Page 77 of I'll Be Waiting

“It’s not drugs,” she whispers.

“You don’t know what caused—”

“The mushrooms aren’t drugs.”

I sigh. “Fine. They’re ‘organic’ or whatever. Still—”

“They’re not drugs,” she hisses. “They’re just regular store-bought mushrooms. Dried ones for cooking.”

“What?”

My voice goes high enough that her eyes round in alarm, but up ahead, Patrice doesn’t seem to notice. It’s as if we could stop walking, and she’d just keep marching through the forest.

“I made it up,” Heather whispers. “Not the séance stuff in Cuba, but the woman giving us mushrooms and me bringing them back.”

“You what?”

“The cousins said they had used mushrooms once, and it helped with a séance. I knew Patrice really wanted to try something, and mushrooms are natural, so I figured that was safe enough. I planned to buy some from Freddie, but when I asked, he laughed at me. So I had to improvise.”

“With store-bought dried mushrooms?” I would have laughed if my brain weren’t spinning. If Patrice didn’t take any drugs…

“It’s not a bad trip,” Heather says, “and she didn’t drink enough wine to be drunk. Iknowwe heard Roddy. You know it, too. It’s because we did the séance where they died, and because you let Patrice change the wording of the summoning.”

“Ilether change it?”

“I said it wasn’t a good idea, and you never backed me up. She actually summoned Roddy, Nic, and now she’s possessed, and we’re alone in the forest with her, while she’s possessed by the spirit of a crazed killer.”

I bite my tongue not to laugh at how ridiculous she sounds.

“I really don’t think it was actually Roddy,” I whisper.

“Well, she’s possessed bysomething.Have you seen her eyes? Have you seen the way she shakes? Everyone thinks she’s sick. Only she’s not sick in her body. It’s in her head. Just like her aunt.”

My jaw sets. There’s a twist in Heather’s voice, as if Patrice’s aunt Lori were a raging lunatic locked in a padded room instead of a woman dealing with the horror of seeing a violent tragedy. I have relatives with mental illness, and we don’t talk about them that way.

“What are you two whispering about back there?” Patrice says, startling us.

She’s standing ten feet away, lit only by my flashlight beam.

“Just talking,” Heather calls back in an unsteady voice.

“Well, stop. Especially if you’re talking about me. This was your idea, Heather, doing that séance and bringing those mushrooms. I’ve been trying not to blame you for what’s happening.”

“Whatishappening?” I say. “Can you talk about it? So we understand?”

Patrice just wheels and marches onward. Heather leans in, as if to keep whispering, but I break into a jog to catch up to Patrice. She must hear my footfalls—and see my wildly bouncing flashlight beam—but she just keeps moving at the same pace.

“Patrice?” I say, my voice lower. “If we had some idea what was going on, we could help.”

“Youarehelping. By sending it back.”

“Sending what back?”

She doesn’t answer, just moves faster as if she can lose me that way. I pick up speed.

“Patrice?” I say. “Please. You’re going through something, and I want to know what it is.”

No answer.

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