Page 69 of Into the Dark, We Go
The forest was shrouded in eerie fog, its tendrils swirling and eddying in the stillness. Rain dripped from the leaves onto me, and I tried to step carefully, avoiding puddles to keep my new shoes dry for as long as possible. Lucas would have scolded me that dry shoes were the most important thing when hiking. Nick, however, didn’t seem to care and strolled ahead with a clear direction in mind. But his confidence soon deflated, and he slowed, checking the map on his phone.
Mosquitoes and tiny bugs swarmed around us, flying straight into my eyes and mouth. One bit me on the back of my neck, and it itched so badly I couldn’t stop scratching. The high-pitched whine of another zipping past my ear was enough to put me in a foul mood all on its own.
I pulled out my phone as well. The signal was growing weaker, disappearing intermittently. But as long as I could spotthe next marker on the tree, I felt reassured that we hadn’t strayed from the trail.
"So, what’s the story with your mom? Why did she send you away?"
With nothing better to do and to distract ourselves from thinking about Sammy, we chatted about our families.
Nick’s face clouded over. "I’m not really sure. It was tough at first, but I got used to it. Oregon felt like home for a while."
"Did you miss her? Your mom?"
"I was just a kid. Of course, I missed my mom."
"And as an adult?"
He said flatly, "We’d grown apart by the time I was older. I spent a lot of time away from her when I was growing up. But it’s still weird that she’s gone."
We walked in silence for a bit until I mustered the courage to ask something that had been bugging me for a while. "Why did you come with us?"
"What do you mean?"
"You’re not looking into your mom’s death."
"Wearelooking into it. Among other things"
"No, we’re looking into Lucas’s and Amanda’s disappearances. And now, I guess, into Duane’s murder. How do you know they are connected to whatever happened to your mother?
"They have to be. But something weird’s going on, and my gut is telling me asking around about another murder might not be the smartest thing to do."
"I guess so," I said with a sigh and rechecked the time, noticing we had no signal.
"How far have we walked?"
"Three miles. You getting tired?"
"No, just don’t want to be in the woods after dark."
"We’ve got time."
We continued on, the leaves rustling and twigs breaking beneath our feet.
"So, you and Lucas, how long had you guys been together?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Almost two years."
"Were you guys happy?" Nick’s tone was casual, but the question felt intense.
"Yeah. For the most part." I tried to appear nonchalant, but my eyes darted away, unsure what kind of answer he was looking for.
Nick studied me before asking, "You still love him?"
The question took me by surprise, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure how to respond. It had been two years. I wasn’t the same person anymore, and if Lucas ever did come back, he probably wasn’t either.
I’ve learned that you can stop loving someone when there is a reason—a shift, a moment, something they do or say, or just the slow, quiet realization that you have moved on. It is a choice, conscious or not, and the feeling fades, dissolving into the past.
But when someone is ripped out of your life without warning, without a goodbye, it doesn’t work like that. That kind of love doesn’t disappear. It just changes. Shrinks a little, enough to make room for something new. But it stays. I still carried it with me, settled deep, a quiet weight I’ve learned to live with.
