here that he’s trying at and failing to achieve.

Instead of a slick 1950s greaser, he comes across as someone mean and in-charge and way outside of societal norms. All three of them are like that, like they don’t fit in anymore and probably never will again.

I sort of love that, too. It makes me want to be more like them, crazy as that sounds. As I look over at Marlowe, I feel like I understand him a little better. Would I kill the world for the people I love? Maybe.

“No,” Marlowe replies belatedly, looking like he might pass out. He gestures at the cigarette and gives Brooks a seriously, what the fuck? sort of look. “Well, are you gonna light it or not?”

“You haven’t smoked in eight months. Why start now?” Brooks asks, folding his arms and refusing to budge. Marlowe snaps his fingers a bunch of times, trying to start a fire, but then his eyes shift over to Tanner and beyond, to the woman standing in the window.

Miriam moves away from the glass before I catch a full glimpse of her, but it’s enough.

The cigarette tumbles from Marlowe’s lips and hits the sidewalk. Tanner is the one who bends down and picks it up for him, tucking it into his own mouth. He’s able to replicate Brooks’ power with only three snaps of his fingers, summoning a little flame.

“Miriam might see that,” I warn him, and he grins at me around the smoke. “And didn’t you just hear Brooks’ advice?” I grab Marlowe by his massive bicep and try to drag his tattoo-clad ass up the front walk. “Don’t smoke that, Tanner. It’s an extra monthly expense that we can cut out.”

“We, you say?” he repeats, and he immediately removes the cigarette, snapping his fingers a few more times until the entire thing has gone up in smoke and disappeared. Tanner waves his hand and a breeze picks up, dispersing the tobacco smell until it’s gone entirely. My hair rustles in that summoned breeze—so does my skirt. All three guys take note of my panties. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

I need to have a conversation with Tanner, just like I did with Lo. He can’t possibly know what I want if I don’t say it. He’s giving me what he thinks I want, not what I actually want.

For now, I ignore that statement and put Marlowe on the faded mat that reads Friends, Welcome, he’s looking at me. There’s something really significant in that. I turn back toward the photo, but I can tell that he doesn’t move his gaze at all.

“There’ve been a lot of … videos floating around lately.” Miriam draws my attention back to her, and I pick up my wineglass. I’m not usually a big wine drinker, but this seems like the right situation to indulge. “Videos about Brooks McDowell, Tanner Skye.” She looks toward her back porch and the two men sitting in double-stacked plastic chairs. Bet just one chair couldn’t hold them. “And … Marlowe Waverley.”

They both turn to stare at each other, and I realize then that we’re not going to play any games here.

She knows.

Miriam doesn’t need convincing.

“Have you already forgotten that I was there , Lo?” she asks him, and her voice is somehow desperate and patient all at once. I feel invisible there as she presses her palms into the tabletop, like she’s having trouble keeping it together. “I saw you disappear into the Witch’s Tree, and twenty years later, here you are.” She turns to me then, and I realize I’m not invisible at all. I’m part of the proof she needed to see. “With another missing Witchwoods victim. Kate, I was searching the woods for you every single day that you were missing.”

I feel so guilty at that, and tip the rest of my wine into my mouth to try and wash the thought away. Marlowe passes his glass over to me, and looks Miriam dead in the face.

“I have no idea what you mean by that,” he replies, which only makes her eyes water further. She takes a sip of wine, too. Then she empties it like I did, and I smile. “Are you trying to claim that I’m your missing ex? What a crazy bitch.”

“You were never my ex, Lo,” she explains with a gentle smile. The tears roll down her cheeks as I clutch the stem of Marlowe’s wineglass. I can’t even begin to imagine how he’s going to react to that.

He leans back in his chair, big and dark and sprawling. He’s a blight on her cute kitchen with its hippie chic art, oversized potted ferns, and sofa. Yes, there’s a sofa more or less in the kitchen. It’s a very cozy, homey sort of place. It feels worn, and lived-in, and pleasant.

Marlowe doesn’t fit in here.

“I don’t have to sit here and pretend to be my own son?” Marlowe asks, voice rising an octave, spiraling, a dash of insanity in his words. “After abandoning me in the Witchwoods, you’re going to smile at me and welcome me home now ?”

Uh-oh.

“I didn’t know what to do, Lo. I called the cops. I called our friends. I posted online. You had thousands of people looking for you.” Miriam’s voice is gentle but strong, her chin lifted. She feels bad about what happened, but she still believes that she made the right choice.

“ I wanted a woman by my side who’d follow me into hell without a second thought.” Lo meant what he said. He also told me that I was nothing like Miriam, but he delivered the words as if they were meant to be a compliment.

