Page 95 of Wished

“I’m going,” I say, glancing at Emme.

“I’ll watch her.” Dorene waves her hand. “Besides, Janice will be back with the coffee in five minutes.”

“You’re right.” I grab my purse and rush toward the door. I turn back when I reach the threshold to smile at Dorene. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t hurry,” she calls, shuffling through the VHS tapes next to her bed. “I don’t need you until tomorrow!”

I rush out of the room, down the long halls, through the lobby, and into the bright sun.

My heart races. My hands are sweating.

I grab a cab and then have it drop me off a quarter mile from the Barone Estate, where there’s only the rippling lake, tall grass blowing in the wind, and the deep, leafy green of the woods on the eastern edge of Max’s property.

Once the taxi is gone I hurry into the trees, picking my way through the loamy undergrowth shaded by thick pines. The cool air is full of evergreen and moss scents, the ground crackles beneath me, and an alpine thrush pipes a long, lone call through the muted woods.

I was right—the sights, sounds, and smells are all overwhelming after spending a week in the sterile confines of a hospital room. Even the snapping of a twig beneath my foot sounds loud. All the same, I hurry forward, hoping Max’s story of the folly in the woods was real.

Finally, my hands shaking, my breathing loud in my ears, I drop to my knees. The damp, loamy ground bleeds a cold wetness through my jeans.

It’s real.

I’m in the shade at the edge of a small ruin. There are eight stone columns, each about six feet tall, wide enough that you can barely circle your arms around them. They surround a twelve-foot-wide octagon with a mosaic floor. The gold, indigo, and azure tiles are faded and weathered, but the design is still clear. The mosaic is in the pattern of a lover’s knot, just like the pendant on the necklace. The folly is open to the sky, just like Max said. It’s surrounded by old pine trees and tall oaks, shaded by leaves and tall-reaching branches. Moss, pine needles, and leaves are littered over the folly.

“It’s real,” I say, my voice penetrating the hush of the woods.

Next to me, there’s a pile of moss-covered gray rocks, just like Max said there’d be.

I shove them aside and they topple noisily to the leafy ground. My hands scrape over the coarse stone as I move the last of them away.

Then I dig.

The soft ground gives easily. Moss. Soft, gnarled roots. Dry pine needles. Decomposing leaves. I dig through the layers, my bare hands pushing aside the cold dirt.

At first I hurriedly dig through the soil. It’s rich, mahogany-brown, and it smells like Christmas. I feel as if I’m unwrapping a present.

What will Max say when I bring him the letter?

Will he believe me?

Does he already remember?

The anticipation is almost too much to bear.

But then, after the hole is two feet wide and eight inches deep, I slow down. I slow my movements, calm my breathing, scrape aside the dirt, slower, slower, delaying the moment when I finally admit the truth.

Ten inches deep.

Twelve.

Fifteen.

And finally, I stop.

The soil is now dark brown, almost black, so hard-packed and full of thick, gnarled pine roots that I know no one buried anything beneath this point.

In fact, no one buried anything here at all.

The hole is empty.

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