Page 78 of Firefly Effect

During my education, my thirst for knowledge grew, and putting pen to paper to let my thoughts pour out became increasingly therapeutic. Fast-forward to the Doctor of Psychology program at Duke where I spent three years writing a dissertation on human life in comparison to that of a firefly, and my obsession only became magnified, not dispelled.

I wanted to do more with my work, but I could never figure out what. I was sure moving to this town with all its history for me and my family would inspire words to come faster. While it has, distractions from a certain someone consume my mind.

The first dose of that inspiration came when I was seventeen years old. It was one week of camping, five nights of campfires, and several trips into the woods where we were all mesmerized by the synchronous fireflies. My family had driven in from a few towns over, so we’d seen the occasional flashes of light in the woods, but nothing like the magical show that lit the woods each night at Deep Creek Campground. It was a true phenomenon, one that lit up my little sister like nothing I’d seen before.

Until her light was put out by a monster.

And the worst part—that monster got away with it.

He’s still out there, lurking in the Appalachian woods.

Stealing lives, one light at a time.

A predator now known as the Firefly Man.

I knew he would come back to this town.

The trail he’s taken to claim his victims has led him straight back to his very first kill. And this time… I’m going to catch him.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

EVELYN

Me, too, Evie girl.

The door to my apartment clicks closed, but I’m frozen in place. My heartbeat takes off in a race, creating a heaviness in my chest. My breath goes shallow, and my mind hazes with a dizziness I haven’t felt in years. I’m back there, lost in my past, fighting against the thoughts that scream into an abyss of my own creation.

Evie girl.

I don’t believe in coincidences. There have only been two people in my life who have ever used that nickname. Patrick and…

Foster Pruitt.

Just thinking his name catapults my heart rate into a rapid flutter. I can’t stop it. I want to ignore the panic working its way through every nerve ending. Breathing is hard, like sipping air through a straw. I can’t get enough. My eyesight begins to darken.

Fuck. Not this feeling again. Panic attacks are my past. But suddenly I feel like a teenager again, unable to sleep through a single night without seeing a dead body in the woods.

Somehow, I force my legs to move. I find my way to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet, and I search for my anxiety meds, finding only expired cyclobenzaprine, but I’m desperate. I swallow one down dry, then I slip back into bed, wrap myself in the covers, and focus on one slow breath at a time.

I try to ignore the scent of Lincoln’s pillow as I squeeze my eyelids closed. While usually every reminder of Lincoln is welcome, it only worsens my anxiety now. Because I realize, as my heart begins to crumble, that I’ve fallen in love with a man I may not know at all.

Twenty-four hours. That’s how long I allow myself to stay in the darkness of my thoughts before finally throwing clothes on and heading downstairs. The bar stayed closed on Sunday, and I had nowhere I needed to be. Lincoln tried calling and texting late that night, but I simply told him I was exhausted and was heading to bed.

That wasn’t a lie. I woke up only to go to the bathroom and grab water. Otherwise, I let myself slip back into a sleep that I knew would turn into a nightmare before jolting me back awake. Another familiar pattern I remember from my teen years. After Carley’s death, nothing ever felt normal, steady, okay. I was on edge, riddled with anxiety, and alone.

At some point in the middle of the night, I allow myself to think about what produced my panic attack. Not that anything needs to cause an attack—they can come at random moments in the day—but this time, there was a clear trigger.

Evie girl.

The way Lincoln let that nickname slip out… It was like he had used it before, and now I’m certain that he has. Over time, I piece together every memory I have of Lincoln since his arrival in Bryson City and to try to understand how he could possibly be Foster Pruitt.

Did he change his name?

Did he stop talking to his family after Carley’s death?

Did he write that poem?

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