Chapter Twenty-Seven

I hold the phone in my trembling hand, too nervous to check the trail cam's app but too curious to ignore it entirely. A feeling of dread, thick and clammy, spreads in my chest as I keep my index finger hovered over the app's icon.

Billy might be right outside the tent.

The only way to find out is to look.

Which I'm still not sure I want to do. It's not that I'm afraid of Billy. Despite what Fritz said about ghosts holding a grudge, I suspect that if Billy's intention was to hurt me, he would have done it days ago. But I'm not unafraid, either. Understandable, considering it's a ghost I'm dealing with.

Billy or not, whatever's outside remains there. I continue to hear it between the chirping of crickets. And I won't know how to deal with whatever it is until I see it.

With a jab of the screen, the trail cam's app springs to life. I avert my eyes, focusing on everything but my phone. The pads of my fingers gripping its edge. The battery level in the top right corner. Finally, with nothing left to look at, I peek at the screen through half-closed eyes and see the now-familiar view of the backyard at night and…

A deer.

Two feet from the tent.

Grazing on the lawn.

My entire body, tensed to a breaking point, suddenly relaxes. A sigh of relief slides out of me. I even let out a chuckle, for the whole situation is absurd.

The deer outside the tent suddenly sprints away. I hear the startled thump of its hooves just before the phone, still clenched in my palm, erupts once more into sound.

Ping!

This time, there's no hesitation. My gaze zooms directly to the screen and the latest picture taken by the trail cam.

The deer is gone, but nothing else has taken its place. The image on my phone shows unoccupied lawn, trees behind it, half of the tent I currently sit in filling the left side of the frame.

So what set off the trail cam?

Ping!

A new picture arrives while I'm still looking at the previous one. An image switch that would be jarring if the two photos weren't exactly alike. I even toggle between them, making sure they're not one and the same.

They aren't.

Because there's something in the most recent one not found in its predecessor.

A bit of shadow in the woods.

Darker than other nearby shadows.

And shaped differently, too.

I lean in closer, squinting at the screen, trying to get a better look.

Ping!

The image changes again, and this time it is jarring. Because instead of empty lawn, the trail cam has captured something else.

A face.

Inches from the camera.

Staring directly into it.

The sight of it makes me jump so hard it jolts the entire tent as I let loose with a string of obscenities. "Jesus fucking Christ, fuck!"

Outside the tent, a familiar voice says, "Wow, Mr. Marsh, that was a lot of swears."

I take another look at the phone and collapse with relief. It's not Billy, but another ten-year-old—Henry. The calm is short-lived because the tent's front flaps suddenly burst open, prompting another startled "Fuck!"

"Another swear," Henry says as he pokes his head inside the tent, the lenses of his glasses reflecting orange. "I see you bought the tent."

"Yeah," I say, pressing a hand to my chest in an attempt to calm my pounding heart. "Saw it in the store and couldn't resist."

Henry looks around the tent's interior and, in that adorkable way of his, says, "May I enter?"

"Sure." I scooch over so he can join me, making sure to hide the bourbon bottle under the sleeping bag. "Make yourself at home."

Henry crawls inside and lies down, hands behind his head. "Does this mean I'm camping right now?"

"I guess," I say. "You've never gone camping?"

"No. Mom says bad things happen to people who camp."

While that's certainly true on Hemlock Circle, I know it's not the case elsewhere. Still, I admire Ashley's attempt to make Henry want to avoid camping at all costs. It's safer that way.

"I camped out here a lot when I was a kid," I say, stretching out beside Henry, awed by how much taller I am, awed even more by the realization that I had once been as small as he is.

"Mr. Marsh, isn't it weird to be camping in your own backyard?"

"I don't know, Mr. Wallace," I say as I nudge him in the side with my elbow. "Do you think it's weird?"

"I think it's neat."

I gaze up at the shadows gathered in the peaked space where the tent's sides meet, now questioning the wisdom of the purchase. I was so hopeful that being in the tent would somehow conjure memories of the night Billy was taken. But the longer I stay here, the more I doubt it will happen. It's not that easy remembering something your mind insists on blocking out. Decades of failed therapy sessions have taught me that.

"You can come here anytime you want," I tell Henry, figuring I might as well make the excuse I gave Russ for buying it a reality. Then the purchase won't be a total waste after my strange experiment inevitably fails. "Think of it as a quiet place to read. Or hide from your mom."

As if summoned by the mention of her, I hear footsteps in the grass, followed by Ashley's voice as she says, "Henry? Where did you go?"

"We're in here," Henry calls.

Ten seconds and a rustle of tent flaps later and Ashley is on her hands and knees, peering at us with a questioning look. "What's all this?"

"We're camping," Henry says.

Ashley flicks her gaze my way. "I can see that."

