"Tall, maybe. Black coat. Hood over his face."
That's it. That's all I've got. I shiver from the memory, clutching my cardigan closer.
The police officer makes notes on his legal pad.
"You knew the victim?"
"A little." Beau shifts uncomfortably. "But we haven't talked in months. I haven't even seen her except for a few times in school. We're not exactly friends."
"And you?" the cop asks me.
"I didn't know her at all." I can't remember ever seeing her.
Bile rises, burning my throat, and I fear that I'll be sick.
Another officer approaches. The swamp is swarming with them like mud wasps buzzing everywhere. Looking for any sign of the Mangroves Murderer.
"This is Officer Keely," the cop says. "He will escort you both home. It's not safe in the swamp."
I can't help but look toward the body, laid out on the mangroves like a play doll. There's a sheet over her now. But I can still picture the girl's pleading face, her look of terror as she struggled to breathe. Suddenly, my stomach turns and I can't hold back. I bend over and lose my dinner. Beau is there with a comforting touch, rubbing my shoulder softly, holding back my hair.
"Ma'am," Officer Keely says when I'm done. "Best be getting you home."
…
Once we arrive back at our cabins, the officer leaves us be and returns to the swamp investigation. In his wake, another of his colleagues takes patrol at the dividing line, keeping watch over both our houses.
"Who would do this?" Beau asks as we enter his cabin. "And why is the timing different? The others took place late at night. This one happened in the early evening hours. It almost seems as though the killer is becoming more desperate."
"Or the killer is becoming sloppy," I say. "Either way, we were there, right there. Too close to the crime."
I've already checked in with Gran, who advised me to reconsider going to Beau's house. But I had to come here. I have to talk it out with someone, and seeing as how she doesn't want to discuss it, and as how Mom and Dad still have a forty-five-minute drive home until I can talk with them, Beau's place seems like the right decision.
Charlotte is waiting for us in the living room as we enter the cabin. Her stare is trained out the window, into the dark night. A candle flickers beside her, smelling heavily of spice.
"Is it true?" she asks. "Did you find a dead girl?"
"How did you know that?" Beau asks.
Charlotte stands and walks to the kitchen to retrieve a cup of coffee. She makes one for Beau and me as well, adding cream and sugar.
"I arrived home just afterward. The officer taking watch spoke with Grandpa and me. He told us."
As though hearing himself mentioned, Beau's grandpa walks into the room.
"Beau," he says, nodding a greeting. His eyes find me. "Virginia's granddaughter. Lord, you look just like her."
It's the first time I'm seeing him in the flesh up close, reclusive as he is.
"Thank you," I say proudly, taking a sip from the mug that warms my hands.
The coffee is sweet-enough sugar to zing my senses, a hint of vanilla flavoring.
"Why can't they find the killer?" Charlotte says. "He can't have gone far in such short a time."
"Why would he do it?" Beau's words fade to a whisper. "Who has reason to kill innocent girls?"
Charlotte suddenly turns to me. "Do you have something to do with this, Willow?"
What? A shiver runs through me. How could she ask such a thing? Does she honestly think of me as a murderer, even after we've told her that we caught the killer in the act? Is she that inclined to think me guilty?
"I most certainly do not have anything to do with this," I say, disgusted. "Why would you think that?"
Charlotte sips her coffee and leans her elbows against the kitchen island.
"I don't know you. I don't know what you're capable of, and it doesn't hurt to ask. Plus, the murders didn't start until you arrived." She gives me a piercing look. "Let's say you're being honest," she continues. "If it wasn't you, and it wasn't me, and it wasn't Grandpa or Beau … Then who?"
"Knock it off, Charlotte," Beau says. "You know that Willow didn't kill anyone."
"Beau's right," Mr. Cadwell says. "I don't think she'd hurt a soul."
