Two Sides to Every Murder, page 8
I squint, making out the face of whoever’s standing at the end of the hall, just inside the edge of the illuminated circle. They’re old, haggard, with green-tinted skin and long, stringy gray hair. Their eyes are black and sunken, surrounded by deeply lined, rubbery skin, and their nose is long, hooked, covered in warts.
“The Witch of Lost Lake,” I murmur. I wouldn’t have realized I’d said the words out loud, except the other girl looks at me, frowning like she wants to argue, but I know I’m right. Whoever’s standing at the end of the hall is wearing a Witch of Lost Lake mask.
My heart leaps into my throat. I look down and see the sharp point of an arrow aimed right at us.
Something twitches at the corner of my eyesight: movement. I jerk around.
It’s that guy, the tall, thin guy with the purple hair, the one who took Gia’s camera. Sawyer? He must’ve come in through the front door, after the girl. Now, he steps out from the hallway, frowning at us.
“What’s going on? Olivia?” He stares at the girl who looks like me for a moment, and then his eyes move to my face, and he blinks a few times. “Wait—”
There’s a soft thwup, followed by the sound of something flying toward us, fast. A second later, a small, pointed object shoots into Sawyer’s neck, spraying blood across the wall.
Sawyer blinks at us few times, then grasps for his neck with both hands, eyes widening in terror. Blood spurts from between his fingers and runs down his chest. When he opens his mouth again, his teeth are slick and red.
“He…lp,” he groans, his voice a rasp. I leap backward as he drops to his knees on the floor, blood pooling around him. He lurches forward, collapsing onto the ground.
Fear floods through me. This is a joke. It has to be. These dumb camp kids have turned the Lost Lake murders into a game, with a fake bow and arrows and a cheesy Halloween mask and fake blood and…
But it looks so real.
It’s like roots have sprouted from the bottoms of my feet, holding me firmly in place. I can’t breathe, can’t move. That kid was just alive. He was just moving. And now…
The girl with my face grabs my arm. “Run,” she says.
Down the hall, the witch nocks a second arrow.
My hands have started trembling. It’s hard to breathe. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s as if I’m living the urban legend. I went someplace I wasn’t supposed to, I went to Camp Lost Lake, and the witch is here to punish me.
The girl who looks like me—Olivia, apparently—pulls me down the hall Sawyer just came through, yanking so hard that I feel a flare of pain through my shoulder.
It’s a strange sensation, trying to run on shaky legs. It feels like I’m going to lose my balance and go sprawling, face-first, onto the floor. And then that woman, the witch, she’ll find me and…
No, I tell myself, pushing the image out of my head. Don’t think about that. I’ll never be able to stay upright if I let myself think about that.
Behind me, I hear footsteps. Slow, even, unhurried footsteps. The sound freaks me out even more than if the witch had been running. This is not someone who’s worried we’re going to get away.
Olivia must be taking us back to the main entrance. We round a corner, spilling out into a bigger, more open room. Dim sunlight filters in from the dirty windows, dancing over wood-planked walls. Boxes tower around us, and there are shelves filled with books and sports gear and art supplies.
I see the front door at the same time Olivia does.
“Thank God,” she sobs, stumbling forward. I pause for a second to catch my breath, and that’s when I see it.
Gia’s camera sits on the table under a window on the far side of the room. It’s right there, in front of us, the camera that could change my entire life.
I stumble forward, reaching for it—
But Olivia snatches it first.
“Let’s go,” she says, and races outside.
June 12, 2008
The Night Before the Murders
The evening was thick with summer, crickets humming in the tall, dry grass, the setting sun dusting everything in gold, the smell of bonfire reaching through the air like a crooked finger.
Miranda D’Angeli, who usually loved everything about camp, all the sounds and smells, felt sick to her stomach. She had her head ducked over her Camp Lost Lake tote bag, her long blond hair spilling forward to hide her face as she scavenged around inside for her car keys, worn-down flip-flops kicking up dirt in the parking lot. She didn’t normally wear flip-flops to work, but her ankles were swollen, her butt ached from sitting all day, and her joints were sore. But that was nothing compared to how depressed she felt. She’d been trying to put on a happy face, smiling to everyone who came into the diner and everyone she saw at camp, but it was all a lie. After what happened two days ago, she doubted she’d ever truly feel like smiling again.
The only thing she wanted in the entire world was to climb into her car and blast the air conditioner as high as it would go. Maybe she’d fall asleep right here, in the camp parking lot, under the shadow of the old lighthouse.
But when she reached the parking lot, her car wasn’t where she remembered leaving it. It was parked all the way on the other side of the lot, near the woods.
Miranda stopped walking, frowning. That was odd. Had she parked it over there this morning and just forgotten? To be fair, that sort of thing had been happening to her a lot lately. Her memory had been complete crap. Her doctor said it was normal, that she needed to give herself time.
She took a single step toward the car. She heard a rustle in the bushes, a sound like someone trying to muffle a cough. She jerked her head around—
No one there.
“Lori?” Miranda called out. She wondered if she’d left something on her desk, if her assistant had chased after her, knowing there was no way she was hauling herself back up to her office. But no one answered.
