Two Sides to Every Murder, page 12
Reagan looks at me like I’ve just asked her if she knows how to say “Where is the bathroom?” in Russian. The bear trap is closed tight around her ankle. If she hadn’t been wearing a pair of thick Doc Marten boots, I think it might’ve snapped right through her bone.
I lift a hand to my mouth. I can taste vomit at the back of my throat, and it takes all my willpower to swallow it back down. The long, metal teeth of the trap are slick with blood, but at least her foot looks like it’s still intact.
Reagan stops howling for the length of one inhale. “Help,” she gasps, desperate. “Please…help.”
My heart lurches. I wedge my fingers into the trap, being careful to avoid the massive, sharp teeth, and grit my jaw together and pull. I feel the exertion all through my arms, vibrating in my muscles, tightening my shoulders. It’s the most strength I’ve ever used on anything in my life, and yet the teeth don’t budge.
Dimly, I realize Hazel’s here, hovering over us, saying something I can’t focus on. Where did she even come from? And is she offering to help? I’m not sure what she thinks she’ll be able to do in this situation. I pull harder, harder, and then I let go, gasping. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m strong enough.”
Reagan releases a sharp breath. There are tears in her eyes. Empathy worms through me. I have the urge to hug this girl, or hold her hand, anything to make her feel slightly less afraid.
“I’m going to die,” Reagan chokes out, her voice so like my voice that it makes me shiver. “I’m going to—”
“You’re not going to die,” I say, cutting her off. “We’re going to get you out of here. Just hold on, let me try again.”
I’ve just managed to wedge my fingers between the metal for the second time when I hear a crash in the trees behind us, the sound of someone moving through the woods, fast.
It’s the witch, this was a trap—
I tense as the strange, hot guy from the barn stumbles out of the trees. He sees me and Reagan together and does a double take that might’ve been funny in any other situation.
“Holy shit! Reagan?” He’s still staring at my face, but at least he doesn’t waste time asking for an explanation. Instead, he drops to the ground beside us. “Here, let me.”
He leans past me, wedging his own fingers into the bear trap. I’m about to tell him that it’s impossible, that the damn thing absolutely will not move, when—
Oh.
The muscles along his shoulders and neck visibly tense beneath his shirt, arms bulging beneath rolled-up sleeves as he grunts, pulls. I stare at him. Okay, gawk might be a more accurate word. I can’t help it. This is very…manly.
Sweat beads along his forehead. His sleeves strain against his arms. I’m not kidding, they actually strain, as in the fabric gets all tight around his muscles, and the thread in the seams goes taut in a way I’ve never seen happen outside of a movie starring, like, the Rock.
I glance back down at the teeth, watching them inch apart, just a sliver at first, and then wider. I have no idea how he’s doing this, how strong he must be to force that bear trap open. When I tried, all I accomplished was a pulled muscle in my shoulder. How is he real?
Finally, there’s a gap of space big enough for Reagan’s foot. She twists her body free, and the guy lets the bear trap crash closed again.
The sound of metal on metal snaps me back to my body. I look away from the strange guy, suddenly remembering the events of the last hour. The witch. The pitchfork. Lori Knight.
I push myself to my feet, grasping for Hazel’s arm. “We have to get away from them!”
Reagan looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?” Her eyes move from me to Hazel and she points. “She’s the one who had blood on her arm.”
Frowning, Hazel studies her arm. There is a faint streak of blood on her wrist.
“I swatted a mosquito,” she explains.
“He ran out of the trees right after the murderer chased me into a barn,” I say, gesturing toward the guy as he rips a length of fabric off the bottom of his T-shirt, revealing a strip of sweaty torso. It takes me a second longer than it should to avert my eyes. “Right after I found another body,” I say. Turning to Hazel, I add, “Eric.”
“Oh my God,” she mutters, pressing a hand to her mouth.
I keep going. “And he was right there, being suspicious and…and weird.”
