Chapter 12. Warning

CHAPTER 12

Warning

Wendy shivered in the middle of the woods. The fading light of dusk tinged the trees a cold blue-gray. They were dense here, like they only got in the heart of the woods. There was a light layer of snow covering the trees and frosting the ground beneath her feet. Her wet clothes clung to her skin. The smell of moist dirt filled her nose. Wendy tried to remember how she had gotten there, but her head was in a fog.

It felt like she was supposed to be looking for someone. Or was someone looking for her?

Wendy wanted to call out for help, but something told her she needed to be quiet, to not break the dead silence that hung thick in the air, pressing against her ears. Craning her head back, Wendy searched the trees above, noting the silvery sky as it peeked through the boughs. She slowly turned in a circle, naked branches turning above her. When she stopped, Wendy found herself facing an old tree.

Its trunk dwarfed the others that encircled her. Its bark was an oily brown, and its branches twisted and curved above her, completely devoid of any leaves or needles. Its roots were thick and gnarled, knotting and tangling with one another before plunging into the frozen earth.

It was the tree. The tree. The one she had sketched a hundred times, just as crooked and eerie in person as it had been on paper.

Wendy’s heart thudded violently in her throat. Cold sweat beaded on her skin. Her nails bit into her palms. Harsh, ragged breaths billowed white before her. The trembling in her spine began to awake.

At the base of the great tree, the roots formed a small opening, like an entrance to a dark cage. Rotten leaves brushed past the gaping mouth and, just below the sound of their ruffling, Wendy heard quiet voices murmur.

She knew this place.

Everything in her screamed for her to run. Wendy needed to get out of there. She needed to get away from this tree. But it was like she had no control of her body, because suddenly she was moving toward it. The hushed whispers became steadily louder as she stepped closer, one foot after another.

They were children’s voices. Wendy could only watch as her own hand reached out toward the opening of the roots.

The voices grew harsh and urgent. The whispers turned to soft cries, then gut-wrenching wails, the kind that howled with unhinged fear. Wendy wanted to scream and drown them out, but her lips remained closed as she leaned in.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” a voice behind her said.

Wendy whirled around. There stood the guy who had talked to her when she was getting her bag out of her truck. She had almost forgotten about him.

“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice sounded far off and distant.

She still couldn’t make out his face. The light continued to fade and she couldn’t see his features clearly.

They seemed to shift and change the more she tried to focus on them. Black eyes. White teeth. An unnaturally wide grin. His features twisted and morphed.

“You never know what you might find in dark places,” he continued, ignoring her question as he moved closer to her.

The shadows of the trees behind him started to sway and converge. Wendy took a step back, but he pursued. The black shapes behind him became towering figures, bowing down in the darkness.

“If you insist on poking around, Wendy…” His hand lashed out and snatched her wrist. His sharp fingers dug into her skin.

Wendy cried out in pain and tried to twist her arm free of him. He pulled her roughly toward him, and his face came into focus.

Peter’s face. But wrong, very wrong, with pale skin and inky pits for eyes.

“You won’t like what you find,” he breathed. It smelled like rotten leaves and wet dirt.

The shadows behind him gathered, piling up high then forming long, sharp fingers. He laughed and it shook Wendy’s bones. She tried to struggle but he held tight. The shadows lashed out and crashed down over her.

---

Wendy thrashed and jerked herself upright. She was home, in her own bed and drenched in sweat. Her clothes stuck to her skin and her hair was matted to her forehead. Shuddering gasps wracked Wendy’s body as she gripped her sheets. It was just a dream, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to steady herself. But it felt so real.

Wendy gulped a deep breath, but when she looked down, a strangled shout caught in her throat.

She scrambled back so quickly, she slammed the back of her head against the headboard.

Everything was covered in red.

At first, Wendy thought the ink was blood, but after the initial terror cut through her, she realized that she still held the red marker she had fallen asleep with.

