Wicked Charm(20)

I don't like the deadening quiet that descends on this portion of the mire.

"Beau?"

He has gone statue still. He does nothing but stare at me.

I wonder for the first time if maybe he really could be the killer. His  alibi is tight. But then why do I get the pinch in my stomach that tells  me I don't know all the parts of him, that maybe he's hiding something?  My heart is pounding too fast with unease. I'm almost certain he can  hear it.

"Beau," I say again.

"Shh," he finally replies.

The mist curls around the branches, the boat, my neck. It feels too thick. Suffocating. The unknown too heavy.

Someone's here, Beau mouths.

Shock halts my thoughts, and I don't process his words at first.

We shut off our flashlights. On the edge of the bank I make out a thin shadow. One that doesn't fit the tree next to it.

I sit frozen. Beau, too. Neither of us rows. Neither breathes. The boat  bumps the shore. The point gets lodged under a bulging tree root, and we  still.

The shadow that could be anything doesn't move.

Something tickles my cheek. The shadow slowly peels itself away from the  tree, and someone screams. I realize after a heartbeat that it's me.

The shadow runs. Beau takes off after it.

Fear chews on my heart, and I cannot move. I clutch the edge of the boat  until my skin stretches white over bone. I gulp down breaths, trying to  rein in my terror.

Not a second ago, I was looking at a murderer, my gut tells me. But  since I'm not completely sure which form is Beau's and which belongs to  the murderer, I can't risk using the shotgun.

I flip on my flashlight, but it's no use. I see nothing but marsh and forest. Beau is gone. The shadow is gone.

I jump out of the boat and attempt to stand on shaky limbs. I walk  toward the trees, afraid of what I'll find. Terrorizing fear forces me  to imagine Beau in the worst ways.

In a heap at the base of a tree, like a pile of snarled roots.

A crushed windpipe, unable to breathe.

Eyes wide and staring, drained of life.

I shake my head and dislodge the creeping worry.

"Beau?" I call out, uncertainty shaking my voice.

The wind answers back, biting at my skin.

There is the sound of a shuffle, and I point my flashlight into the  dark. My eyes are keen enough to catch a glimpse of something before it  darts out of my beam. I follow the sounds. I don't know where I am. I  don't know the path out of the trees. I don't know the path into them,  either.

I walk, beam trembling, until branches brush my limbs, clothes, hair.  Moonlight creeps in between leaves and lands in shafts on the ground.  Mist distorts the light. The landscape is blurred at the edges, as  though someone has smeared it.         

     



 

I pause. Listen carefully. Something is coming. Footsteps pound behind  me. I run. I don't turn around. Fear grinds my heart until tears burn my  eyes.

I run and run and run. Until my lungs heave and my chest hurts and I can't see anything. I still run.

I will not be murdered in a swamp, damn it.

I will not let the killer win. But I know my time is running out. The  stranger is gaining on me. I turn around to fight and arms wrap me up  tight-like.

"Let me go!" I scream.

"Shh," comes Beau's soft voice. "It's me. Are you okay? Did he get you? Did he hurt you?"

I pull back and look at his face.

"Beau," I whisper.

He looks me over. Hugs me again. "He's gone. I couldn't catch him."

Beau walks me back to the boat. Somehow, he knows his way out of the  forest. When we get to the edge where we first saw the shadow, I freeze.  My flashlight catches an object at the base of a tree. I bend closer  and pick it up.

A single earring.

Silver with a dangling green-amber stone that nearly matches the swamp's surface.





18


Beau

Police claim to have not found a match for the earring in either of the  victims' homes, and no other girls have been reported missing. Who did  the killer take the earring from, then?

"Do we need these?" Charlotte asks, holding up a bag of apples.

The closest local town-a strip of shops, blink and you'll miss it-is  nearly deserted now. Rain falls in a thick mist. Most people don't  venture out on damp days, but we decided to restock our supplies.

"Only if you plan to cook pie. Otherwise, no. You know I don't like apples plain," I reply.

"Suppose I could make pie," she replies. "Maybe invite Willow over and  tell her all about you. Ask her why she bothers with you. That'd be fun,  wouldn't it? Watching her squirm."