Wind rippled over the grass like it was water, and the crickets seemed a bit louder than they’d been a minute ago, the white-noise sound of their hum filling Miranda’s ears.
It was just before sundown, two weeks before camp opened for the season. Normally, this was Miranda’s favorite time of day during her favorite time of year. She was the director of Camp Lost Lake, and she loved how peaceful the grounds were before they were overrun with children. The wind in the trees and the softly lapping lake in the distance, every cabin scrubbed to within an inch of its life.
But, tonight, she could only focus on how miserable she felt. It was already dark in the shadow of the lighthouse, and she was so alone out here, just her and the trees and lake and mountains for miles. There was no one around to hear her scream—oh God, why would she even think that?
She let her eyes move over the tall, leafy trees, the empty cabins, the distant archery range, and the stables—hesitating when she saw movement. People had mentioned seeing someone sneaking around the woods. But the campgrounds were private property. No one was allowed here. But she just saw a flash of gold. It looked like…
“Andie?” Miranda called, confused. Her daughter, Andie, was a high school senior, but she’d left school a semester early. Right now, she was at her internship down in New York City. She’d been there since January.
And yet Miranda could’ve sworn that was her blond hair she’d just seen flickering through the trees.
7
Olivia
Gia’s camera thumps in my pocket as I run, reminding me with every step that I’m close to getting answers, if only I can stay alive. I focus on the weight hitting my hip so I won’t think about how it might feel if the sharp point of an arrowhead burrows into my shoulder. I imagine that bright heat ripping through my skin and muscle, and an ugly sob escapes my lips.
Oh God. I’m going to die. I’m going to die here, in the woods.
Another victim of the Witch of Lost Lake.
Cool air burns up my lungs as I weave through the trees surrounding the lodge. The other girl is right behind me, easily keeping up with my pace despite how catatonic she’d seemed just a moment ago. She’s in amazing shape, not even breathing heavy, though I’m already gasping for air.
She’s going to get away, I realize. She’s faster than me, stronger. I picture the witch following, reloading the bow she just used to kill Sawyer. Of the two of us, I’m the easy target, the one stumbling over rocks, struggling to keep up.
Panic corkscrews through me. The trees give way a few yards ahead, the thick canopy of leaves and branches opening up to reveal the larger clearing where the cabins and offices and people are. A fresh sob bubbles up my throat, but this one is relieved: safety. I’m so close.
Before I can get even one step closer, I feel a hand on my elbow, jerking me back. Every muscle in my body seizes as I whirl around, expecting the archer. The witch.
It’s not, it’s the girl who looks like me. Reagan. “This way,” she gasps, trying to tug me deeper into the trees.
I hold my ground. “No! We have to get back to camp.” Everyone knows you head for people when there’s a killer on the loose.
“She could’ve circled back there already.” Again, the girl tries to pull me toward the trees. “We need to hide.”
There’s a crack behind us, the sound of a footstep.
My fear is immediate and all-consuming. I shriek and dart for the clearing, hoping the other girl is smart enough to follow me. The ground is rocky and uneven, hard to navigate. I nearly trip on rocks a few times, only managing to right myself at the last second. Falling now is the difference between living and dying.
The clearing seems to be getting farther and farther away. Is the witch right behind me? Is she going to shoot another arrow? What is she waiting for?
When I’m close enough to make out the parking lot, I nearly sob out loud in relief: Andie’s car is here. She’s back from the store, and I’m sure she’ll know how to fix this. Andie knows how to fix everything.
It’s less than a yard to the clearing now. I’m going to make it. Once we reach the cabins, once we’re surrounded by other people, we’ll be safe. I’m almost there—
And then the witch steps out of the trees right in front of us.
Her appearance shocks me so badly that I immediately start backtracking, stumbling down the path that leads back toward the lodge. Oh no oh no oh no.
The other girl takes a different tack, banking left, deeper into the trees. I want to scream at her, tell her that she shouldn’t go into the trees, that she’s making it way too easy for this woman to chase after her, but it’s too late for that.
And, anyway, the witch isn’t following her.
She’s following me.
Now that we’re outside, where it’s a little brighter, I have a clearer view of what she looks like. She’s medium height and slim through the arms and shoulders. The witch’s mask looks like it truly is sixteen years old, with something splattered across the chin and nose. Something reddish brown…
My stomach churns. There’s blood crusted onto the mask. I drop my eyes, and now I see that she’s still holding the bow and arrow.
I feel my pulse throbbing in my temples. It fills my head with the sound of rushing blood and static, making it impossible to hear anything else. I stagger backward, nearly stumbling over an old root, and manage to grab hold of the tree to steady myself. I release a low, hitching sob.
Where do I go now? I have no idea. I can’t go back to the lodge, and the witch is blocking the way to the cabins. I’m trapped.
She tilts her head, examining me. Then—moving slowly, unrushed, she knows I have nowhere to run—she reaches into the quiver on her back and removes an arrow.
I turn and throw myself deeper into the trees, screaming when I hear the bark on the tree nearest me explode, an arrow slamming into it.