I’m not like Miriam. He’s right. It’s not a maybe I’d burn the world down for my loved-ones —it’s a definite yes. I would’ve followed him into the Witch’s Tree, if I’d been in Miriam’s place.

“I organized search parties for years,” Miriam whispers, breathing those words into the tense silence.

“Which was all a waste because you knew exactly where I was and how to get there. My point is, you left me in that hell, married my best friend, and moved on without me.” Marlowe points to another photo on the wall, of a young man that resembles Miriam with his pale coloring and blue eyes. “That’s … not my son, is it?” he asks, and his voice is weird.

I look from him to the photo and realize two things simultaneously. One, Marlowe and this guy are the same age. Two, Marlowe really could be this guy’s biological father.

My jealousy tentacles are trying to wrap around my throat, but I ignore them, shifting on my seat to get more comfortable and taking another sip of wine.

“No,” Miriam says with a slight shake of her head. She hesitates slightly, and then rushes to fill the space. “We thought he could be, so Dennis had a paternity test done. If you want the truth, we were hoping he’d be yours, so we’d have some part of you around. Lo, we’ve both missed you so much. We lived very different lives because you were gone.”

Marlowe doesn’t move.

His hands are in his lap and he’s looking down at the table, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He’s furious, but desperately trying to keep himself together. I reach out a hand and place it on his arm, startling us both.

He wets his lips as he studies me, banking his poison and his vitriol. He only unleashes it after looking at Miriam again. The laugh that creeps from that man’s throat, my God, it is all Witchwoods.

“Adorable, Miriam, really. Thank you so much for thinking of me. How long did you two wait before you jumped in the sack together? A day? An hour?” Marlowe tilts his head back, his shadow slithering across the wall behind him.

He has a point. If Miriam was remotely unsure as to her son’s parentage then she must’ve slept with Dennis almost immediately after Lo disappeared—or beforehand.

Miriam tucks her blond hair behind one ear, sipping her wine, eyes downcast.

“I was hurting, Lo. Dennis was there for me. We—”

“No. Shut the fuck up.” Marlowe waves his hand dismissively and Miriam’s blue eyes skitter up to his face like she’s surprised. He was nice, remember? Not anymore. “Where’s your husband? I’m going to beat his cheating ass. I’d beat yours, too, but my parents raised me better than that.”

Seriously? Did he just say that?

Not for the first time, I wonder if Marlowe thought shoving his fingers in me was a nicer way to get me to talk than beating the crap out of me. I’m not making excuses for him, but his words are telling.

Miriam is cold and self-righteous, but she’s classy, too. She barely reacts to Marlowe’s threats.

“Nothing happened between us until after you left,” she promises, as if that matters now. “Dennis is going to need time to get used to this, Lo. He’s logical to a fault. He’ll think you’re trying to scam him, and he’ll … well, you know how he is.” She smiles fondly, but her hand reaches out like she wants to touch Marlowe.

Fortunately for her, she realizes that move is a mistake before she makes it.

“What about my parents? Or my sisters?” Marlowe asks in a voice of twisted shadows, and Miriam hesitates. This woman changed her name to match his. Dedicated her life to missing persons because of him. Named her child after him. Adopted and raised his dog. She cares about him, and he hates her.

Is it fair? I don’t know. Miriam could be a North. She could’ve saved him. She also could’ve been a south or an east or a west, and be damned right alongside him. But at least they’d have been together in hell.

“I don’t think you should see them yet,” Miriam answers, swirling her wine. “We’ll have better luck if we can convince Dennis that you are who you say you are. Once we do that, he can help with Dale and Val. They’ve had people come forward before, claiming to be you. It’s awful and heart-wrenching every time, even when it’s obviously fake.” Miriam looks at me, as if wondering what my relationship with this man is. “Are you giving him a place to stay?” she asks, and I realize that’s a practical concern.

“We live together,” I reply, and Marlowe flicks his attention back to me again. He bites his lip hard , and I shiver, trying to focus on Miriam instead. I feel so hot and squirmy under his gaze that I almost say fuck it all, snatch his hand, and drag him into the trees outside.

Miriam’s face shifts, like maybe she misunderstood me.

“That’s a relief,” she says, placing her palms down on the table and exhaling. She looks right at Marlowe, like maybe she isn’t as done with him as it first seems. She still loves him. I feel a little queasy. Why, though? It should be a good thing for me, if he wants to get back together with Miriam.

Marlowe, the rude, domineering jerk, would be somebody else’s problem.