“I’m sorry, I was being weird?” the guy says.
“Jack’s my best friend in the world,” Reagan explains. “He didn’t kill anyone.”
I round on Reagan. “And how am I supposed to trust you? He told me the Witch of Lost Lake is your mom.”
“Now you think I’m the killer? Really?” Regan gestures to the bear trap. “You think I did this to myself?”
She winces, and I stop arguing for long enough to see that the guy—Jack—is knotting the strip of fabric he tore off his shirt around her ankle. His movements are fast and confident, like bandaging someone’s ankle after she accidentally stepped into a bear trap is something he’s had to do more than once in his life. It’s pretty suspicious, if you ask me. But, to be fair, also hot.
I swallow and tear my eyes away from him, feeling my cheeks burn. Focus, Olivia. “Hazel’s my best friend in the world, and she didn’t kill anyone, either.”
“You expect me to just take your word for it?” Reagan asks.
“No, but if you looked at her for two seconds you might realize that the bow we saw the witch using is bigger than she is.”
“Guys,” Jack says, interrupting us. “This argument is super interesting and all, but Reagan’s ankle is in bad shape. She needs medical attention. We need to find a phone and call the cops.”
We’re all quiet for a moment, understanding that he’s right. The only thing that matters right now is getting Reagan help.
“The lighthouse,” I start, but Hazel’s already shaking her head.
“The lighthouse is all the way across camp, and there’s only service at the very top.” She looks at Reagan. “Can you even walk?”
“I-I don’t know.” Regan’s face has gone pale and green, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. Whatever Jack did with that bandage seems to have helped because her injured foot no longer looks like an empty sock. She tries to maneuver her legs underneath her body, cringing.
I can tell, immediately, that it’s not going to work. Her face closes down, and she releases another terrible, strangled cry. “No, I-I don’t think I can.”
“We shouldn’t move her, anyway,” I say. “You aren’t supposed to move someone who’s been injured.”
Reagan scowls at me. “According to what?”
“Every single first-aid class ever.”
“Yeah? Was there a section on running from a killer in these classes?”
I frown. “No—”
“You should listen to her,” Hazel says. “She used to babysit back in junior high, and I’m pretty sure she took that online Red Cross training course like four times.”
Reagan, still grimacing in pain, says, “So, are you like a real-life Kristy Thomas?”
“I don’t know who that is,” I say.
“From The Baby-Sitters Club,” Jack adds.
All three of us look at him.
“What?” He shrugs.
“Guys,” Hazel says, cutting him off. “Focus. We need to get to a phone.”
Jack pulls his cell out of his pocket and frowns down at the screen. “We have service back home. It’s around the other side of the mountain, but Reagan’s truck is just through the trees. We can drive—”
“I’m not making it back to the truck like this,” Reagan says. “Maybe you can go and come back for me?”
Jack shakes his head. “There’s no way I’m leaving you alone in the woods with a murderer—”
“The old nurse’s cabin!” I blurt, recalling the map in our bathroom back home. Everyone turns to me, matching looks of confusion on their faces.
“Sorry, I just remembered. There’s an old nurse’s cabin right through there.” I nod toward the trees. “It’s close, and I bet there’s still bandages, antiseptic, maybe even some crutches she can borrow.”
“I don’t know.” Jack looks skeptical. “I think it’s smarter to find a phone.”
Phone. I nearly slap my head with my palm. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. “My sister said the internet guys were supposed to come this morning,” I explain. “Since the service out here is so spotty, she got one of those phone and internet package deals. They used to have landlines in some of these old buildings. If the nurse’s cabin is anything like the lodge or my mom’s old office, there’s probably still one there.”
“Landline,” Hazel says, with a groan. “Right, didn’t Andie send Eric out to find one? Because the witch cut the landline in the office sixteen years ago?”
Reagan looks skeptical. “You don’t think she would’ve thought to cut the line in the nurse’s cabin?”
