Page 5 of Better Watch Out

My steps crunch in the fresh snow of the hiking trail as I walk, and in my right ear, my rarely used hiking playlist gives me something to focus on. But I don’t wear both earbuds; I’m smarter than that. I’d rather know in advance if a rabid elk or migrating polar bear is trying to waddle up to me.

Not to mention, this way I can keep an ear out for any concerning noises from Sitka.

Clearly, this is now the best day of my dog’s life as we head up the trail. I’m grateful this particular trail isn’t as long as some others, but my legs still burn from the forgotten exertion of hikingfor fun.

My husky zooms across the trail in front of me, paws throwing up snow as she personifies the very definition offrolicking.“Having fun?” I ask, voice muffled behind the furrycovering over my mouth and nose. It’s not as cold as it could be. Not as cold as it’s been when I’ve spent time up here before.

Andcertainlynot as cold as the night I spent locked in the backyard shed without a jacket.

The Tongue mountain range is just as gorgeous as I remember. To my right, the land falls away only a few feet away from the trail, showing an amazing view of the entirety of Lake George. This side, the west side, is the area I’m most familiar with, but I vaguely remember my dad taking me to some places on the other side of the lake.

I remember looking at this exact mountain from the other side, surprised at how big it seemed.

This trail, unlike some others, doesn’t wind through the forest and against the cliffs. Hiking one of those would be too much work for me anyway, no matter how great it is to run my hands along the cool stone like I did when I was a kid.

And really, entertainment isn’t the reason for this winter hike, anyway.

It’s morbid curiosity, pure and simple.

With the snow from last night and this morning having lightened up, I can easily see the trail in front of me. I’d considered not doing this, but when the weather got a bit better and I wasn’t convinced I’d drive into a pine tree, I’d made the rash decision to come out here.

To the exact trailhead that leads to the place the hikers were murdered last year.

“There’s no reason for this,” I tell Sitka when she does another circuit around me, her fur slowly getting more and more caked in fresh snow. “I didn’t know them.” Hell, I don’t even know who they were. “And it’s not like I was here. I haven’t been here inforever.” Eight years and three months; give or take six days. But really, who’s counting?

Sitka doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even stay by my side. Instead, she runs off into the woods, yelping with excitement. I give her about ten steps before I whistle, not needing to say her name to call her back to me. Unsurprisingly, it works. Sitka really is glued to my side, and I wonder if we’re the picture of codependence.

Though maybe relying on a two-year-old husky to bolster my mental health is a questionable decision, all things considered.

When she goes off again, I barely notice. I’m too busy watching the lake, the birds, and gazing up at the sky as snow spirals lazily down to melt in my hair. I hate to admit it to myself, and I definitely won’t be admitting it to anyone else, but…

I missed it here.

My heart twists in my chest, aching at the loss of having Dad here to celebrate Christmas with. Even Cheryl isn’t that bad. Especially since she loves making the holidays as warm and inviting as possible, and always made sure that every single one of us felt involved and included.

I miss those days…almost.

In my rose-tinted memories, even Boone and Fletcher seemed to mellow out around the holidays. I vaguely remember the three of us sitting at Fletcher’s window, mugs of hot chocolate in our hands as we watched the snow outside. Boone, of course, had been obsessed with the idea of wolves in the area, and had wanted me to go outside and howl to see if I could summon them.

When I asked ‘why me?,’ he informed me that I would be the most perfect wolf-bait out of the three of us. Fletcher had rolled his eyes and shoved Boone’s arm, nearly causing him to dump his hot chocolate all over his lap while I’d cackled.

Sometimes I missthosestepbrothers. Even though most of the time, especially as we got older, that wasn’t what I came home to. More often than not, it was Boone doing whateverhe could to piss me off, and Fletcher watching me whenever I turned around, his gaze searching and thoughtful.

And of course, there was all the shit that happened at school with William Fitzhenry.

Blinking, I lower my chin and look at the trail in front of me, eyes streaming from the cold. The snow is starting to pick up again, but I’m pretty much at my destination. The Highrise Lean-to, set a few yards back from one of the most popular and photogenic overlooks of this trail, stands sturdy up the hill in front of me. By the time I make it there, my legs are burning from the ascent, and I let out a huff as I sit down under the roof of the small wooden structure, the bench under me worn and smooth from years and years of butts.

It really is gorgeous here. There’s no denying that. The lake looks peaceful and glassy-smooth today, and the snow-covered ground looks like something out of a movie. The snow seems to muffle all the sound of my surroundings, leaving me only with the soft music in my ear while I settle back to lean against the wall behind me.

“Sitka?” I call, realizing belatedly that she’s not anywhere I can see. I remove my earbud, shoving it in one of my hoodie pockets as I tilt my head to the side, trying to hear her padding through the snow.

But I don’t.

“Sitka!” Before I can do more than shift in preparation of getting to my feet, Sitka rounds the corner of the lean-to, tail wagging happily and eyes bright. Somehow she’s managed to brush the snow off of herself, though I have no idea how. It’s not like I’ve done it for her, and rolling on the ground would just make it worse.

“I thought you loved being covered in snow.” I chuckle, reaching out to rub behind her ears. She sits down in front of me,tongue lolling, and soaks up the attention with the full-throttle happiness only a dog is capable of.

Why this place?The thought whispers through my mind as I look across the flat ground of the overlook. The pictures didn’t really specifywhereit happened, and the internet hadn’t given me much more. Hell, the internet is the only reason I know the murders happened at this part of the trail, instead of somewhere else.

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