A twig breaks behind me. I glance over my shoulder, a scream ripping up my throat: the witch is right there. She’s not even two yards away, running fast and silently through the woods, easily ducking below tree branches and darting around rocks. Her eyes are dark and unfathomable behind that old, drooping mask.
I head deeper into the woods. Tree branches whip against my cheeks and I can feel the sharp points of rocks through the soles of my shoes. My calves scream with pain and my chest feels tight, making it impossible to breathe. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like my chest might explode.
A barn appears from between the trees, glimpses of red wood and a steepled roof flickering here and there behind branches and leaves. It’s my only choice. I can’t keep running—she’ll catch me. At least in the barn I might be able to find a weapon.
I burst through the doors at a run, gasping hard. The barn is dark, with faint strips of sunlight peeking between the gaps in the wood, striping the dirt-and-straw-covered floor. The smells of mildew and manure hang heavily in the air.
Weapon. I have to find a weapon.
There isn’t much to choose from. A rusted shovel that looks like it’d snap in half if I used it to hit anything, a pile of rope, a lantern…
My eyes move away from the wall, over to a bale of hay, and—there.
A pitchfork.
Thank God. I race across the barn and grab it, my hands tightening around the splintery wood.
And then I wait, breathing hard, watching the doors, knowing the witch is going to burst through them at any moment.
8
Reagan
Faster.
The word circles my head until it loses all meaning.
Faster. Faster.
Faster.
I exhale, my throat and lungs beginning to burn. My leg muscles are tight springs. They scream each time my foot slams into the packed dirt, the shudder of the impact trembling through my body. One wrong step, and I’ll go flying.
The skin along my neck and the backs of my arms tingles, anticipating the hand I’m sure is going to reach out and grab me at any moment.
Finally, I burst through the trees, stumbling into a flattened grass clearing. Little wood cabins wink at me from the trees, looking warm and normal and safe. There are people, too. The kids I saw packing up boxes on the patio when Jack and I first arrived have migrated here and lined up around a grill holding cans of soda and paper plates. It must be close to dinnertime because the smell of cooking meat hangs in the air like smoke.
Relief washes over me. Maybe my instinct to avoid these people was wrong. Even with a bow and arrow, there’s no way the murderer can take all of us out.
Can she?
I hear the snap of a twig behind me and spring forward, my heart leaping into my throat.
“There’s…there’s a killer!” I scream. The effort steals the last of my energy and I double over, my hands cupping my bare knees. Inhale.
I’m vaguely aware that everyone gathered around the grill has turned to look at me. I hear confused murmurs, but I don’t have the oxygen left in my lungs to keep talking.
She’s right behind me, I think.
I stumble forward a few more steps, wheezing hard. “Please…please…”
To my utter disappointment, no one is racing to call the cops or grab weapons. They’re just looking at each other, frowning like they think I’m making stuff up. A few of them try out tentative smiles and nervous laughter. Do they think anyone would actually joke about this?
The crowd parts as a blond, white woman steps forward—a tiny, oddly shaped dog following at her heels. She doesn’t look like someone who belongs in the woods. She’s too chic, with sleek, iron-straight hair and the kind of makeup that’s so tasteful you can hardly tell she’s wearing it. There’s not a single smear of dirt on her black clothes.
She’s frowning at me. In a low voice, like she doesn’t want to embarrass me, she says, “That’s not funny. You’re scaring people.”
“Not…joking.” I’m still doubled over, breathing hard, and so my explanation comes out all jumbled and confused. “She’s…she’s…behind me…arrows…”
The energy coming off the crowd grows anxious. Someone calls out, “Who’s behind you?”
And someone else answers, his voice light, still trying to make this a joke, “Is it the Witch of Lost Lake?”
This time, no one laughs.
In front of me, the blond woman’s frown deepens. I expect her to get annoyed, tell me to knock it off, maybe.
Instead, she crouches beside me, her hand going to my back. “Shh, it’s okay,” she says, her hand moving in slow circles. “Just breathe.”
I’d forgotten how nice it feels to be comforted. In the past year, the only person whose touched me like this has been my mother and, once or twice, Jack. I part my lips and air whooshes out. I can feel my heartbeat steady.
“Okay, Olivia,” Blond Woman says, “now tell me what happened.”
Olivia.
That was the other girl’s name, the one who looked like me.
I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see the real Olivia burst out of the trees. But she doesn’t. The trees are still, a slight breeze rippling through the branches, turning over the leaves. Light flashes in the low hanging clouds and a crow caws and leaps off a branch, making me flinch.
But no one comes.
My heart starts beating fast again, a new fear rippling through me.
Oh my God, where did she go?
“Olivia?” Blond Woman is saying. “Hey…can you talk now? Can you tell me what happened? Who was chasing you?”
I blink at her, too confused and freaked out and oxygen-deprived to make words come out of my mouth. She thinks I’m Olivia. Of course she thinks I’m Olivia. The other girl, the real Olivia, she looked like me and she’s not here and why would anyone expect two Olivias to be wandering around in the woods for no obvious reason?
