Now

The campsite, on the edge of Belmont Ridge County Park, is tucked into a wooded area. Bright as it is with the fresh spring green of trees, it has an ominous feel. Too still, too peaceful, like something is holding its breath, waiting to pounce. Like instead of fleeing the predator, I've driven toward it.

I creep along the dirt road through spotted sunlight, leaning forward as if this will help me spot Josh. I pass a derelict shack marked CAMPER CHECK-IN, cement block restrooms streaked with water stains, and finally, the campsites themselves. Vaguely circular areas of cleared dirt, pocketed by brooding trees, each with its very own bolted-down, rust-eaten grill. The road weaves around, and suddenly—there. Up ahead. Josh's army-green tent.

"Oh my God," I breathe as I creep the car to the side of the road and put it in Park. I've been in a constant state of adrenaline this entire two-hour drive, and nothing feels quite real as I exit my car and cross the hard-packed dirt toward the tent. Will Josh be inside? Confused as to why I'm so freaked out? I totaled the car, Julia...didn't you get my text? Service is so bad out here...

The trees rustle nervously. No; he won't be in the tent. I'm not totally delusional. In fact, I'm pretty sure that on my way here I passed the spot where his car ran off the road, marked by two Belmont County Sheriff cars with their flashers on and a small hub of human activity that has to be the search party. Still, I can't help a soft "Josh?" as I unzip the tent and step into the musty interior.

Empty. Of course. There's a metallic tang in my mouth. Hope tastes bitter on the way out.

I zip the tent closed again behind me. There's another tent kitty-corner from this one, and I don't want to be observed.

"Okay," I whisper as I take in the scene.

Black sleeping bag that suddenly looks awfully like a body bag. Flashlight by the pillow. A paperback novel, face down and splayed open to mark his spot. A box of energy bars at the foot of his sleeping bag. Hiking boots with wool socks inside, neatly arranged by the entrance. Water bottle by his shoes. A cooler bag. And finally, his overnight bag, a pair of sweatpants folded on top, like he had just taken them off.

I close my eyes and inhale. This whole setup feels...

Wrong.

I open my eyes.

Jarringly neat.

The sleeping bag doesn't look slept in. It could have been smoothed out after the fact, of course, but Josh has never made a bed in his life. Or folded a pair of pants.

Crouching on my heels, I pick up each item in turn with my sleeves pulled over my hands, in case this becomes a crime scene. I count the energy bars. Seven in a box of eight, along with the crumpled wrapper of the eighth. The cooler bag contains half a dozen peanut butter sandwiches, which Josh made right before he left. I remember this; I was still semi-sober. Next, I pick up the half-empty water bottle and unscrew the top. Would the water possibly be drugged? Smells like water. Tastes like it, too... Wow. Drugged water? I'm reaching. I pick up the book, an old John Grisham paperback. A blue gel pen lies under it, the clicker textured with bite marks. I smell the socks inside his shoes. A strong whiff of detergent tells me they're unworn.

Finally, I stand, heat pounding through my head because I want to have smart thoughts, strong instincts, brilliant insights, but all I have is confusion. My eyes sweep the objects over and over. I feel like I'm fudging a test. Also, there's a tingle in my chest that means I need to pump soon. I pinch my inner arm to rein in my scattered focus.

Okay. He gets here late Saturday night. He sets up the tent in the dark, goes to sleep. Gets up early, eats an energy bar, texts me, heads to breakfast with Andy. And on the way...crashes the car? Wanders off in concussed confusion?

Or maybe he never slept here at all, a prickle tells me.

And Josh never chewed on pens. I did. Do. He hates it.

A loud bleep-bleep spikes through my senses.

A law enforcement vehicle. Oh God. If I'm found here—

I look around the tent in a panic. The only exit besides the front is a flap-style window in the back, currently closed.

I'm there in two steps, opening the flap, but there's a second layer, a mosquito net, also closed. I tug at the zipper. Stuck.

"Come on," I say under my breath. A plea. A prayer.

"Looks like it's this one, yep," a deep male voice says, with that syrupy Southern Indiana drawl that sounds like humid summers and sticky beer. There's a crackle of walkie-talkie. "Found it. Site number eleven. C'mon over." Then, the tread of heavy boots.

One officer, and it sounds like his partner is on the way.

I'm breathing heavily as I rock the zipper back and forth. Come on...come on...

"Excuse me, sir?" A female voice, brittle, pert. I go still. "I'm sorry to bother you. But my husband and I are just over there, and... I can't help but wonder if you're here about the young man who's staying here."

"Yes, ma'am," says the officer. "Any information you have would be extremely valuable. I'm afraid this is a missing person case."

"Oh, my. We did wonder... We haven't seen him in days!"

"You did see him, then?"

"Yes, he came in late Saturday night. He woke us up!"

"Might you remember what time that was?"

"A little after ten. But the strange thing is, after he set up his tent, he left."

"How d'you figure?"

"I had to use the restroom. The facilities are at the front of the campsite. I saw him drive away."

"Could you describe who you saw?"

"Well, it was dark, so I didn't get a good look. But I could see his outline while he was pitching his tent. Slender fellow. Took him a while to get it all set up. Didn't seem like he'd done it before. I thought he must be a camping newbie. He moved around the tent for a while. That's when I went to the restroom. Then before I know it, he's zooming past me. Very recklessly, I might add. If I hadn't jumped aside, he could have hit me!"

"Did he come back?"

"We haven't seen him since. I hope it's not rude to say that I wouldn't be surprised if he got into an accident, the way he was driving." She clucks her tongue.

"This is helpful. Thank you, ma'am," says the officer.

"Could I ask what the young man's name is?"

"If you can keep this to yourself, ma'am—" The officer's voice goes too low for me to hear.

The pert voice goes up a full pitch. "Wait...from two seasons ago? Who's married to the..."

There's more murmuring.

Finally, the officer's voice returns to normal volume. "I'm afraid that's all the information I've been given, ma'am. It's a Dover County case. I'm Belmont County. Just lending a helping hand."

"Well, I certainly hope he turns up! He seemed like a wonderful young man!"

I've been so riveted by this exchange I forgot I was supposed to be escaping. I attack the zipper with renewed urgency as steps again head in my direction.

"Please," I hiss. And then, with a jolt and a flash of pain in my finger, the zipper gives.

The officer's shadow is at the entrance, widened and elongated. With an ungraceful, desperate leap, I tumble out the back, the tent rocking behind me.

"Hey!" cries the officer, but I don't turn around; I run. Flat out, through the woods behind the campground, weaving between trees, my feet crashing through underbrush. My chest burns; my legs pump. A twig rips at my cheek. Birds scatter above me, breaking into a hoarse chorus. Intruder! Intruder!

My lungs are searing as I stumble behind a tree and cast myself to the ground, onto a moist layer of mulching leaves. Painfully, I hold my breath and listen. No one seems to have followed, so I allow myself to take some deeper breaths.

Thoughts come in violent bursts. I can't make sense of what I just heard. Josh setting up a campsite just to leave it. Driving away in the night. Abandoning a crashed car. And then, incongruously, texting me on Sunday. Morning babe! Like nothing was amiss.

I lean against the tree, tilt my head back, and look up. Shaggy branches dip down, like they're inclining their ears to me.

"What did you see?" I whisper. "Where is my husband?"

The trees look down with their weighty, silent gaze. Whatever horror they may have witnessed, they're not speaking of it today. Josh is gone, and there's no one to answer.