Beau's fingers move to the hem of my shirt, to the base of my spine, where they tiptoe their way to other places. He holds me the way shadows hold darkness, so close that there is no space between us.
"Want to know a secret?" he whispers.
No matter how good Beau is with riddles, for one brief second, so quick I wonder if I imagined it, he is useless with hiding his emotions.
"I'm glad I met you, my beautiful Willow."
I know he means it the moment his lips touch mine. This time, he adds a hunger that has everything to do with the way our bodies fit together. Want sews itself under my skin. Longing makes my hands explore the planes of his back and the ripples of his stomach. Beau creates a heat in me that even the swamp can't compare to, and his eyes tell me that he feels it, too, even if his lips won't speak the words.
He trails kisses down my neck, making me break out in gooseflesh, despite the stifling air. When he slowly moves to the cushions, I follow. He picks up the magnolia and tucks it behind my ear.
"You are perfect, Willow," he whispers. "And I don't know what you've done to me, but please don't stop."
The note of desperation in his voice hooks me. He drapes an arm over my shoulder, and we lean back so that for the first time, I see the hanging lantern he's constructed out of vines. An artificial candle flickers inside.
Even over the strong aroma of the flower, I smell the scent that is deliciously Beau. Mud and swamp and a lingering whiff that reminds me of a bonfire at night. I could stay here with him all evening. Maybe I will.
He strokes my hair and watches my profile like he doesn't give one damn that he's completely transparent. His riddles have, for the moment, been left in the bottom of the swamp. And I think I might like it that way. Now, I see a Beau more real than I imagined possible-a Beau not one person will believe exists-vulnerable and sweet.
Maybe still a little wicked with his grin.
30
Beau
The wind moans a song that weaves through the trees-a long wail that accompanies us. Here, deep in the swamp, the air is shrouded by near darkness, like dense smoke that I can hardly see through.
It's been hours since I showed Willow the canopy. We're in a different part of the swamp now. She holds my hand, smelling sweetly of magnolias.
I try to make out the words of the wind song, as though they've been whispered into the air, but I can't. A groan here, a whine there. Nothing more. The leaves speak in cackling chatters, whispers that fade into the swampy night.
I'm looking for something. Listening for it, too. I hear it again, like the softest click of a camera, though I know it's a twig being stepped on. I edge closer to the sound, hoping the wind is kind enough to disguise my breathing. I don't intend for my presence to be made known to anyone but Willow.
The fog cocoons us. I can barely make out the sound of distant frogs. Here, the ground is higher. The water rests farther off and so does most of the danger from nighttime critters. Our boots protect us from any wandering snakes.
Another sound comes, this one a whisper, and I bet it's not the wind.
I catch something at the edge of my hearing, almost as a person does with their sight, if they look out of the corners of their eyes. Suddenly the sound-an almost whisper-breaks and disbands into the air again. The wind snatches it and rips it away in its grip. A second longer and I would have caught it.
I take tentative steps, deeper into the swamp forest. My sight dissolves completely. The trees swallow the moon in one gulp. In the darkness, I have to let go of Willow's hand and reach out my arms, fingertips at the ready to feel everything in front of me. My feet are unsure.
"Don't let go," Willow whispers.
"I have to," I reply. "Just stay close. Follow the sound of my feet. We need to be quiet. I can hardly hear it anymore."
A crunch. Closer this time.
Why would anyone be in the bog this late after sunset?
Even Willow and I didn't mean to be here. The fog cut short our ride home. No way to row and maneuver a boat when you can't see a thing. The boat is still attached to a tree. And we're waiting out the fog. I hope it clears soon.
I see something up ahead-a beam of moonlight too strong to be eaten by the night. Just outside of the moonlight is a rush of black. A cloth? The tail of a coat? I pick up my pace. I'm close. But I lose the noise. I stop to listen. My gaze darts through trees. I don't see movement anymore, so I wait.