“I don’t know, but I still think it’s the best plan. If it works, we can call the cops and, if it doesn’t, we can get Reagan bandaged up and find your car and get the hell out of here.” I shiver. It’s started to sprinkle again. Thunder makes the ground vibrate, feeling much closer than it was a few minutes ago, and cold rain hits the back of my neck. If we stay here longer, we’ll never get dry. “What do you think?”
One by one, Jack, Reagan, and Hazel all nod.
“I still don’t think Regan should move her leg,” I say. Turning back to Jack, I add, “Can you…do you think you can carry her?”
Jack lifts Reagan off the ground like she weighs nothing, like she’s a baby or a doll or a really small dog. If I was the kind of girl who got off on fairy-tale princesses being saved from danger by rugged woodsmen types, this would really be doing it for me right now. It’s still kind of doing it for me, to be honest. For a moment I can’t speak.
“Lead the way,” Jack says.
12
Reagan
I barely notice the squat, two-room building when it appears between the trees. It’s so overgrown with weeds and vines that it looks like part of the woods. And the pain in my ankle is all-consuming. I don’t think I’ve broken anything, but there’s a goose egg forming below my skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take long, deep breaths through my mouth. It’s taking everything I have not to throw up.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks.
“Yeah…” I manage. “It just hurts.”
“Hopefully we can find some painkillers in this nurse’s cabin.”
I nod as Olivia hurries ahead of us to try the door. “Oh no,” she says, her face falling. “It’s locked.”
For a second, the only thing I hear in my head is the slightly muted sound of screaming. Of course it’s locked. Why wouldn’t it be locked? It would be too easy otherwise.
I swallow and try to get a handle on my growing panic. The truth is, I was just putting on a brave face for Jack. I’m not okay. The pain in my ankle is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I swear, it’s like those metal teeth are still digging through my boot, piercing my skin, only now it feels like they’re made of fire. I was really counting on this nurse’s cabin having painkillers.
“Sawyer had the keys,” Olivia is saying when I start to listen again. She looks seriously stressed, probably embarrassed that her big plan is already falling apart. “Maybe I can go back to the lodge and see if they’re in his pocket? Or maybe…”
She trails off as Jack lowers me onto the top step, being extra careful not to knock my bad ankle. Before she can utter another word, he steps past her and slams his shoulder into the door like a freaking battering ram.
It snaps inward, swinging on its hinges.
Jack shakes out his shoulders, grimacing slightly. Then he picks me up again and takes me inside.
I catch sight of Olivia’s face over his shoulder as he carries me past. Her mouth is hanging open, a blush rising in her cheeks. It’s funny, I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly perceptive person before, but I can read Olivia’s emotions as easily as if they were my own. She looks like she’s undressing Jack in her head.
As Jack carries me past her, I motion to my bottom lip. “Hey, Olivia, you have a little drool, right here,” I say.
Olivia snaps her mouth closed, blushing deeper. I can tell, instantly, that she’s mortified.
* * *
• • •
The cabin smells damp and dusty. There’s an exam table in the middle of the room, shelves lining the walls filled with old medical equipment, gauze, and jars of aspirin and EpiPens, everything covered in sixteen years’ worth of cobwebs. I find myself shivering a little at the sight of it. In the dim light, it all looks sinister.
Jack deposits me on the exam table.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“Any time,” he says. Then, turning back to Olivia, he says, “Okay, where would we look for this phone?”
“Through there, probably,” she says, nodding to an adjacent room. It’s dark inside, but I’m guessing it’s some sort of office. I see the edges of chairs, and something long and flat that might be a desk.
Jack and Olivia head inside. Hazel’s already on the other side of the room, shuffling around in some cupboards for bandages and antiseptic.
I can’t wait any longer. “Are there any painkillers?” I ask. Then, in the hopes that my desperation will make her work faster, I add, “Please.”