They were drawings of the tree, over and over again, in haphazard lines that crossed and dragged over everything—her nightshirt, her legs, and all over her sheets. Pages of her bullet journal were also covered in red, ruined and ripped from the notebook. Gnarled branches and tangled roots buried her carefully written notes.

Clutched in her other hand was the acorn.

Wendy threw the marker and clutched the acorn tight to her chest as she tried to steady her rapid breathing. Had she done all of this in her sleep?

Wendy squeezed her eyes shut.

What was happening to her?

Surrounded by torn pages and red ink, she felt trapped. The shadows, the drawings, the murmurings—everything was creeping in.

Wendy dropped the acorn into her bedside drawer. She leapt out of bed and yanked the fitted sheet free. Some of the red had bled through and stained the mattress. She bundled everything up into a heap and ran into the bathroom, where she shoved it to the bottom of her hamper and out of sight, along with her ruined nightshirt.

She couldn’t have her parents seeing what she’d done. Wendy was the only one who did laundry around the house. This was the perfect place to hide it until she could sneak it out into the trash.

As she shoved the bundle of sheets and torn pages under her dirty clothes, Wendy caught a glimpse of her hands. They were smeared with red. Some had even gotten under her fingernails.

At the sink, Wendy turned the hot water faucet on full blast. With shaky hands, she scrubbed furiously at her hands with soap and a facecloth.

That tree. It had been so familiar to her when she had seen it in her drawings. There was something there, some sort of connection she couldn’t place, but after seeing it with her own eyes, she couldn’t deny it anymore. She knew that tree. She had seen that tree in person. Been next to it.

To call what she’d experienced a dream just wasn’t true. It was more than a dream. She could smell the earth and feel the cold of the snow. The forest looked just as it had that winter when Wendy and her brothers had gone missing in the woods. It wasn’t a dream; it was a memory.

A shudder ripped through her from head to toe, her hands jolting so hard that she dropped the bar of soap. She scrambled to grab it out of the sink and began working on the red slashes of marker up and down her legs.

A memory. She’d spent years with a gaping hole in her mind where those six months had been ripped out. Wendy had been dropped into a flashback, however brief.

And the boy in her dream—there was no doubt in Wendy’s mind it was the same person who had approached her in her driveway right before Alex went missing.

It was Peter, but it also wasn’t Peter.

It had his face, but a horrible, nightmarish version.

Was that Peter’s shadow? Wendy had assumed that his shadow was just that—a black, amorphous thing. Could it take a solid human form? Did Peter know?

She needed to find him and tell him. If Peter’s shadow could walk and talk, and knew where she lived—

Wendy shut off the water and gripped the edge of the sink. Her hands were bright red, the knuckles blanched. Pin drops of blood spread through the dry cracks. The hot water had burned, and her skin stung, but she’d gotten rid of the ink. Even her legs only had bright streaks left from being scrubbed raw.

A shaky breath filled Wendy’s lungs, an attempt to steady herself. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The hair at her temples and the back of her neck was damp with sweat. Her gray eyes stared back at her, puffy and bloodshot.

She needed to find Peter and tell him what had happened. He was the only one who could make sense of it.

The clock on Wendy’s counter read 11:32 a.m.

“Shit!” she cursed. She had told Peter to meet her at noon.

Wendy jumped into the shower to wash the sticky, stale sweat off her skin. Drying her hair would take too long, so cold drips hit the back of her neck as she rushed around her room. She pulled on a pair of green shorts and a navy tank top before sliding on her tennis shoes. Grabbing her bag, she bounded down the stairs and nearly tripped on her laces.

Wendy was halfway across the living room when her father’s voice rang out. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

She whirled around to find her father standing in the doorway of his study. He wore a dark blue suit that was a little too tight across his barrel chest. He had somehow managed to wrangle his hair with gel into an uneven comb-over. Even his bushy mustache was trimmed.

Wendy frowned. He never dressed this nice for work. And why was he home in the middle of a weekday?

“Why aren’t you at work?” Wendy asked, momentarily distracted from her mission by his odd appearance.

