Page 79 of What Lies in the Woods

I made my way across the rut-striped yard, keeping my steps steady and reminding myself I was a long way from eleven. Oscar was no kind of threat to me now. But it wasn’t the gas station I was thinking about as I crossed the yard. It was the shed. That time I’d been entirely willing, and that was what made the memory sting. I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for making a mistake like Oscar Green.

“Naomi.” He worked the rag over his knuckles with limited result.

“Oscar.” I stopped a good eight feet from him. I never stopped being startled by how beautiful his eyes were, even now. Big eyes, the kind ofblue people wrote poems about. They tricked you into thinking there was something gentle hidden under that rough exterior.

Oscar gave me a grin, sitting his weight back on his heels. “You get tired of that string bean already?” he asked. He dropped his voice low. “I got a cot in the office if you’re looking for an upgrade.”

How did he know about me and Ethan? It didn’t matter. “Get a new shtick, Oscar. That one’s tired.”

He chuckled. “You used to like it.”

“You were only ever a mistake,” I said.

“One you kept on making,” he said. He flicked the rag over his shoulder. “What was it, six, seven times?”

It was six. But I wasn’t going to let him know I’d been counting. When he’d run his blunt fingers along my scars, had he been remembering the knife that made them? Had it been funny to him? Had it excited him?

I swallowed against a sudden wave of queasiness.

He crossed his arms, inspecting me. “The only use you ever had for me was a good lay. So if you’re not here for that, what the fuck do you want?” he asked.

“The FBI was asking me questions.”

“So?”

“About you.” That got his attention. “They seem to think that you might have been the one who stabbed me.” I watched his response carefully.

“What? It was that serial killer,” Oscar said, scoffing. Was that surprise in his expression, or a hint of guilt?

“They don’t think so. They think we made that up. To cover for you,” I pressed.

“Why the fuck would I stab you?” Oscar demanded. “You were an irritating little cunt who thought you were hot shit, but if I killed people for that I’d be neck-deep in cute little corpses.”

I blinked, taken aback. That was vicious even for the version of Oscar he saved for me.

“Why are you telling me this, anyway?” Oscar asked. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Not because you want to help me.”

I drew in a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. If I made it seem like I thought the FBI might be right, he’d shut down. “I’m giving you a heads-up. In return, I want some information,” I said.

“About what?” he asked, plainly irritated.

“Jessi Walker.”

The name transformed his whole face, surprise opening it up, making him look strangely vulnerable for an instant—and then he locked down again, scowling. “I haven’t seen Jessi in… what has it been, twenty-five years? Twenty-four? The fuck you want to know about her?”

“My dad said you spent a lot of time together.”

“Sure. Jessi was cool. Good-looking. Could hold her liquor.” High praise from Oscar. “She was like one of the boys, you know what I mean?”

“She wouldn’t sleep with you?” I interpreted. “That’s not exactly what I heard.”

“We messed around a few times. Nothing serious.” He gave a shrug, but there was something angry and wounded in his expression. Cody and Jim had it right, I thought—whatever had actually happened between the two of them, Oscar had feelings for Jessi. Or his version of feelings, anyway. “Anyway, I wasn’t her type, turned out.”

I raised my eyebrows at that. “Who was?”

“Oh, you know girls with daddy issues.” He looked me straight in the eye, dark amusement curling his lips. “Looking for a savior, every one. Somebody to step in and protect them.”

“Not Cody,” I said.

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