"Don't you dare," I warn. "I will never forgive you if you embarrass her or me."

We both go quiet as a woman passes.

"Listen to you, defending her," Charlotte mocks.

She places the apples in a cart and continues to shop the local mart.  There are three lines with cash registers, but only one is open. The  store is small enough that we make quick work of buying food supplies to  last a month: our usual breads and vegetables, fruits and canned goods,  snacks and meat. There's even an aisle for ethnic food, which we use in  the recipes my mom left behind. What we don't use right away, we  freeze.

The cashier, a girl I recognize from school, smiles at me.

"Hi, Beau," she says.

I peer into her eyes. "Hey."

She rings up the items slowly. Charlotte watches the girl.

"That'll be two hundred dollars and ten cents," the girl says.

I hand her cash. Her stare lingers, trailing my every movement.

"Have a good day now, you hear," she says.

"Let's grab a quick coffee to go." Charlotte heads for the exit.

We load the back of the truck with groceries. Rain dribbles beads of  water on the plastic bags, making them squeak as they slide toward the  back of the bed. I pull the bed cover tight so they don't get soaked.  Never know with Southern storms. One minute mist, the next monsoon.

We pass shops, an assortment of small buildings crammed next to one  another-general store, post office, ice-cream parlor, and more. The  coffee shop sits at the end of the block.

The bell above the door chimes and a guy-college age-comes to the counter.

"Hi, Charlotte." He smiles ruefully.

Though he's older by a couple of years, he knows her.

"Hello," she purrs.

What I like most about the place is the smell. It's not just coffee.  Sweet permeates the air-vanilla and mocha. The scents mingle, and I  inhale deeply.

"I'll have a large coffee, extra sugar," I say.

Charlotte orders the same coffee she always does, one that's sure to be  swimming with cream so thick that the drink turns nearly white. We take a  seat at a wooden booth with red-and-tan-checkered seat cushions while  we wait. The tables are made from local trees, and the reclaimed wooden  wall hosts a variety of signs. The air is hot, reminding me of the  swamp's warm surface after it rains.

"You're different lately," Charlotte says. "And I think it's time we  both acknowledge that it's because of Willow. She has a hold on you."

"Not really," I reply, but that might not be entirely true.

"I think you more than like her."

"Do not."

"Do, too."

My twin knows me too well.

"Your point?" I ask.

She sighs, frustrated. "You have to be cautious. You've always been so careful to only have fun. What's changed now?"         

     



 

It's hard to say what's different about me with Willow, why my insides  twist in a good way around her. Somehow when I wasn't looking, between  trying to keep her near but not too close, Willow quietly slipped past  my mental guards. She filled my head with smiles and trust and shot  straight through my every defense.

The barista brings us our coffee. Charlotte leaves a tip on the table and, on the way out the door, a warning in the air for me.

"Beau, don't forget what happened to Mom and Dad."

I could never forget. I slam shut the door to my thoughts for fear that I might crumple under the weight of the memory.

"Don't let it happen to you, too."





19


Willow

I try as hard as I can to erase the image of the silver earring from my  mind as I reenter the swamp a couple of days later. This time with  Jorie.

The damn gators here are thick as blankets over the water. When one  snaps at my oar, I hit it square on the head with the wood. Then talk to  it like any sane marsh person would do.

"Listen here, gator," I say. "We have to share this swamp, you and me  both. Now, I don't go shooing you out of the water, and you have no  right to do it to me, either."

Jorie looks at me as though she's watching a movie play out, a grin on her lips. The boat holding us rocks gently.

"I'm gonna put this oar back in the water, and if you bite at it one more time, so help me God."

I don't have backup oars, and rowing home with only one isn't an option.

"Plus," I say, getting a good look at the gator's tail. It's mangled at  the end, missing a few knuckle-size notches. "Aren't you one of the  regulars Gran feeds?"

I decide to go on and answer my own question.

"You are. I recognize you. Bite at this oar one more time, and I'll tell Gran to never feed you again. That is a promise."