Page 20 of The Staircase in the Woods

She looked to Owen, who stood horror-struck. His mouth formed words but made no utterances.

Lore said the words out loud:

“There’s no campsite, is there?”

Nick shook his head. “Nope.”

“Fuck,” Hamish said quietly, but then yelled it out again so loudthat birds stirred in the trees above and took flight: “Fuck!” He dropped to a crouch and buried his face in his hands, growling into his palms before taking one hand and punching the ground once, twice, three times.

Owen bent over and vomited.

Nick, for his part, walked out in front of them, his arms wide like a carnival barker or a used car salesman.

“It’s time to repair an error,” he said, and the tone in his voice reminded Lore of something else, and now their old friend’s posture made even more sense. Because it called to mind an old-timey preacher. A pastor or pardoner making you an offer. A one-way ticket to confession, restoration, and salvation. “I brought you here because we fucked up. We broke the Covenant. And now we have the chance to fix it.”

13

Where Is Matty Shiffman?

June 13, 1998

“Mister Zuikas—Owen—I’m not going to be tricky with you,” the detective said flat out. The fluorescent light above them cast long, strange shadows down her face. It made her look tired—not just regular “didn’t get enough sleep” tired, but tired in the weary way, weary to the bones, to the marrow.Soul-tiredwas how Owen thought of it, and though it was perhaps a poor moment for it, he mentally checked that term,soul-tired,as one to remember, because it might be good in a story or a poem someday.

The detective continued:

“I’m not looking to trip any of you up, Owen. I’m not looking to play games. Your story matches the story of the other three with minimal variation. Which is okay. Because, you know, memory is a funny thing.” She offered a half shrug, then tossed a casual glance at the open file folder in front of her. With a long, knot-knuckled finger, she poked at a paper and slid it around a little on the desk in front of her before sighing. “Where is Matty Shiffman, Owen?”

“I don’t understand. You said our stories all match—we told you, we told you where he was. Where he went.”

“I know. I know. You all went up to Highchair on Friday. Saturday morning, he was gone—he left the campsite, bailed, and that’s that. You spent a little time looking for him but assumed he went home. The end. Right?”

Owen nodded. He tucked the flats of his hands under his armpits. His nerves felt like sparking wires. He deeply wanted to fidget. But he tried to keep still.

“Then you came back out of the woods, found out he hadn’t come home.”

Another nod. Hesitant.

“Middle of the day, you all touched base with one another, and nobody had heard from him—his parents hadn’t heard from him, either. They called Nick Lobell’s house first to see if he was there—”

Owen had almost missed it. A little slip of the gears, there. She had changed the story. Just slightly. Just a tweak. On purpose? Or an accident?

“Lauren,” Owen said, stammering a correction. “They, ahh, they called Lauren’s house first. I think.”

Then he saw the teeny tiny smirk tugging at the edge of Detective Doore’s mouth. Itwason purpose, the slipup.Youareplaying tricks,he thought, wary.

She knew something.

She’s not tired,he thought.She’s just pretending.

She knew they were lying—or at least damn sure suspected it.

Shit shit shit shit.

“Right, they called Lauren’s house first. Sorry, my eyes are getting old, Owen. You need anything, by the way? Water? Coke? Coffee? I know kids aren’t supposed to drink coffee, all that stunting-your-growth thing, but my grandmother—Depression-era woman, my grammy—fed me coffee and buttered bread every morning starting when I was five. And I topped out at six foot.”

He shook his head stiffly. Owen just wanted this over with. This was the fourth time now he’d had to sit down with Detective Doore. Another detective, Chuck Lundy, stood by the door, flipping through anUSmagazine with Jennifer Aniston on the cover.

“You’re chewing your fingernails,” she said. “Nervous?”

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