And yet …

“You know what?” Miriam declares, sitting up straight and shifting on her stool. “I’m going to talk to Dennis. We … there’s a rental house in the back.” She gestures toward the closed blinds on the window behind her, referencing something we can’t see. I glance over to find Tanner sprawled comfortably in his chair, eyes closed, lips in a lazy smirk. Brooks is watching a small, golden owl with four wings flap by, his eyes narrowed.

A Witchwoods owl.

“A rental house?” Marlowe quirks a brow, arms folded, leaning back on his stool so that only two of the wooden legs touch the floor. I realize with a small shock of surprise that it’s not simple balance; he’s levitating the front pair. His eyes are conspiracy-black as he peers down at me, like a pair of dark oracles. It’s frustrating when he turns to Miriam again. “What are you implying? That I should move in here with you and Dennis, be a part of your happy family? You’ve changed a lot since I last saw you—and not for the better.”

“Lo,” Miriam says, face turning red. Maybe she was thinking something like that? Oh God. “I just want to help you get integrated back into … well, everything.” There’s a note of hope in her voice that dies off at the end, like she expected a different reception than the one she’s getting. “I was there that night. I … want to make it up to you by helping you get a fresh start.”

Marlowe sighs and closes his eyes. I sit there and watch him, trying to understand what it might be like to spend eight months in the hell of the Witchwoods, and then come home to … this.

I might … sort of … kind of … feel sorry for Marlowe.

“Fresh start? I already made a fresh start.” He leans forward, and the front legs of the stool slam onto the wood floor underneath. He splays his hands over the tabletop, skin crawling with tattoos penned by the hand of magic. Inked with the blood of those dark woods.

I shiver with excitement while Miriam recoils. The Marlowe at the table and the Marlowe in the photograph on the wall are not the same person. My Marlowe is not her Marlowe, and I think we’re both just now realizing it.

“When you didn’t follow me into the woods, Miriam, I started a new life. So here I am. We have a house together, me and Kate. I mowed the fucking lawn on Wednesday.” He says all of this like a man, but as he’s speaking, he looks like a beast. Canines slightly sharper than they should be, nails longer, tattoos actively moving over his skin. On the wall behind him, Marlowe throws a vicious shadow.

Miriam doesn’t react at all; she can’t see any of it.

“I didn’t realize you two were … together-together,” she says in low, soothing tones. But there’s something else there, too. Shock? Surprise? She definitely didn’t expect their reunion to go this way. I’m sure she’s imagined it a thousand times, him coming back. Finding him. Seeing him again.

But sometimes, the expectation of who someone is supposed to be, and who they actually are, is different. Not everyone fulfills the role that we wish they would. It’s up to you to decide if you want to give them a different role or … let them go.

Marlowe is going to let Miriam go.

I can see it. I can sense it. My heart feels like maybe this is him trying for me , like this is a genuine offer to test a relationship between us and see where it can go.

I decide to accept. Still don’t forgive him, but I accept.

“Technically, it’s my house, but I’m letting Marlowe live there while we … try things out,” I tell Miriam, and her cheeks turn pink. I smile, because I don’t necessarily dislike her. I just think that she still likes him.

“That doesn’t … change anything. My offer still stands, and I still want to help. I can call your parents and work them up to the idea, arrange a gathering.” She swallows and looks down at the table, folding her hands together. “And we’re still going to have the candlelight vigil. It’s next Friday.”

“I’ll contact my own family.” Marlowe stands up, like he’s done here, like he’s ready to leave. It feels like there’s a cannon packed and ready to go off. I’m just not sure which one of them is going to fire first. “And cancel the vigil.”

“Lo, can we … talk in private?” Miriam asks suddenly, head lifting up so that she can meet his eyes. She might think differently if she could see what I see. His face changes, and I see what I witnessed that first night we met.

Reluctant acceptance.

He turns to me with that facial expression, and I wonder … is he asking me if I’m okay with this? Is that what he’s doing now? We stare at one another for too long, and I don’t say anything in protest, so Marlowe stands up. He looks toward the back door as if checking in with Brooks and Tanner, and then he disappears down the hallway with Miriam like he knows exactly where he’s going.

“This is so weird,” I murmur to myself, putting my palms flat on the surface of the table and looking around. There’s that creepy photograph of Marlowe on the wall, the one that looks like him but isn’t him at all. There’s a painting of a naked woman wearing marijuana leaves over her nipples. I see that it’s signed in the corner, like it’s an original piece or something. The glassware is eclectic and brightly colored, the indoor plants well-tended, family photos all over the walls.

A whole lifetime that Marlowe missed out on.

