Page 4 of Better Watch Out

…Maybe Alfonso.

“Maybe,” I agree in a chipper voice that’s nothing like how I’m feeling. But I flash a practiced grin at maybe-Alfonso and head toward the shelves, any shelves really, to escape what threatens to become an awkward conversation.

Sitka doesn’t follow me, but I don’t ask her to. In my mind, she’s a worthy sacrifice to Possibly-George for me to chuck things in my basket in peace without having to commit to a Christmas party I’m totally not attending.

Pop-Tarts are my first priority, of course. Followed by K-cups and two different creamers, then sugar and a few other necessities like jelly beans and brownie mix. I figure for my meals I really will call in delivery and charge it to Dad’s card, in petty vengeance for sticking me here, alone, for the week over Christmas.

It’s not until I’m at the back of the store that I remember the news board, and only because I find myself looking at it without really registering what it is. Eyes narrowed, I walk up to thewall filled with old and new articles, trying to find some that I remember behind the glass.

Of course, every story has something to do with the area. Whether Lake George, the mountains, or Bolton’s Landing itself. I trail my fingers over the glass, tracing headlines and reading about marriages, celebrity appearances, and mysterious deaths or accidents that made the local paper. Or, in some cases, bigger regional papers.

It’s not until I find the newest articles that I actually start reading. And that’s only because the headline of an article from last year catches my attention and refuses to let me go.

HIKERS FOUND DEAD ON TONGUE MOUNTAIN TRAIL.

It takes a few minutes for me to place the location, but when I do, I realize it’s somewhere I’d been as a hiking-loving kid. That, of course, was before I learned the horrors of exercise and thought bounding outside through the cold and snow as the altitude increased could be consideredfun.

I’ve learned better by now, of course. Glancing back, I find Could-Be-Harry leaning on the counter talking to a woman, his hand on Sitka’s head like she’s just part of the scenery here. Good for her. Winning over old people is one of her most useful skills, and it gives me the privacy to lean in closer to scan the article.

“No way,” I murmur to myself when I come across the wordssuspected foul play. There’s never been anything like a murder here that I’ve heard about. Hell, I don’t even think people break and enter in this area; it’s way too much trouble to get up and down the mountain roads. I definitely know the trail, I realize, when I read further. The fact becomes even clearer when I survey the grainy, black and white picture of the spot where the bodies were found.

I’ve been there before.

Multiple times, in fact. Enough to remember this exact overlook with its wooden fence and info-dump sign about local wildlife. It’s not exactly the most popular trail on Tongue Mountain, but it’s still well used enough that?—

“Crazy, right?” I levitate when the store owner speaks, leaning over my shoulder to squint at the article as I scoot away to create space between us. “It was a shock to everyone here when it happened last year. My nephew was the one to find the bodies.”

“Really?” Absently I whistle, calling Sitka to my side and glancing down when her warm, dry nose pokes into my palm. “Was it bad?”

The man sucks in a breath through his teeth, then looks over at me with a thoughtful, studying squint. “Real bad,” he says finally. As if he’s decided I can handle it. “Whoever did that to those hikers, they had a real nasty streak to ‘em. All kinds of marks and cuts. Chopped up into pieces and messed up all over. Like theywantedthem to hurt. Like theyenjoyedit.” He grimaces, then shakes his head. “Well, anyway. It’s been over a year and nothin’ like that has happened since. Not to rush ya, but are you ready to check out? I’m only asking because I want you to get back to the house before the snow hits.”

“Oh. Umm…” I blink owlishly down at my basket. “Yeah? I think? Let me just grab a couple more things, then I’m ready.” He nods and leaves as I add a few bottles of cream soda and Dr. Pepper to my basket, followed by some dill pickle chips and a box of popcorn. Truly, the essentials. Along with a box of hot chocolate and a gallon of milk, of course.

Hopefully-Harry barely gives me a look as he rings me up, and I’m sure he undercharges me when he gives me the total. Part of me wants to tell him to tack on gratuity. After all, it’s notmymoney I’m using when I put it on Dad’s tab.

But I’m not feeling that petty. At least not yet, when I have all week to explore the local delivery options.

Maybe someone around here can deliver a nice wagyu steak for Sitka.

“Thank you.” I smile again, hoping he can’t tell just how fake the look is, and hook the plastic bags in my hand. “I’ll see you again, I’m sure. Not like there’s any other store here.”

“Just be careful, all right? I know you used to basically be a local and all, so I don’t have to remind you, but the snow hits fast and piles up quick. Don’t want you gettin’ stuck somewhere with no way back and no service.” Belatedly, he picks up a flashlight from the display on the counter, and slips it and some batteries into my bag. “Just in case. On the house.”

“Oh, thank you. Seriously, I didn’t even think about it," I admit, feeling a bit ashamed of myself for forgetting something so important. “Have a good night.” Well, evening, I suppose, since the sun is still barely touching the trees. I probably have an hour or so of daylight left, and it’s only twelve minutes to the house. Hopefully, by the time the sun has set, I’ll have remembered how to get a fire going and be drowning in hot chocolate.

Out in the parking lot, I can’t help but groan when I see a shiny grey truck parked obnoxiously close to the driver’s side of my car. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, yanking open my passenger door and letting Sitka jump in before putting the bags in the back seat. “Learn to fucking park.” There's no one around to hear me, and for a few moments I fully consider opening the door of my dad’s car hard enough to leave a mark on the paint of the shiny, fancy truck.

But I don’t. Because I’m better than that today.

It takes a minute, but after a few mumbled curses and thoughts that maybe launching through the passenger side would’ve been easier, I manage to shimmy in the driver’s side.Still, with grit and determination, I finally slump down in the driver’s seat, panting and closing the door carefully without ever touching the truck.

“I hate people like you,” I tell no one as I start the car. “It’s wild how important you think you are and how you couldn’t parkanywhere elsein this whole damn parking lot.” But I refuse to take it personally. It’s not like whoever it is knows me and wants to make my day a bit more difficult.

It’s just a stupid coincidence and stupid, selfish ignorance.

CHAPTER THREE

There’s absolutely no reason for me to be up here today. There’sno reasonfor me to be layered up in fleece lined leggings, joggers, hiking boots with crew socks under cozy wool ones, a thermal shirt, and enough hoodies to make me look plumper than my usual size twelve self. On the bright side, I’d sort of missed the feeling of a furry neck gaiter over my face and gloves on my hands. But only because they feel nostalgic.

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