Page 20 of What Lies in the Woods

“You can still get outta here, you know,” he said. “Leave your past behind you.”

“That’s just a line from a song, not something people can really do,” I told him.

“What song is that?”

“You know, I can’t remember,” I confessed.

My fingertips grazed the side of his hand, not quite taking it. He looked down at me, a little smile on his lips. I’d slept with a lot of people who shouldn’t have slept with me, and not one of them had that look.

“Cody Benham’s a dad,” I said, shaking my head in wonder.

“It’s kind of great,” he admitted.

I let my hand drop to my side. “You’re not even a little bit tempted, are you?”

“It’s not because of the scar,” he said quickly.

“Hadn’t even crossed my mind,” I told him, and it was true.

An alarm on his phone went off. “Gotta call home before Gabby goes to bed,” he told me.

“Fuck, you’re wholesome.” I rocked my weight back, putting distance between us.

“I know. I can’t believe it either,” he said. He bent and kissed mybrow, then straightened up. He was already with his kids; I could see it in his eyes. “I’m heading home first thing tomorrow, but if you need anything before then—or after, for that matter…”

“I’ve got your number,” I said, patting the jacket pocket where I’d tucked his business card. “Get out of here, Cody Benham. I’ll be fine.”

Once Cody took off, I was left with a scratchy motel bed and the unfamiliar sounds of a new place. I hated being alone. I hated being alone at night worst of all. I could never sleep properly without another body near me. Couldn’t quiet my thoughts without someone to focus on.

I turned on the TV, hoping it would be enough to distract me. I flipped through a hundred channels that all seemed to be showingForensic Files. Not exactly my idea of relaxing viewing. It wasn’t that it made me afraid or reminded me of what had happened to me—it was more that it didn’t. I hadn’t turned out a tragedy, and it left me feeling like an impostor in the annals of victimhood. I left it on, though, watching the monotonous catalog of violence without taking any of it in.

The show ended—the husband did it, surprise—and another one started up, even grislier. I flipped around, hopping between unfunny sitcoms and a rotating assortment of cop shows, the narratives blending together in a surreal jumble of suspects, motives, and gore.

Then Alan Michael Stahl appeared, glaring from behind a courtroom table and wearing an orange jumpsuit, and I stopped. It was the picture they always used, because you could see the hatred in his eyes. Hatred for everything, but us in particular—we three girls who brought him to ruin.

Are you sure it was Stahl who attacked you?

Stahl was already under investigation for the murders when I was attacked. When Cass and Liv gave their descriptions, the detectives realized the connection immediately. I didn’t remember how I’d identified him originally. All I remembered was people telling me Ihadidentified him. All I had to do was keep agreeing.

I had always told myself that I must have remembered, right after the attack, and been able to identify him; I must have forgotten afterward.The images of the attack had been lost in the same haze that had stolen most of my memories of the hospital, that had turned the months afterward into a scattered mosaic of moments.

My refusal to do interviews had ensured that I didn’t have to deal with the kinds of questions Schreiber was asking. Cassidy had fielded those, and generally people weren’t going to ask a preteen if she thought it was weird her best friend hadn’t been raped. The defense attorney at the trial had been similarly cautious, feeling gently for gaps in our story—but it wasn’t like she could point to the other murders as evidence that Stahl hadn’t attacked me, since he claimed to be innocent of those, too.

So the inconsistencies had been glossed over and forgotten. I knew that there were message boards and that sort of thing where people dissected the case in detail, but I never went looking.

“… never charged with the other murders, but given the strong circumstantial evidence and similarities between the attack on Naomi Shaw and the other victims, those cases are considered closed,” the anchorwoman was saying. “In more lighthearted news, tonight we’re talking to two local restaurants with a yearly tradition: a battle royale—of pancakes.”

I turned it off. Why did people always say it that way? The other murders. They weren’t the other murders, because I hadn’t been murdered. They were just “the murders.” It made me wonder if I’d died and no one had had the heart to tell me.

My phone buzzed. I checked it, hoping for Liv and getting Mitch. The screen was clotted up with notifications. Mitch had called. Seven times. Apparently he’d figured out I was ignoring his texts.

He wasn’t a bad guy, Mitch. The trouble was he’d mistaken drama for virtue and suffering for art, and felt impoverished by his own good fortune. I’d known from the start that he’d sought me out because my sad story was written on my face and he was hoping to borrow it, but for a while I hadn’t minded. It was as good a way to get laid as any.

But I wouldn’t bring him here to see this. To meet the people Igrew up with. I wouldn’t let him get to know Naomi Shaw, because he couldn’t. He’d just turn her into a story that made sense to him.

I’d told him as much, though I might have phrased it less eloquently and with more swearing. If either of us had any self-respect we wouldn’t try to come back from the things we’d said to each other.

Self-respect wasn’t really something either of us was good at. I could go back. He’d never let me forget it, but he’d let me call a mulligan and retreat into our life of splitting the rent and the groceries and the dinner bill, but not the appetizers because he only ate the mozzarella sticks and they were three dollars cheaper.

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