Twenty-Two

I've lost Sadie.

I don't know how the hell that's possible. I had her in my sights, and then I stumbled over a fallen branch. It really was no more than a stumble, with a quick recovery, but when I looked up, she was gone.

I know she didn't race off with a sudden burst of speed. She must have fallen. The damned forest is nearly night-black again, and I'm stumbling around without a flashlight, hoping to catch a glimpse of her white shirt.

I should turn back.

I will turn back.

I just need one last look, enough to let me face Garrett and say, in all honesty, "I did my best."

No, screw Garrett. It's Madison I'm thinking of. I need to be able to stand in front of her and honestly say that I did my best to save an old friend.

I'm heading for a tree. The island is half covered with trees, more than one would expect on this northern hunk of rock. But they seem to flourish here, and this is the most impressive and implausible of all—a massive oak, gnarled and gorgeous.

Is it silly to have favorite trees? I do, at least on Hemlock Island, and this is my most favorite of all. When I saw that someone carved their initials in her, I'd been ten times more outraged than when someone defaced my boat. I'd spent hours gently sanding out the initials.

As much as I respect the age of this grandmother tree, I love her even more for her thick and climbable branches. In that sense, she does indeed remind me of my own grandmothers, who even in their twilight years would put out their arms to let Madison climb up to her safe spot in their laps.

I rub my hands on the tree and murmur a warning. I'm going to climb your branches again. Hope that's okay. Then I heave myself onto the lowest branch and continue up two more until I reach a wide one worn from me lying on my stomach, plotting and dreaming.

Today, that branch serves a new purpose. It lets me see deep into the dark forest, where I might catch a glimpse of Sadie's shirt or hair. I lean out but it's all trees and dying foliage, browns and grays and greens.

"Sadie?" I call. "I know you're here! Let me help. Say something. Lift a hand. I don't want this for you."

My eyes prickle with tears. I never wanted any of this for you. For us.

When this is over, we need to sit down. I understand what you want and why you want it. After what you've done, to Kit, to Jayla, to me, I'm not sure there's any coming back, but if there is steady ground we can find, I want to.

"Sadie?" I say. "Please. Whatever you think I did, I swear—"

Movement. It's off to my left, and my heart stops as I squint into the darkness.

Don't be a rabbit. Don't be a squirrel or a mouse or a fox.

Be Sadie. Please, please, please—

I glimpse pale skin through a bush. A hand, I realize. The blur of a pale hand lying palm down on the ground. The fingers work, clawing at the ground, as if Sadie is trying to drag herself, no longer able to walk.

I scramble down the tree and race toward that bush. When my foot slides on wet undergrowth, I go down hard on one knee.

Breathe. Relax. She's there, and she's not going anywhere. I can still see her hand. Her fingers just keep clawing at the ground in a slow, robotic way, as if running on instinct alone, unaware that she isn't pulling herself anywhere.

Must keep moving. Must keep going.

Like me in the lake.

I resist the urge to reassure her that I'm coming, which might not be reassuring at all. She's barely functioning. Don't stress her out. Don't panic her.

I take two more steps, completely focused on that moving hand. Then I stop.

Something about the hand is wrong.

Everything about this is wrong, Laney, and you know it, and yet you keep insisting it's normal, just bad people doing bad things.

No, that isn't it. It's not the way her hand is moving or its position. It's…

It's not Sadie's hand. It's wide, with thick fingers and square nails and a smart watch. A men's smart watch on a man's hand.

Garrett.

Shit!

I leap forward, and I will fully admit that as I do, I'm not thinking "Oh my God, Garrett is hurt!" I'm thinking "Where's Kit?" Kit was with Garrett, and if Garrett was hurt, Kit would still be with him… unless he's also injured.

No, if Garrett was hurt, Kit would go back to the house and bring help. Garrett is a big guy. It's going to take at least two of us to move him.

"Garrett?" I say.

The hand keeps moving. There's a moment where I have a horrible flash of Nate's hand sticking from the ground, of his body seeming to twitch of its own accord. But this isn't that—I can see an upper arm and the bulk of a torso, almost obscured by the bush.

"Garrett?" I say again.

I take another step. Then I stop. It's a smart watch—I can tell by the blank screen—but it's gold, and not just gold colored.

That isn't Garrett's watch.

That isn't Garrett's hand.

That isn't Garrett.

My heart thuds, stealing my breath. I force myself to take another step, while braced to run, as my brain screams this is a trap.

The man lifts his head. I couldn't see it before through the bush and the gloom. He must have been lying facedown. Now he lifts his head, and I am looking into the face of a stranger. Yes, it's still partly obscured by the bush, but there is no doubt that this isn't Garrett. It's a dark-haired man with tan skin and a beard. And he's looking right at me.

I stumble back. The man's mouth moves, but if he says anything, I can't hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.

There is a stranger on my island.

You just figured that out? Weren't you all huddled in the house earlier, locking the doors against this exact situation?

Yes, after finding that hand, we barricaded ourselves inside and then tried to flee on the boat because someone killed Nate and buried his hand and lured us outside to find it. That had seemed clear. But in the hours that passed, we'd convinced ourselves it wasn't true. Sure, someone did kill Nate. Sure, they did stage his hand and lure us out, but they must have left before the storm hit, and if by some chance they missed that window, they were hiding, waiting for their chance to flee.

They killed Nate accidentally, and the last thing they wanted was for us to find them. We'd be careful, but we were safe.

How the hell did we decide that? How did I delude myself into thinking it was safe to charge out here after Sadie?

Because we needed to believe it. Sadie was out here, hurt, and we needed to believe we weren't in imminent danger from anyone on this island.

Now I'm staring at a stranger. He's lying on his stomach, his hand outstretched, fingers clawing the ground. As I stare, he makes a noise. A low moan. As if he's injured.

He's faking being injured. So badly injured that he can't get up.

Luring me in.

Get back to the house. Get back there now.

He's between me and the house.

Then go around him, for God's sake.

I don't run. I don't dare turn away from him. With my gaze fixed on that hand, I back up until there's twenty feet between us. Only then do I veer and run.