Wicked Charm(25)

"We stayed like that." Gran touches a picture of him. "Together from  when we were seventeen until we were twenty-two, when I discovered the  truth. All the cute notes he'd written me, the weekly wildflowers he'd  left at my doorstep, the kisses he'd steal … he'd done the same for other  girls. I was never the only one for him, though he'd later swear that he  was young and dumb and that he did truly love me."

She stops there. Not another word.

"What did you do about it?"

She blinks back what I suspect is the beginning of decades worth of tears.

"I ended things that day, of course. Never looked back, except in  memories. But it did something to me. I wasn't okay for years afterward.  You have to understand that I thought I'd marry that man. I was  completely convinced. And when you give such a big part of your heart  away, you never do get it back."

I reach for Gran's hand and squeeze it lightly.

"That's why I'm warning you away from that grandson of his. He's Parker  all over again. That I can promise. I've seen him interact with girls in  town, heard the way he smooth talks them. Even his mannerisms mimic  Parker's. It's best if you stay far away. Trust me."

I want badly to trust her. But then I think about Beau's grin. About his recent honesty. About his hunting for the murderer.

"He's not all bad, Gran," I say. "Just because he's somewhat like his grandpa doesn't mean he'll hurt me."

"Oh, my stubborn Willow. You don't understand what it's like to live  with half a heart, never being able to truly trust one hundred percent  again, never being able to love as deeply as you once did. It's a hard  thing to know that you gave the best part of your heart to someone and  that you'll never get it back. Every other lover afterward will suffer  because of it. They might not know it, but your mind will sometimes  revisit that burning, all-consuming feeling you once had, and anyone  from then on will never receive anywhere near as intense a love from  you."

I see it in her stare, how she's still not over him.

"You're going into this thing with Beau unguarded. You don't know what  it's like to live with the memories of a love so strong that you wish  you could feel something that good again, while understanding that you  never truly will."

She shuts the album and locks me in place with her stare.

"You might not know the feeling yet, but keep this up with Beau and you will soon enough."





24


Beau

Today, I have a few quiet hours to myself.

The swamp welcomes me with a soft caress of wind and a water snake  slithering past my boat. There's a purpose to my quick movements, each  tug and pull as I row to the spot I picked out especially for Willow. I  stretch my feet, careful to not kick the supplies I've brought, and  secure the oars as I step out and drag the boat to land, wedging the  nose in a fissure between two sturdy rocks. I tie it up good and  sidestep a gator lounging near the water line, its scales wetly  reflecting sunlight. It tracks my movements, blinking once before  deciding I'm no threat.

I haven't yet told Willow what I'm doing or, more specifically, what I'm building.

Though the water sloshes over my shoes, I make sure to keep it off the  supplies I carry from the boat. With each haul of heavy materials lugged  dozens of yards through thin trails, I feel the heat. My arms shake  with exertion, and I swipe at the sweat forming over my brows,  threatening to drip into my eyes.

Birds keep me company, chirping loudly from tree to tree. Out of the  corner of my eye, I watch the gator. Last thing I need is for it to  sneak up on me, but it seems content to leave me be.         

     



 

When all the supplies are finally loaded on land, I grab a hammer and  nails and get to work. It'll take days, but I'm determined. It's the  first time I've shown that I care like this. With every breath I take, I  push aside the pinch in my chest, the warning that I've gone and done  exactly what Willow requested of me.

I've allowed her close.

Still, I push on until it's time to go home. I need to meet up with Pax  and Grant. I look over my creation, checking each section. A few more  trips and a couple more days set aside, and it'll be finished. Willow is  going to love it.

 …

Hiking the town trails is nothing like the swamp. Here, the ground is  solid and holds my weight without my boots sinking in. It's green, all  right, but there are no vast waters, no alligators. All things I've  grown accustomed to.

"It's hot," Grant complains, taking a seat on a fallen tree trunk. "Wish we'd brought water."

We've been hiking for an hour, tops, and he's already tired.

I lean against a tree and look skyward. Try not to think about the swamp  and the murderer and the lies. Someone out there is going about his  nights killing young girls and acting innocent. He must be good at  disguise because otherwise he'd have been caught by now. Tracks aren't  easy to cover, but somehow he has.

" … know what I mean?" Grant says.

He's been talking about something, and I haven't been listening. Not one bit.

Grant's waiting for an answer.

"What?" I say.

"You're not listening for shit. You thinking about that girlfriend of yours again?" he asks with a smile.

A spear of sunlight hits his red hair just right and sets it on fire with color.

"Not that I blame you," he continues. "I'd kill to snag the attention of the kind of girls you do."

I stare at him quizzically. "That's a strange choice of words."

Kill.

His face goes blank.

"You know what I mean, man," he says. "It's just that you're always  gettin' the girls. They never even notice Pax or me with you around."

But what I notice is the way he begins to fidget. He scratches the back  of his neck, his leg, his arm. He's nervous. What's he have to be  nervous about?

I try to imagine him making his way through a tumbledown swamp-trees  blocking paths, mud eating boots, rough trails and dead ends, snakes and  gators. I hardly see him as the type of person who can handle  navigating the bog. But then again, he could be a good actor. I've never  thought of him as a possible suspect until now.

"You aren't seriously worried about me, are you?" he asks.

He must spot the suspicion on my face.

"I don't know," I say. "Where were you when all these murders happened?"

Pax gives a weak laugh, unsure if I'm serious.

"Come on, man," Grant says. "We've been friends for years. You know me better than that."

Do I? Do they really know me? Maybe in the ways I want them to. They  don't know my past, though. They don't know what happened to my parents.  They think I play girls for fun, but they don't realize that I have no  choice. I'm guarded for good reason, or at least I used to be.

Grant's brown eyes squint at me from a few feet away.

"You've lost it, man. You really have. I wouldn't hurt anyone."

The wind blows and a tree branch leans toward me, brushing its long,  leafy fingers over my shoulder. Sweat pools on my skin, the heat  starving my body of liquid.

"He's only joking," Pax says.

But he's wrong. I'm not joking at all, and I think they both know that.  On the one hand, they're my friends. On the other hand, how well can you  ever actually know a person?

I'm not quite sure what to think, so I turn on my heel and start walking  up a steep hill. Our destination isn't far. I like it for the small  pond. Nothing but fish and turtles in it, but something about the water  draws me.

It's our spot. The place where we goof around, talk nonsense. Mostly, I  listen. And mostly, they rag on me about girls. There are things we  don't talk about, too. Like how Grant is never happy with being himself,  always wanting what others have. And we never mention Pax's mom getting  laid off and the possibility of them losing everything. Another thing  we don't talk about is me.

"I seriously hope you're joking," Grant says.

I don't bother with a response.

Everywhere I step, shafts of sunlight filter in like hundreds of  flashlight beams. My jeans pick up dirt where they drag on the ground. I  make my way through the overgrown maze of greenery, the few skeletal  dead trees. Some of the trunks are browbeaten and moss-stained. I think I  like those the best.         

     



 

"Dude, you were joking, right?" Grant doesn't let it go. He catches up to me and begins to wipe dirt from his pants.

"Hard to say," I reply. My breath comes out labored as we hike the spike in landscape.

"Look, you're lucky, that's all. Wish I was."

"You're jealous of my life?"

He has both parents. A nice, if not a little ragged, home. Good grades. Friends. What more could he possibly want?

"Well, I wouldn't say …  Actually, I guess if you put it that …  Never mind.  Point is that I'd never hurt anyone. Can't believe I even have to  explain this to you." He huffs in frustration.

We approach the hardest part of the hike. A few more yards and we'll be at the top of the hill.