“I’m not at work because I need to take you down to the police station, remember?” Mr. Darling grumbled as he hooked a sausage-like finger over the knot of his tie, trying to wiggle it loose. “I’m taking a half day to deal with this.”

“What?” Wendy said, starting. Her mind went into a panic with visions of handcuffs and mugshots and dark interrogation rooms.

Mr. Darling furrowed his thick eyebrows. “Those detectives still want to talk to you.”

“Oh, right.” A wave of relief washed over her. Wendy rocked onto the balls of her feet so she could read the clock next to the TV: 11:54 a.m. She was supposed to meet Peter any minute now, and she had so much to tell him. “Can we go a bit later?” Wendy tried, wincing in anticipation of his answer.

Mr. Darling scowled. “No, we can’t go later,” he barked, waving his hand in the air. “Where do you have to get to that’s so important?”

“Nowhere,” Wendy answered quickly, smoothing her hands through her wet hair. “I just made plans to meet up with Jordan at the hospital, you know, after her shift.” Another lie. The more she told, the easier it got.

“This is more important,” he told her. He waved his hand dismissively. “Text her and tell her you’re going to be late. I can drop you off at the hospital after.” Mr. Darling snatched his keys from the kitchen table and started for the door. “Let’s go.”

Wendy gave a nod and pulled out her phone, pretending to text Jordan as she followed him out the door. She’d lied herself into a corner. She wanted to see Peter, and she especially didn’t want to leave him waiting for her, but what choice did she have? This wasn’t really something she could talk her way out of.

In the car, Wendy tried to look for Peter as they drove down the street, but there was no sign of him. How was she going to find him when she got back? She’d have to wait at the hospital until her mom got off work to get a ride home. It wasn’t like he had a cell phone she could call him on, and there was no way she was going to just wander around the woods calling his name.

But for now she had more pressing matters to deal with. Like what Detective James wanted to ask her. Were they going to accuse her of having something to do with Alex’s disappearance? Was she a suspect? Was Peter?

Her mind grew frantic. She tried to distract herself by focusing on the quiet rhythm of music flowing out of the speakers. Her dad only ever listened to classic rock.

The police station was located on a main road that paralleled the shore. The ocean funneled into a large bay that eventually turned into the Columbia River. With her window rolled down, the ocean breeze felt cool in the heat of the midday sun. The air smelled like salt water. Large ships laden with crates trudged along, and behind them she could make out the blue mountains of Washington across the river.

Her father didn’t say anything, so Wendy didn’t, either. The awkward silence stretched on until they pulled up to the old brick building.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Darling said, trying to loosen his tie again as he got out of the car. Wendy followed.

As they walked into the lobby, Wendy tried to shrink behind her father. She shivered and fidgeted with the strap of her bag. She didn’t like being back here. It felt like walking into a cemetery crowded with ghosts.

The police department was all but devoid of color. Everyone was either wearing gray or black suits, or else they were dressed in police uniforms. Desks were placed in rows and detectives and officers walked around, speaking to one another, talking on the phone and handing off documents. Usually, the police didn’t have much to worry about in their small town, but the string of missing kids appeared to be keeping everyone busy.

Wendy stood in the middle of the lobby, arms wrapped around her middle as her father went to ask for Detective James. On the wall behind the front desk was a bulletin board. Tacked to it were the missing posters of Benjamin Lane, Ashley Ford, and now Alex Forestay. There was also the poorly done police sketch of Peter.

Quickly, Wendy cut her gaze away. She tried to avoid making eye contact, but she’d already spotted Officer Smith. When he saw Wendy, he stopped talking to a female officer. He stared at her for a moment before nudging his fellow officer’s arm and nodding in her direction. Wendy stared at the floor. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and anger.

“Ah, Mr. Darling, Wendy.” Detective James rounded a corner and approached them. He looked exactly the same as he had in her living room, in a perfectly pressed suit with his black hair parted to the side and a forced smile on his face. He held a thick file under his arm. Wendy noticed a silver ring on his middle finger. “Thanks for coming in. This shouldn’t take long,” he said.

Mr. Darling grunted in response.

