Bran New Death(70)

That was a whole lot of trouble unloaded right there. But I picked the one thing I did know about. “Lizzie, hold on!” I said, hand out in a pacifying gesture. “You say your grades suck? How bad?”

“Some Bs, more Cs. Why?”

I hesitated, then said, “You know, those applying for arts scholarships don’t always need great grades in academics. Art schools are more focused on performance. If you’re good—and I already know you’re a great photographer—they will primarily consider your portfolio of work when determining scholarships. And you’ve got time to think about it and plan.”

“Really?”

“Really. Come on in, both of you, and have lunch before we get started.” I cast one look at the field, but Becket was gone. Now I was worried about him. If he had an injury and it got infected . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

We had soup and muffins, my go-to meal for any occasion, and then McGill powered up the Bobcat—Virgil had cleared the way for him to use the excavator rather than trying to get another one—and moved across the open section of the property to the back edge of the field. He was starting with the farthest holes this time and moving back toward the castle. At least now I knew there would be no new holes. I chastised myself as soon as I thought that, but it was true.

“Are you coming with Lizzie and me, Shi?” I asked.

She bit her lip and cast her gaze out toward McGill. I was surprised. My friend was quirky and flighty. No man had ever been able to pin her down, but in this case, McGill didn’t even seem to be trying. He was smitten, clearly, but she was, too. I didn’t see the attraction, but she knew him much better than I did by now.

“Decision time,” I prompted.

“Nah, I’ll stay and do the dishes. You two go on.”

We set out across the field, wading through the long grass that I hoped would soon be gone, the growl of the Bobcat fading as we got to the woods and moved past the damp, tall weeds along the edge. Lizzie hadn’t said a word for a half hour. I told her about my uncle’s cat, and my fear that he was hurt.

“If you see him, tell me. I’m worried about him.” There appeared to be a couple of old paths through the woods—they branched out and zigzagged across each other—and Lizzie hesitated, frowning and bringing her camera up to her eye. Then she set off down one path. I doubted she knew where she was going, but I made a mental note of where we had come in, and followed.

Some trees had tags, I was surprised to see, and some even had plaques down at their base, obscured through the years by plant material. I knelt and uncovered a few, as we went. The variety was astounding, with several different types of each species of tree. There wasn’t even just one kind of oak; according to the plaques, there was burr oak, black oak, English oak, and more. Who knew? But the arboretum, if that’s what this was, was badly overgrown; even I could tell that. And the trees had been planted too close together, it seemed to me, as if the planner hadn’t considered the size of the trees as they grew. There were dead trees that would need to be cut down and removed.

After a half hour of walking and no talking, I finally asked, “Do you truly know where we’re going?”

“Yeah.”

We wandered for another twenty minutes though, before I finally had a sense that she was following a path she recognized. It had probably taken her time to get her bearings, because she would not have ever entered the woods from the castle grounds before. There was a path from the road, she said, and that is how she always got in. The forest thinned, more light from overhead leaking through the canopy. We came to a small clearing, and there, as she had said, was a wretched, moldy, nylon tarp half fallen over a thick, mossy log. A mildewed and broken tent was on the opposite side of a fire pit from the tarp. The fire pit—just a ring of rocks—held the remains of charcoaled logs, burned tins, and other refuse.

I glanced over at her. “Do kids from the high school come out here for parties?”

“Do I look like the kind of girl who would be invited to a bush party, if there was one?” she said, sending me a withering glance.

“I’m never going to be able to find my way here again,” I said, looking around, feeling the sense of isolation and quiet. “I was hoping to hire someone to clean up this crap, too, but I’d be afraid they’d get lost.”

She wasn’t listening anymore, off in her own world of camera angles and light. I regarded her with interest, as she positioned herself low and snapped a photo of the moss-covered log, with the forest in the background. “You’re a long way from home. How did you get up here so many times to explore? You needed a ride up here today.”