"Henry, chill here for a minute while I talk to your mom." I start to crawl out of the tent, making sure to snag the bourbon on my way out. Ashley's eyes widen when she sees it.

"We won't be long," she adds.

We cross the yard and head into the kitchen. As soon as the patio door is shut, Ashley says, "What the hell is going on, Ethan? I sent Henry over to ask if you wanted to have dinner with us. Instead, I find the two of you hanging out in a tent. Since when do you have a tent?"

"Since this morning," I say. "I thought it would help me remember."

"Remember what?"

"Who killed Billy."

Ashley pulls a chair away from the kitchen table and slumps into it. "Do you really think that will happen?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because Billy told me to."

Ashley gives me a slack-jawed look, her eyes shining with concern. "By Billy, you mean—"

"His spirit," I say.

"Right," Ashley says with a nod. "That's what I was afraid you meant. Why would Billy's spirit—"

"Or ghost," I interject. "I guess."

"Sure. Why would his ghost—which isn't a thing, by the way— Why would he tell you to do this? Wait, here's a better question: How did he tell you?"

I proceed to tell her everything I omitted the other night when I first mentioned the idea of Billy's presence on the cul-de-sac. The garage lights flicking on around the neighborhood and the baseballs in the yard. I even tell her about what Billy wrote in my notebook, knowing it sounds preposterous at best, clinically insane at worst. But I'm compelled to forge ahead anyway, in the long-shot hope that speaking it out loud will make it sound less crazy. I end by saying, "What if Billy wanted to be found? What if he made it happen?"

"But why now?" Ashley says. "Why, after all these years, would he let himself be found? Why now and not decades ago?"

I'm losing her. Obviously. I start talking faster.

"Because he knew I was here. Back on Hemlock Circle full-time for the first time since he disappeared. And now he wants me to find out what really happened to him."

Ashley stays silent a moment, letting it all sink in. Her concerned look has shifted somewhat, edging closer to fear. What's unclear is if she's afraid for me or of me.

"You really think Billy's ghost is asking you to solve his murder?"

"Yes."

"You know that only happens in the movies, right?" she says. "That in real life, ghost kids don't urge people to solve their murders? But let's say you're right. You're not. This is batshit insane. But for now, let's say Billy's ghost is haunting your yard and throwing baseballs into it. Where would a ghost even get a baseball?"

An excellent question. One I haven't considered and have no logical answer for.

"I don't know," I say. "But it's been happening. And I'm not the only person who's noticed it. You heard your dad the other night. He said he saw Billy."

"I told you not to listen to him. My dad doesn't know what year it is half the time," Ashley says, the words catching in the back of her throat. "Today, he asked me what my mother was making for dinner. She's been dead for years, Ethan. And it was like he didn't even know."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"You don't know the half of it." Ashley says it without anger or accusation or even seeking pity. It's simply a statement, hinting at untold depths of misery. "And all I wanted to do—the reason I came over—was to invite an old friend for dinner in the hope I could forget about everything for a few minutes."

"Instead, you encountered a crackpot talking about ghosts."

"You're not a crackpot." Ashley exhales a long, exasperated sigh. "Honestly, this all would be easier to deal with if you were. But I can tell you honestly believe it."

"I do," I say, with a quickness that's startling. We're talking about Billy's ghost, for God's sake. The very idea should give me at least some pause. Yet it doesn't. Not anymore. "Even though it's crazy, I believe it. Because who else could have done it? Who else could have entered this house even though every door and window is locked, and written in my notebook something that only me and Billy knew he said?"

Ashley responds with a sad shake of her head. "I don't know."

"And who's been tossing baseballs into my yard? Something Billy—and only Billy—used to do?"

"Somebody playing a cruel trick," Ashley says. "Or maybe it's you, Ethan. Have you ever thought of that? Maybe you're doing it and you don't remember. Maybe it's always been you."

I give her a look, shocked by the implication of her words. "Always? Do you think I had something to do with what happened to Billy? Do you think I killed him?"

"Of course not." She reaches across the table, seeking my hand. Clasping it with both of hers, she says, "I know you didn't hurt Billy. Everyone does. But I also know that what happened to him hit you harder than anyone but his family. And I just think that, maybe, all the things that have been happening aren't really happening at all."

I snatch my hand away from hers. "You think I'm making it up?"

"No," Ashley says. "I think it's possible you're doing it without knowing what's going on. Kind of like sleepwalking. You might have written in that notebook. And you might have put those baseballs in your yard. Then you forgot all about it."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you want to believe it's real. You want to believe that people can come back from the dead and communicate with you. Just like you want to believe this is just about Billy, when I have a feeling there's more to it than that."

"What do you mean?" I say. "Of course it's about Billy."

"And nothing to do with your wife?"

My body goes numb. When Ashley takes my hand again, I can barely feel it.

"I know what happened to Claudia, Ethan," she says. "I know she died."