Wendy kept quiet, but Detective James turned to her. “Wendy, if you’d follow me, we’ll head back to my office.” Wendy nodded and began to walk, but when Mr. Darling started to follow close behind, Detective James held out a hand. “Sorry, Mr. Darling, you’ll need to wait here until we’re finished.”

Wendy wasn’t used to people telling her dad what to do. Her eyes cut back and forth between the two.

Clearly Mr. Darling wasn’t used to it, either, because he puffed out his chest.

“She’s my daughter—you can’t talk to her without me being there,” Mr. Darling all but growled. Now even more people were starting to watch. Mr. Darling was very big compared to Detective James. An angry bear lumbering in front of a guy in a fancy suit.

To his credit, Detective James remained placid and unaffected by this show. “Actually, as of four days ago, Wendy is no longer a minor, so I need to speak with her alone,” he said plainly.

Wendy watched as her father’s face flushed, starting at his bulbous nose and spreading across his cheeks. His bushy mustache ruffled and Wendy knew he was going to argue with the detective.

“It’s okay, Dad,” she cut in, trying to defuse the situation before it turned into a real mess.

In all honesty, she almost wanted her dad to stay with her, if only to make her feel less frightened. But she also didn’t want him there to listen to any accusations or evidence that might be in that big file Detective James held.

“I’ll let you know if I need you,” she added. She tried to give her father a reassuring look, even though she was quite certain she probably looked like a pale, haggard, nervous wreck.

Mr. Darling’s small, dark eyes darted between Wendy and Detective James. “Fine,” he said tersely after a moment.

“Like I said, shouldn’t take us too long,” Detective James said. “Mr. Darling, please have a seat. Help yourself to some coffee if you’d like.”

Mr. Darling didn’t move. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, showing the detective that he had no intention of doing either.

Detective James said nothing for a moment. His scarred eyebrow flicked upward momentarily, but then he turned to Wendy and said, “This way.”

---

Detective James’s office was small but not cramped. There was one window through which she caught a glimpse of the river between buildings, and sun filtered in through a set of blinds. All the shelves were filled with books, papers, and files, and there were a couple of boxes on the floor next to his desk. The desk itself was tidy, with one very old computer and a name plate. Hanging on the wall behind his desk was an elaborate drawing of an old ship with full sails. Small, delicate handwriting labeled the parts of the boat on old yellowing paper.

Detective James sat down in a wooden chair with cracked black leather cushions behind his desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing.

Wendy sat down in the only other chair in the room. It was metal, cold and uncomfortable. Wendy fidgeted with her hands in her lap.

Detective James set a pad of paper and a pen on his desk, but then leaned back casually in his chair. “So,” he began, giving her that smile again. Wendy gripped the edge of her seat. “Let’s get right to it. I assume by now you know that Alex Forestay went missing last night?”

Wendy nodded. “I saw you on the news talking about it.” It was true enough.

“You saw him yesterday before he went missing, is that correct?”

“Yes, I read to the kids in the children’s clinic,” Wendy said. She wondered if he could hear the guilt hammering in her chest from across the desk.

“How often do you do that?” He began writing on his pad of paper, giving her a reprieve from his icy blue stare.

“Once a week.” Should she give longer answers? Were short ones suspicious? Or would she sound guilty if she rattled off information?

“Had you seen Alex prior to that day?”

Wendy shook her head. “No, that was the first time he’d ever come to story time,” she answered. “I think that was his first visit for treatment?” Shouldn’t he already know that? Was this a tactic for catching people in lies?

Detective James nodded. “Did you talk to him?”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

“Sharks.”

“Ah, sharks.” Detective James’s eyebrows arched in amusement, but he continued to write. “Was he acting strange? Did he seem at all scared?”

“Scared?” Memories of Alex’s cries and the look of sheer terror on his face as he got dragged into the woods flooded her vision. “No, not scared,” Wendy said, swallowing past the dryness in her throat. “He was shy, definitely shy…” Her fingers itched.

