Page 115 of Middle of the Night

An apt description of his actions. For Andy’s spent most of this week hiding in the woods, watching. I now know he was the shadow person captured by the trail cam, likely crouched on the edge of the forest. What I can’t understand is why. If he wanted to talk, he could have revealed himself. Instead, he continued to creep between theHawthorne Institute and my backyard, usually with a baseball in hand.

“Why the baseballs?” I say.

Andy smiles. “The third one belonged to Billy. I kept it all these years. The others were bought at your friend Russell’s store. He rang them up himself and didn’t even recognize me.”

“If you put them in the yard to get my attention, it worked.”

“I wanted more than that,” Andy says. “Just like right now, you need to do more than just talk. You need toremember.”

At least I was right about that. I might have been off base about who was behind it all, but the goal of everything was to get me to remember that night. I even know why. I think about the morning Mrs. Barringer came into my yard, dragging Andy behind her, begging me to remember. I never stopped to wonder how much that affected him at such a young age. How it seared itself into his memory. How it poisoned his brain.

“We don’t need Henry for that,” I say.

“Apparently, we do. Since throwing baseballs into your yard like Billy used to do didn’t work, and since breaking into your goddamn house using my mom’s spare key didn’t work, it became clear I needed to do something more drastic.”

Andy pulls Henry against him, like they’re old friends. But the gleam in his eyes is anything but friendly.

“I did remember,” I say. “I’m surprised you don’t know already, seeing how you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

Just like that, Andy releases Henry, who bobbles at the sudden movement. He sways toward the falls before straightening again and taking a shuffling step away from the edge of the outcropping. Andy acts quickly, grabbing Henry by the collar and dragging the boy back to his side.

“Tell me,” Andy says.

“I will.” I nod toward Henry. “Once I know he’s safe.”

Andy returns his arm to Henry’s shoulders, this time even tighter. “No. Now.”

“It was Russ Chen,” I blurt out. “He slashed my tent. And then he hurt Billy.”

Behind me, Ashley gasps, and I realize she didn’t know, either. I’m sure the police presence at Russ’s house made her suspect it, but that’s different from hearing it confirmed out loud.

Billy’s brother, though, doesn’t appear surprised in the least. Instead, he looks doubtful.

“No, he didn’t,” Andy says. “Russ Chen might have slashed the tent. But I think someone else killed Billy.”

I take a tentative step toward him, pulled closer by curiosity. “Why?”

“Because I was there, outside that tent.” Andy gives me a look, daring me to doubt him. “And I heard what you said to my brother.”

Saturday, July 16, 1994

12:47 a.m.

Andy wakes from a fitful, restless slumber feeling like he hasn’t slept at all. The events of earlier in the night keep marching through his mind, as potent a reminder as the blades of grass still stuck to the soles of his feet.

That grass had felt cool between his toes as he walked toward the hedge rising between his family’s yard and the one belonging to the Marshes.

A yard he’d started watching after his mother sent him up to bed.

And a yard he visited once she herself had retired for the night.

Andy was allowed to stay up past his bedtime because his mother knows how left out he’s been feeling all summer. There are no kids his age on Hemlock Circle, forcing Andy to spend these endless school-free days playing by himself as Billy gets to roam anywhere he wants with Ethan.

But an hour of extra television isn’t enough for Andy. He wants to be in the thick of things like his brother. That Billy never lets him tag along—or even tells him about what he’s been doing—feels unfair to Andy. He wants to experience things, too, even if it’s just vicariously. So if he couldn’t go camping, he could at least enjoy watching Billy do it.

Thanks to the location of his bedroom—on a corner of the second floor, with one window facing the woods and the other offering a sidelong view of the Marshes’ yard—he could see Ethan’s orange tent and the way it glowed like a single flame when the lantern inside it was lit. He could even see the silhouettes of the two boys inside, blurry and indistinct.

Watching them, Andy imagined what they were doing, what they were talking about, what it was like to be older and have a best friend. He thought about these things long after the tent went dark. And when it began to glow again—an unexpected triangle of light in the July night—his curiosity was too piqued to resist.

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