Page 50 of This is Why We Lied

Will pushed open the door. The cottage was smaller than his and Sara’s, but basically the same layout. Will heard the shower turn off. He called, “Paul?”

A voice said, “Yeah?”

Will took that as all the confirmation he needed that the two men had lied about Paul’s name. He walked into the bathroom. Paul was reaching for a towel. He glanced at Will, then did a double-take, probably because of the small chef’s jacket. His mouth went into a smirk. He asked, “Did you get bored with your vanilla wife?”

Will looked at his watch. 1:06 in the morning. Not the usual time for a shower. He saw Paul’s clothes piled onto the floor. He used the toe of his boot to move them apart. No blood. No broken knife handle.

“Is there a reason you’re in my bathroom looking like you just left a Taylor Swift concert?” Paul was drying his hair with the towel. Will could see a tattoo on his chest, an ornate flowery design around a looping script. Paul clocked that he’d noticed. He draped the towel over his shoulder, covering the word. “I’m not generally into the strong, silent type, but I could make an exception.”

“Get dressed and come outside.”

Will’s bad feeling about Paul just got worse. He glanced around the bedroom, then the living room on his way out. No bloody clothes. No broken knife handle.

More people had assembled while he was inside the cottage. As Will crossed the compound, he saw Cecil’s chair at the top of the main stairs. Christopher was standing beside Chuck, also in a yellow patterned bathrobe, this one with fish. They were all tracking him with their eyes, taking in the dark stains on his cargo pants, the tight-fitting chef’s jacket.

No one asked any questions. The only sound came from Frank, who made a tutting noise as he helped Monica sit down on the bottom stair. She was wearing what looked like a black silk slip, and was so drunk that her head kept lolling to the side. Sydney, the horse lady, was with her husband, Max. They were still wearing the matching jeans and T-shirts they’d had on at dinner, but Sydney was in flip-flops instead of her riding boots. Of all the people assembled, the wealthy couple looked the most agitated. Will didn’t know if it was guilt or privilege that made them wary of being called out of bed in the middle of the night.

“Are you going to explain yourself?” Gordon was leaning against the bell post, still dressed in only his briefs. Paul was slowly making his way across the compound. He’d put on a pair of boxers and a white T-shirt. The smirk had left his face. He looked like he was worried.

Will turned at the sound of footsteps on the family’s front porch. Jon walked down the stairs with none of his earlier bravado. His hair was wet. Another late-night shower, probably to sober up. The kid was dressed in pajamas, no shoes. His face was bloated. His eyes were glassy.

Will asked, “Where’s Keisha and Drew?”

“They’re in three.” Chuck pointed to the cottage that lined up to the corner of the front porch. The windows were closed, curtains drawn. No lights were on.

Will asked Chuck, “Is there a phone inside the house?”

“Yes, in the kitchen.”

“Go inside. Call the sheriff. Tell him a GBI agent asked you to report a code one-twenty-two, needs immediate assistance.”

Will didn’t hang around to explain himself. He jogged toward cottage three. Every step brought him a feeling of dread. Again, he thought about his conversation with Sara in the kitchen. Had Will developed tunnel vision? Was Mercy’s attack a random event? The lodge was in the foothills of the Appalachian Trail, which stretched 2,000 miles up the eastern seaboard from Georgia to Maine. At least ten murders had taken place on the trail since they started recording them. Rapes and other crimes were rare, but not uncommon. That Will knew of, at least two serial killers had stalked victims on the trail. The Olympic bomber had spent four years hiding in these woods. It was exactly like Sara had said: scratch a little bit under the surface and all sorts of bad things came out.

Will made his footsteps heavy on the stairs to cottage three. Like the other cabins, there was no lock. He threw open the door so hard that it banged against the wall.

“Jesus Christ!” Keisha screamed. She sat up straight in bed, blindly reaching for her husband. She shoved up her pink eye mask. “Will! What the fuck?”

Drew moaned. He was pinned under the octopus of a sleep apnea mask. The machine was making a loud mechanical sound that competed with a spinning box fan by the bed. He pushed the mask away, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“I need you both outside. Now.”

Will left, silently running through the count, trying to see who was missing. The group was still assembled by the stairs. Chuck was in the house calling the cops. Sara was hopefully on the trail heading back this way. He asked Christopher, “Where’s the kitchen staff?”

He provided, “They go home at night. They’re usually off the mountain by eight-thirty.”

“Did you see them leave?”

“Why does that matter?”

Will squinted at the parking pad. Three vehicles. “Who drives the—”

“Enough of your questions,” Bitty said. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re a police officer? Your registration form said you’re a mechanic. Which one is it?”

Will ignored her, asking Christopher, “Where’s Delilah?”

“Up here.” She was leaning out of a window on the second floor. “Do I really have to come down?”

“What the hell, man?” Drew strode toward Will with an aggressive look on his face. He and Keisha were dressed in matching blue pajamas. The man’s previously friendly face was filled with a simmering anger. “You got no right scaring the shit out of my wife like that.”

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