Page 75 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
But if Dad went to the Vandergriffs and told them to keep Austin away from me, and Austin came back and my father killed him, that’s not an accident. That’s not blind rage. Killing Austin under those circumstances makes no sense.
I’m missing something.
No, I’ve forgotten something.
Suppressed it.
I realize Ben is watching me. And then I realize that he’s just made a huge confession, and I didn’t respond, lost in my own memories.
“I… I don’t remember what happened,” I say because it’s all I can think to say. “Between Austin and me.”
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t asking. Like I said, it doesn’t matter. The point is that I fucked up and my brother died. Your father killed him and then your grandfather—” He bites off the words with a sharp shake of his head. “Your grandfather was his usual asshole self, and I should have refused the job, whatever the cost.”
“You couldn’t,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Because of your father. I get that. It’s—it’s why I’m here, too.”
“For your mother.” He runs a hand through his hair. “So that’s our story, then. Letting your grandfather manipulate us because others will suffer if we refuse. But I have no stake in chasing you off, Sam. I’m angry for a whole lotta reasons that are tangentially linked to you, but I’m not your grandfather. I know who I’m angry with, and I’mnot going to punish someone connected to that anger because I can’t punish the actual source. Your grandfather’s problem was with your dad, but he couldn’t confronthim,so he took it out on you and he took it out on me. I wouldn’t do that to you. Whatever is happening, I swear it isn’t me.”
“Then what have you been doing out here?”
He throws up his hands. “Back to that? Fine. I was trying to handle a potential issue without alarming you. Someone has set up camp in the west field.”
“What?”
“There’s a tent and what looks like bicycle tracks. The campers aren’t there, but I’ve been keeping an eye on it so I can tell them to move on. And before you wonder whether it could be your cousin or whoever is doing all this, I very highly doubt it. They aren’t exactly hiding their campsite. It’s in the middle of a damn field.”
“Can I see?”
Another hand toss, clearly exasperated. “Fine. Whatever. Come on.”
Twenty-Two
Ben takes me along a path. The western field is the most common place for campers. We used to camp there ourselves when we had an extended family gathering. It’s a big open meadow, flat and perfect for pitching tents.
Before we even get there, the smell of smoke tells us the campers have returned. We come through the forest to see a small pop-up tent. A touring bike with saddlebags is parked beside it.
“I’ll handle this,” Ben says.
He strides forward, and his gait says he’s about to blast the trespasser, but when he calls, “Hello!” it sounds like a friendly hail.
The campfire is on the other side of the tent, and it takes a moment before a man appears. He’s maybe in his late forties, with graying dark hair, lean and tanned in the way of long-distance cyclists.
“This spot’s taken,” the man says.
I look around. The “spot” is several acres of open land. Even if it were in a park, I’m not sure how he’d justify claiming it all for his personal campsite.
“You are correct, sir,” Ben says, his tone still friendly, but now ringing with false joviality. “This spot—this three-hundred-acre spot—is taken by the person who owns it. You are camping on private property. I’m sure you saw the signs.”
The man only crosses his arms, jaw setting. He saw them. He just doesn’t give a shit. I remember back when my family did allow people to camp on the grounds. Most were happily appreciative, but every now and then you’d get the ones who expected to use the facilities at our cottages. Because clearly, if you’re letting strangers stay for free, you owe them free showers.
Ben continues, his too-friendly tone edging deeper into sarcasm. “Perhaps, sir, you passed through the town on your way? Stopped for supplies? Paynes Hollow is the name. This here is Ms. Payne. The landowner.”
The man only snorts. “And she called her boyfriend to scare me off?”
“No, her caretaker—me—noticed your tent and has been waiting for you to return to it.”
A second snort. “So she called her goon then. Of course. Little rich girl isn’t going to get her hands dirty. Use the local yahoos for that.” He straightens. “I assert my sovereign right, as a descendant of the original settlers, to camp wherever I like.”
“Your sovereign right?” I say.