Hazel turns. Her arms are already full of thick wads of bandages and multiple tubes of things with faded labels. Antiseptic ointments, I’m guessing. But she shifts the supplies to one hand and—oh, thank God—I see that she’s also holding a little orange pill bottle.
“You’ll have to swallow them dry,” she says, handing it to me.
“I’ll manage.” I pop off the lid, shake two chalky white pills into my palm, and toss them back like candy. They’re too big to swallow dry, and I feel them all the way down my throat, but I don’t care. Just a few more minutes and the pain in my ankle will stop burning. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, willing time to move faster.
“…to keep your ankle from getting infected,” Hazel is saying, when I start listening again. I open my eyes and see that she’s waving a yellowing Seventeen magazine at me.
“What?” I ask, taking it from her.
“I said, I’m going to need to change the bandage and apply some antiseptic to keep your ankle from getting infected. And it might hurt, so you should try to distract yourself.” She nods at the magazine. “There’s a quiz to figure out your flirting style on page twenty-seven.”
My fingers move on their own, flipping to page twenty-seven without consulting my brain about it first. But my attention wanders as I stare down at the faded magazine page, not onto anything specific, but jumping from thought to thought, too freaked to settle. I hear the soft tap of rain on the roof, wind pushing tree branches against the windows. There’s a low creak of wood, but it’s just the sound of the old cabin settling, not someone moving.
“Do you think whoever’s doing this to us is the same person who killed Jacob and Gia and Matthew?” Hazel asks suddenly, her voice low.
I look up from the magazine. “I don’t know.”
Hazel swallows. “I heard that guy, Jack or whatever—he said Lori Knight’s your mom. You don’t think she—”
My jaw clenches. “Watch what you say about my—”
Hazel’s hands come up, defensive. “I’m not saying anything, I swear. But if Lori Knight didn’t kill those people, then that means the real murderer was never caught. Whoever it is could still be out there.”
I swallow, calming down. “Yeah. That’s basically why I’m here.”
“But…why do you think the killer would come back now? It’s been sixteen years; why risk it?” Hazel looks a little hesitant as she adds, “You don’t think it’s true, do you? The urban legend? The Witch of Lost Lake came back because she doesn’t want us here?”
“No,” I say, quickly. “I guess…whoever it is, she didn’t show up until after we found Gia’s camera. Maybe she’s worried about someone finding evidence against her, having her secret finally come out, something like that.”
Hazel pauses for a moment, thinking. “In that case, we should really watch whatever’s on that camera.”
“Again, basically why I’m here.”
Hazel keeps going. “And it would narrow the suspects down to whoever was at camp when the camera was found,” she points out. “No one else even knows about it.”
“But the only people here are our age,” I point out. “They would’ve been too young to be the killer sixteen years ago.”
“Well, except for Andie,” Hazel says. “But she wasn’t here the night of the murders. She was down in the city. Maybe the killer’s covering for someone else. A parent, maybe? Or an older sibling? It’s a small town, everyone here knows someone who was affected by the murders. I mean, Gia North was my dad’s cousin.” Hazel carefully unwinds Jack’s sodden T-shirt from my ankle, her fingers barely brushing against my skin. Then, she gets to work on my boot, slowly loosening the laces. “Is that why you were asking all those questions about Olivia’s mom? You think it’s her? Because I don’t see Mrs. D’Angeli killing anyone.”
I still have her photograph in my pocket. M. Edwards, the person I’d suspected for the better part of a year. “She went into labor that night, right?”
I want Hazel to tell me I’m mistaken, that Miranda wasn’t in labor after all, that the official story is wrong and she still could be the murderer, somehow.
But Hazel just shrugs and says, “Yeah, that’s true.”
She pulls my boot from my foot, making sure not to jostle my ankle. Then she uncaps the antiseptic and applies it to my ankle, her touch gentle. Jack and Olivia are talking in the other room, their voices audible but too muffled by the wall for me to make out words.