“When you were at the hospital, did you notice anyone suspicious in the children’s ward? Anyone who looked like they didn’t belong there?” Wendy could tell he was trying to keep his voice casual and light, but there was a distinct severity to his eyes as he watched her.

Wendy shook her head. “No, I pretty much know everyone that works in the children’s department,” Wendy said.

Detective James hummed to himself. “Small town. Everyone knows everyone else, right?”

“Right…” Wendy cleared her throat. “It was just nurses and doctors, some of the kids’ parents, too.”

“So, there wasn’t anyone in the room with you who was a stranger? No one you thought didn’t belong?” he asked, watching her.

Wendy’s palms were sweaty and her hands shook.

Did they know about Peter? Did they know he had been in the room? Peter said adults didn’t notice him, but was that right? What if someone had seen him talking to Alex? And then talking to her? Wendy didn’t know how to answer that question, but she was taking too long. She had to say something.

So she shook her head again. “No, I didn’t notice anyone like that.” Technically that wasn’t a lie. She knew who Peter was now, so he wasn’t a stranger. But he definitely shouldn’t have been in the hospital to begin with …

Detective James took a long moment to jot down some more notes. Did he know she was lying? He must.

Wendy straightened her back, bracing herself against impending doom. For Detective James to reveal his hand.

After what seemed like an eternity, he put down his pen and sat back in his seat. “I have to say, Miss Darling, I find it very curious how, after what happened with the mystery boy you found in the road—Peter, I believe he told you his name was?—and now Alex’s disappearance, things seem to keep coming around back to you.” His expression was serious. He didn’t even try to put on that plastic smile.

Wendy didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

He continued on, “Have you seen anyone strange around town, Wendy? Has anyone been following you? Bothering you at all?”

She could feel the tremor starting, barely a quiver in the center of her chest. “No, no, nothing like that,” Wendy said. A rough shudder jolted her shoulders.

Detective James leaned forward in his seat. “Are you sure?” he asked, snagging her in his gaze. “Wendy—” His eyes flicked to the edge of his desk. His brows drew together.

Wendy looked down. She held a pen, poised as if about to write something down. Her hand shook furiously, the tip a mere inch from the desk, bobbing through the air as if writing on its own.

Or drawing.

Wendy slammed the pen down.

She shoved her hands under her thighs.

Detective James watched her, expression unreadable.

Wendy made herself stare back. She took slow, deliberate breaths.

After a long pause, Detective James asked, “Have you seen Peter since he went missing from the hospital?”

“No.” She hesitated. “Do you think he had something to do with this?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

He considered her question before responding. “Right now, all we know is that kids are going missing—disappearing from their homes—and that this boy, Peter, also went missing. While, currently, I can’t say that we’ve recovered enough evidence to make any connections…” He said it in a way that sounded very rehearsed. “What we can say is that you and Peter were, at one point, in the same place. We don’t know in what capacity, but we can’t deny that all of these disappearances could be connected, because the two of you are connected. It’s possible that he’s being held captive with the other children who have gone missing.”

Wendy chewed on her bottom lip. So, they still weren’t sure what to make of Peter. That was reassuring. Hell, she still didn’t know quite what to make of him, either. Peter wasn’t being accused of anything yet, which was good. They were even considering that maybe he was a victim.

One way or another, everything kept leading back to her. Back to her brothers. Back to what happened in the woods.

Detective James’s expression hardened. He braced his elbows on the desk. “There is a very real possibility that whoever took those missing kids also took Peter, and could have taken you and your brothers. You need to be careful, Wendy,” he said in a low and even tone. “This isn’t a game, and this isn’t just about you anymore.”

Wendy wanted to snap at him, to remind him it had never been just about her. It had been about her and John and Michael. It angered her, the way people kept talking about them as if they were gone for good.

He pulled out a card from his pocket and handed it to Wendy. “If you think of anything that could help, see anyone suspicious, see Alex or Peter, or need help, call me.”

Wendy took his card. The corner was sharp and poked into her finger. She took a deep breath and nodded. “I will.”