He doesn't know me well enough to say, but his faith in me is appreciated. I can't help but compare the wrinkled face in front of me to the smooth-skinned face in Gran's photo album. He looks older than I originally thought he was, and there's a wet sound to the way he breathes. This is the man Gran once loved. Perhaps still does.
"Where can the killer possibly be hiding that none of us can find him?" Mr. Cadwell asks, but his words turn into a barking cough. It takes him a full minute to catch his breath again.
None of us has a solid answer, so as it turns out, there's not much to discuss anyway.
Mr. Cadwell takes his coffee mug with him to one of the living room chairs, settling into it with shaky limbs.
Beau's fingers wrap around mine and, for once, I feel as though he needs my support, like I might just be the very thing holding him together.
Charlotte twirls a ring on her pointer finger. The stone matches the candy-red paint on her long nails.
Beyond the window, police lights blare a belated warning.
"Do you think they have any leads?" I wonder if they would tell us if they did.
"Aside from badgering Beau? No." Charlotte doesn't look at me when she speaks, but I feel her gaze when I glance away.
Though I've been too frightened to speak the words aloud, I finally voice something I've been thinking about lately, another option, albeit a dangerous one.
"Do you think I should try to lure the killer?" The words are out of my mouth so quickly I have no time to debate them. Anger flashes across Beau's face. I try to backpedal, to explain. "That's what everyone thinks, that the killer is after me next. I hear it in the halls. I know you think it, too, Beau. Even your friends wonder. It's a logical train of thought. My parents and Gran would kill me for even speaking like this, but maybe there's a chance to catch him if it seems as though I'm in the swamp alone. You could be nearby. Maybe we can trick him. I don't know what else to do."
"Are you crazy?" Beau's voice leaks with venom. "Have you lost your mind?"
"I wouldn't actually go alone. We'd just make the killer think I'm alone. Maybe then he'd come for me."
Beau shakes his head slowly, his eyes trained on me and me alone.
"Every day, Willow." He takes a deep, steadying breath. "Every single damn day, you are a target. Moving from my house to yours to the swamp to school. Lately, whenever I see you, I see them, the dead girls. I wonder if you'll be next. It drives me mad, and I can't stand it. You will not become an even bigger target. No way. I can't let … "
He trails off, and I wonder if he means to say anything else at all. Charlotte and Mr. Cadwell watch us silently with expressions I can't quite read.
"You can't let what?" I finally ask.
Beau leans closer to me, as though he intends to shut out the rest of the world.
"I can't let it be you. Not ever. I feel so much guilt over the girls who've died. But if something happened to you-I'd be lost."
I wonder if he cares that his family is hanging on his every word with their stares.
I open my mouth to protest. To comfort. To tell him it won't be me, even though that might be a lie.
"Don't." He holds up a hand. "Don't placate me, Willow. Just hear me, okay? Please. You are so full of light. You brighten the entire damn world, and I can't go back there." His voice lowers. "I can't go back to before. Cold emotions and distance. I need you."
When he leans in and kisses me, I am absolutely dizzy with pleasure. His words leave a tingle on my skin, a warmth that feels something like love. I forget about our audience. I know nothing of murders or danger or police. There are only his lips on mine. His heart is beating so fast that I can't distinguish between it and my own. I don't remember what it is to know this world without Beau and these kisses and this fire, fire, fire.
I hope I never have to.
34
Beau
"Grandpa, mind if we talk?" I ask.
He turns toward me and sets down the book he's reading. His eyes are tired and the sun has only just risen.
"I figured you'd notice," Grandpa says.
I keep quiet to hear exactly what he means.
"Charlotte's already come to me, of course," he says. "The girl notices everything under the sun, that one."
I had actually meant to discuss a different strategy to find the killer. The police aren't doing a good enough job, and I can't seem to get the dying girl's face from last night out of my mind. It's haunting me, and I fear the only way to stop it is to find the killer. But now, the need to know what exactly Grandpa means pulls at me.
"Charlotte knows. Suppose you do, too."