Whoever is out here isn't using a flashlight. He is braving the moaning night and, for whatever reason, doesn't want to be seen. I can't help but wonder if it's the Mangroves Murderer.
A flash of silver appears. Too quick to decipher. Maybe I should have brought a weapon. The silver flashes again, this time closer. I turn to the left, the right.
"Willow, stay here." My words are whispered into her ear, a warning. "Someone's near. I'm going after them. Call for help."
"But-"
Her response is cut short by my swift kiss to her cheek. "Please, Willow. There's no time. Stay here. I need you to be safe."
And then I run. I run right at the sound until my body smacks into someone. We topple to the ground. I am stronger, and I pin his hands to the ground. A dagger clatters against a tree root. I can only hope that the person I've pinned down is alone.
The frame beneath me growls and struggles. It's thinner than I expected but strong nonetheless. A hood covers the head, face turned away. Hard ground bites at my knees, pressing pebbles into my skin. A slick sweat lines my brow, despite the cool air. I struggle to maintain my grasp. The person wriggles like a worm on a hook. I take a risk and quickly let go, long enough to grab the dagger and press it to the neck of the one beneath me. The person stills. I use my other hand to pull the penlight from my pocket. I shine it into the night.
The head turns toward me.
The hood falls away.
I realize instantly that the slip of black I saw wasn't a piece of fabric. It was a lock of hair. Tumbling black hair.
I nearly stumble backward. I know the face as well as I know the swamp.
"Charlotte?" I ask.
"You plannin' on dropping the blade, Beau?" She's careful to not move her neck.
"That depends on how you answer my next question," I reply.
She waits for me to ask. I stare into her face and wonder why she would be here. Why she would sneak out this late. Why she'd come alone. The dangers are more than I can name, and it's unlike her.
"Why are you here, Charlotte?"
Surely she wouldn't associate with a murderer. Surely she wouldn't be a murderer.
"Because he's here, and I need to find him," she whispers.
"Who?"
A blink of a second passes, the moment of it weighty.
"The killer."
I pull back so quickly that I stumble into a tree behind me. Charlotte sits up and rubs her neck, eyeing the blade still in my grasp.
"He's here," she says. "In the swamp. I saw him for sure."
"When?"
"Two nights ago," she says. "And then again tonight. He came to the edge of the trees, hood over his eyes. Stepped into a beam of moonlight, and then disappeared again, almost as though he wanted me to see him."
Charlotte sits up, brushing leaves from her clothes, and winces. Her hand is bleeding from the fall, dripping like paint on the ground. She inspects her palm slowly, wiping dirt from the superficial wound.
"But I doubt he's still here now, after the commotion we just made. Let's go home," she says. "I need to get this cleaned up."
I glance back and call Willow's name into the night, letting her know it's safe to come to me.
The sound of her footfalls nears until she stops beside us, huffing, mouth wide in shock at seeing Charlotte.
"You brought her," Charlotte says.
"Of course I brought her. None of us should be going into the woods alone. God, Charlotte. What did you think you'd do if you found the murderer? Do you honestly think you could take on someone like that alone? What is wrong with you?"
Willow grabs my arm and stands firm beside me, though I feel the slight tremor of her hand.
"I guess I wasn't thinking. I just saw him and took off, a gut reaction," she says.
Willow's eyes narrow in disbelief. "Your gut reaction is to go into the woods alone at night?"
Charlotte sneers. "No, you fool. My gut reaction is to find the murderer in order to save you, because something tells me you aren't exactly safe, since you're tied to Beau. Not that I'm doing it for you, of course. This is strictly for my brother."
Willow looks as though she doesn't know whether to be thankful or offended.
"He seems to have an obsession with you," Charlotte continues. "I'd hate to see him lose the only girl he's ever actually wanted to keep."
31
Willow
I'm trying my hardest to concentrate on schoolwork and not on the memory of finding Charlotte in the woods last night.
Soft whispers float over my desk, and I lift my head.