Page 112 of Trapper Road

Once I have myself under control, I call Chief Parks directly. While I don’t owe him any courtesies, the fewer people who know what I’ve found the better, at least until someone can break the news to Juliette’s parents.

I tell him about the human remains and the note, and he tells me not to go anywhere, not that I was planning on it. I text Connor and Vee, informing them that I might be back later than I expected and apologizing. I get a thumbs up emoji from Vee which is just about the best I can hope for from her. And since she and Connor are together, I assume she’s speaking for both of them.

Then I sit and wait.

Chief Parks unexpectedly takes my call very seriously because within an hour, the first official vehicles appear. I flag them down and explain who I am, then return to my car and lead them to where I found Juliette’s body. Before long the area is teeming with officials. It’s not just local Gardenia cops either. He’s called in the state forensics team to process everything. They arrive in two large vans of techs and equipment and a few SUVs with extra manpower to perform a grid search for any remains that may have been scattered thanks to scavengers.

I offer to help, but Parks blows me off with a “Leave it to the professionals,” comment that has me rolling my eyes.

While I wait for forensics to process the scene, I decide to take a second look at Beau and Juliette’s texts in the hidden app. It must take ten minutes of scrolling to reach the beginning, and it’s tedious reading at times. So much mind-numbing detail about school, gossip about people I don’t know, complaints about parents and teachers.

There’s flirting as well. It starts out awkward, but before long takes a turn. The stories become more intimate; they begin to share details about their lives and how they feel about things. They grow closer.

Then I come across a text exchange that makes my blood run cold.

Juliette: My friends scare me.

Beau: How so?

Juliette: they’ve done things — horrible things.

37

CONNOR

The Shadow Shack. That’s where Willa is. It has to be. I bolt out of the motel and immediately spy one of the QuickBikes Vee and I used the other night. I activate it with my phone and quickly hop on, peddling as hard and fast as I can. It’s over three miles to the Shadow Shack, and I make it in minutes, tearing into the clearing at breakneck speed.

“Willa!” I shout, dropping the bike at the base of the front porch and taking the stairs two at a time. “Willa!”

There’s no response. I slam through the front door, the force of it hitting the wall shuddering though the entire structure.

I scream her name again as I race through the downstairs rooms, frantic to find her. Terrified I might have guessed wrong and she’s somewhere else and I’m too late. There’s nothing downstairs, and I storm up the central staircase. The landing at the top is surrounded by doors, all of them closed except for one.

I race through it and pull up short.

It’s Willa. She’s tied to a ladder back chair, her hair in tangles around her shoulders and her eyes red and raw. But it’s the blooming stain of red spreading across her t-shirt that causes my heart to stop.

A barrage of images force their way into my head. Women hanging from wire nooses, flesh flayed from their naked bodies, dead, dying, trying to scream through severed vocal cords. My father’s handiwork, captured by his own camera. The kind of information I’ve pushed to the darkest recesses of my mind, trying to forget, and that somehow fights its way back from my nightmares.

In front of me Willa grunts, crying out around the gag tied tight around her head. The sound brings me back to the present, galvanizing me. I leap into action, lunging toward her.

“Willa,” I breathe, cupping her cheeks, searching her eyes. “I’m here, you’re okay.” I reach for the knot holding the gag in place, but it’s tied too tight and she winces as I try to undo it. I glance around, looking for something I can use to cut her free.

There’s a knife on the floor. It’s covered in blood.

Willa’s blood.

She needs help. She needs an ambulance. I need to call the cops. The paramedics. I reach for my phone, pull it from my pocket, but she groans and slumps against her bindings. Her expression is desperate, her eyes pleading.

I drop the phone to the floor and reach for the knife instead. I’ll cut her free, get something to stanch the bleeding in her side, then I’ll call for help.

I grab the knife, the hilt both sticky and slick and warm in my palm. I turn toward Willa, slide the edge of the blade under the gag. I’m sickeningly aware of how close the sharp edge of the blade is to the veins and arteries in her neck, the pulse point I can see flickering under her freckled skin.

She jerks against the bindings, flailing. “You have to hold still, Willa. Just hold on. I’ll get you free.”

She stills for a moment, her breathing ragged. I slip the blade beneath the fabric of the gag, careful to keep it angled away from her, and cut through the gag. It falls to her lap, and she draws a ragged breath.

Before she can say anything, before I can ask if she’s okay, there’s a scream from the doorway. “What the fuck are you doing?”

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