I look at Brooks, his broad back leaned up against the window, eyes scanning the trees in the backyard. Tanner is … possibly sleeping.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“ You have no idea how hard this is for me, do you?” Miriam is yelling at Marlowe, and I can’t help but cringe. My eyes open and flick in the direction of the hallway. Do I leave or … just sit here and eavesdrop? I really want to eavesdrop, if I’m being truthful with myself.

“ Hard for you?” He laughs, and the sound is bitter and dark. “I’ve been living in hell for eight months, perfectly aware that life is passing me by but frozen in time because it took every ounce of strength I had just to stay alive. ”

“ Stay here, Lo.” Miriam is pleading now and somehow that’s worse. But also … beautiful and sad. She’s never gotten over him. She’s waited all this time with a sharp-edged hope cutting ribbons into her soul. It’s like I can hear Miriam bleeding when she talks. “You belong here, with me and Dennis.”

“ I’m warning you now: do not fucking touch me.”

There’s a long pause where I hear Marlowe’s heavy boots on the wood floor. Miriam speaks up before he can leave the room. I even hear his hand come to rest on the doorknob, like he wants to run away from this but can’t quite bring himself to.

“ Dennis and I went to the Witch’s Tree every night for months. Then, for years, we showed up during every moonless night.” I can hear her footsteps, his boots shuffling as he presumably turns around.

The back door opens, drawing my attention.

Tanner and Brooks stroll in. The former pauses beside me, putting a hand on my shoulder and leaning down to put his lips near my ear.

“I’m pissed as hell that Lo’s crept in on our time together. He’s lucky that I owe him my freedom.”

Oh. Tanner wasn’t sleeping: he was seething. He is upset about the dick mix-up. Upset about something. He turns toward me and, instead of pressing a kiss to my mouth, he sears the side of my neck with a little bite and a flick of his tongue.

“Shit, I should just drag you down the hall and fuck you in their bed.” Tanner chuckles as he pulls away and heads straight into the kitchen, stopping in front of the massive double-wide fridge.

My cheeks are red when I turn to Brooks, standing beside the table and staring down at me.

“We were trying to be courteous, but I have a feeling this is going to take too long if I don’t intervene.” Without touching me, Brooks heads for the front door, and I glance back to see that Tanner has begun to make himself a sandwich. In Miriam’s kitchen. All the while, she’s still arguing with Marlowe.

“ Just three days after I gave birth to our son, we went there. Dennis and I stood outside that tree, thought about putting our hands in just to find you. Lo, everything was different because you weren’t here. Things were different than they were supposed to be. I’ve thought about following you every day since then.”

There’s a long pause before I hear Marlowe respond, low and dark and angry.

“ Thought about it, but never did it.” Marlowe laughs again, the sound muffled. I’m assuming his hands are over his face. “You or Dennis, you’ve known where I was all this time. If one of you had followed me then …” He makes a pained sound, almost like a groan. “I might’ve been spared that hell. The strange thing is, the Marlowe then was upset, but the Marlowe now is happy you didn’t come. Just don’t think we’ll ever have the relationship we had before. That’s gone forever.”

I can hardly process what I’m hearing, so it’s not much of a surprise that it takes me several seconds to register what Brooks is doing.

He opens the door to a bewildered man on the front porch. Based on the photograph next to me, I’m going to assume that this is Dennis. He doesn’t have the black plugs in his lobes anymore. Isn’t wearing a beanie or ripped jeans. Or way too much eyeliner.

Dennis is dressed in a plain white t-shirt and jeans, his house key in his hand, an expression of shock and horror on his face.

“Welcome home, Mr. Waverley. Your wife is in the room at the end of the hallway.” Brooks moves to one side, holding out a hand and ushering the man into his own home. Dennis is brown-eyed and slack-jawed, caught somewhere between terror and rage.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, stepping into the house in such a way that I can tell the move was meant to be intimidating. Doesn’t work. Brooks is six-foot-fucking-whatever and towering over the other man like he’s forgotten what it means to be human. Witch. I can hear that word in my bones, like the thrum of an organ I never knew I had. Just a heartbeat that feels familiar when it’s only foreign.

Brooks doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

“ Piss off and leave me alone. If I want something from you or Mr. Waverley , I’ll let you know.” Marlowe’s voice, loud and final from down the hall.

Dennis doesn’t move, but his head whips in that direction.

Three heartbeats later, he’s taking off, pausing only briefly to give Tanner an odd look. Tanner stares back at him while taking a bite of his sandwich. Dennis glances my way.

“Hi there. Katelynn.” I point at myself. “Or you can call me Kate if you want.”

Dennis hears voices again, and then he’s running. I chase him down the hall just in time to see him throw open the bedroom door at the end of it.

And there’s Marlowe with his hands on Miriams’ slender shoulders, and her lips pressed against his.