Page 89 of What Lies in the Woods

She looked at me aghast. “You told a serial killer’s son that you lied to put his father in prison.”

“I’m not sure he was a serial killer,” I said, which didn’t make it better.

Ethan had been sure, though. Unless that was another lie.

“He must have come to talk to me—but I wasn’t even here. No, he came to talk toyou. And Liv. She said she’d talk to him.”

“I didn’t know that,” Cass said, head tilted, frowning. “Do you know what she told him?”

“Nothing, I think,” I said. “But what if he confronted her? She wasn’t going to tell him anything until we all agreed, but if he pushed, if he got angry…” I couldn’t imagine Ethan with a gun in his hands, rage on his face. I couldn’t imagine him lying to me like this, either. I had no idea who he really was. What he was really capable of.

Cass’s face was pale. “Do you really think he might have killed Olivia?” she asked, voice hushed.

“I don’t know. I need to go. I need to— I can’t—”

“You should stay. Wait until you’re feeling steadier,” Cass said.

“No, I have to—all my stuff is at the motel room. I have to go get it. I have to…” Shit. I couldn’t think past the motel room door. He’d be there. Waiting. What was I going to do? What was I going to say?

“Here.” Cass pressed a key into my hand. I frowned at it, uncomprehending. “You’re staying with me. As long as you need to. And you’re not going to that motel room alone. Go wait at my place. We’ll take care of this.”

“We should tell Bishop,” I said. “Shouldn’t we?”

“We need a plan. We need to be smart about this,” Cass said. “Go to my place. Don’t call anyone, don’t answer the door. I have to stick around for another hour or so, but then I’ll come right there, and we’ll figure out exactly what we need to do, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. Cass would figure it out. She always did. I folded my hand over the key, letting it bite into my palm. My mind was reeling. Ethan was Alan Stahl, Jr. He came here because he knew I’d lied before even I did. He’d been angry. He blamed us. He’d come to town. Olivia had agreed to talk to him, and he’d hurt her, and—

What? Why stick around?

To keep an eye on things. To make sure no one else suspected him. To fuck with the person who’d fucked up his life.

“Are you okay to drive?” Cass was asking.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I lied. I took a steadying breath. “It’s just a shock. I’d better go.”

“Not to the motel,” she said firmly.

“I’ll go to your house,” I agreed. I couldn’t think past that, but I could get that far. I folded the page from the file into thirds, then in half, with overly precise movements. I tucked it into my skirt pocket slowly, as if by taking my time I might wait out the pain. Sneak past while it wasn’t looking.

Cass got me out the back door. I barely registered getting into my car, starting the engine. I was parked in Cass’s driveway before my brain caught up with my body, and when I stepped into her empty house I just stood there, uncertain.

I’d never been in Cass’s house alone. It had an antiseptic quality to it. Even the decorations seemed utilitarian, there to create a certain image. Cass had decided who she wanted to be and constructed her life around it. The single mom, successful business owner. She’d clawed her way to normalcy. I could understand why she hadn’t wanted Liv to disrupt it.

If we hadn’t shut her down, would any of this have happened?

I drifted up the stairs to the bedroom and sat on the end of the bed, feeling ridiculous in my black dress.

I should have known. I only ever went for terrible men. There was always going to be rot at the core of what I had with Ethan. I just hadn’t known it would bethis.

Ethan didn’t seem like a violent guy. But his father had had everyone fooled, too.

I wiped my eyes to clear my vision and took a deep breath that didn’t seem to fill my lungs. Across from me, the closet door was open. On the highest shelf in the back was a wide wooden box, Celtic knotwork carved along the rim.

She’d kept it all these years. Of course she had. All of us had kept our trinkets. Our pieces of the past. I stood and walked slowly to the shelf. There was a footstool in the corner of the closet, and I maneuvered it under the box and stepped up.

It was heavy, solid. We’d found it at the antique store, coated in dust. The lid was carved with twining leaves and vines. I had been the one who found it. Cass had been the one who kept it. That was the way it worked.

I carried the box over to the bed and opened the lid. It creaked faintly. Inside was a collection of Liv’s drawings; a stack of Polaroid photos; a gaudy costume ring I remembered Cass getting from her grandmother; a silk scarf patterned with stars; a cat’s collar, “Remington” etched on the tag; a silver cup we’d declared the Goddess Goblet. A small cloth bag held a tiny, hard object; I didn’t have to take it out to know that it was a knucklebone.

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