Page 42 of What Lies in the Woods

The trouble with a town as small as Chester was it didn’t take long to drive from one end to the other. No time to mull things over in motion. After I left Cass’s place I ended up back at the motel by default, pacing back and forth.

I hated police procedurals. I didn’t read mysteries. The two episodes ofForensic FilesI’d watched the day before were the extent of my true-crime education in the last decade. Being part of one of those stories had ruined the rest as far as enjoyment was concerned, and I had no desire to gaze into the maw of human darkness in some quest for understanding. Until now, it hadn’t presented a problem.

Which meant I didn’t know where to even start piecing together what Liv had found. I was failing her already and I hadn’t even gotten started.

I grabbed my phone and plugged in searches.Missing persons. Identifying a body. Identifying a skeleton.There was too much and not enough. I had no idea where to begin, and everything I clicked on was either a sad story that had nothing to do with mine or a bunch of basic information anyone who’d ever watched a cop show would know.

Maybe if I was one of those true-crime aficionados who could recite the name of every serial killer since Jack the Ripper, I’d be better off. Mitch’s sister was constantly listening to murder podcasts. She’d been nice enough to ask if I minded her listening to the ones about me, and she hadn’t asked any intrusive questions afterward, but she wasalways looking at me weirdly. Somewhere between worship and hunger. Though maybe those were the same thing.

Idly, I typed in “Ethan Schreiber podcast.” A handful of podcasts popped up, his name in the credits as a sound editor. I was surprised to see that they weren’t anything crime-related at all—one that seemed to be general news, one about pets, and one about UFOs. But on the last one, he was listed as the host.Aftershocks. I pulled up the description.

Aftershocksexplores the lasting damage left in the wake of violent crimes. Beginning with the crimes themselves and then moving forward, examining the impact on those left behind—victims, perpetrators, friends, family, and communities forever altered by these unthinkable events.

There were two seasons. Every crime had several episodes devoted to it, labeled based on who was the focus.Brenda Martin: The Witness—Brenda Martin: The Family—Brenda Martin: The Killer. The episodes were substantial, too. They must be in-depth.

I put in earbuds and started one of them mostly at random, skipping past the intro. Ethan’s voice, smoothed by the editing, filled my ears.

Deedee Kent lived a quiet life. That was how nearly everyone described her, from her third-grade teacher to the coworkers who threw her retirement party: quiet. She kept to herself. She didn’t have any friends in particular, unless you counted the cats she fed on her back porch. She never married. She’d wave hello to the neighbors, but never stop to chat.

It wasn’t that she was unfriendly, everyone hastens to add. She was just quiet.

Deedee’s life didn’t seem to leave much of a mark on the world around her. But her death sent out ripples that tore apart a family, changed the trajectory of a life for the better, and permanently altered her community.

I switched to another episode, and another.Anabelle Gross was walking home from her computer class—Daniela Arroyo had just graduated high school—found his body three days later—missing poster still hanging in the window—every year on her birthday—

The stories blended into one another as I switched randomly between episodes, listening to only snatches of each before my stomach turned.Children. Old women. Young men. And the only thing they had in common—wehad in common—was that someone had come for them. To kill them—but that word wasn’t sufficient, was it?

To annihilate them. To turn everything they were into what was done to them. Into the pain and the fear and the ragged, gaping hole that was left when they were gone.

I turned it off and threw the phone onto the bed, tasting something sour. It was endless. Death and loss and violence. I didn’t want to hear about people shot or beaten or strangled to death. I didn’t want to imagine them dying, alone and afraid. Because they were all alone, even when they weren’t.

Everyone dies alone.

So had Liv. So had Persephone. Both of them, alone in the woods. Like I had been, bleeding, crawling toward safety that didn’t exist.

I’d never really escaped. None of us had. We tried to find our way out, but it drew us back in. We’d all rot among the roots and stones eventually.

I rubbed at my arms, fighting a chill that seemed to radiate from my core. My nerves prickled, an unformed sense of dread and danger growing steadily as my damaged psyche translated my anxiety straight into panic. I clenched and unclenched my hands, trying to focus on the physical sensation.

“You are safe,” I told myself, monotone. “You are here. You aren’t in the woods.”

Yes, you are,my whole body insisted, and I dug my nails hard against the scar on my wrist. Like I could slide them under its edge and pull that seam of flesh open again.

A casual knock on the door brought me whirling around. It was a solid five seconds before I processed what I was supposed to do and went to answer it.

I opened the door to discover Ethan Schreiber in a cozy brown sweater, a white paper bag flecked with grease in one hand and a cardboard tray with two foam cups in the other. I stared, unable to interpretthe scene or comprehend how he had transformed from a voice in my ear talking about Deedee Kent to the man standing in front of me.

He held out the bag. “You strike me as someone who needs to be reminded to eat,” he said. The scent of diner burger and French fries oozed from the bag. My stomach growled.

“You brought me a burger,” I said blankly.

“And a milkshake,” he confirmed. He smiled—the kind of close-lipped smile you gave an animal you were hoping wouldn’t maul you.

“Thanks,” I said, and stuck out a hand.

He pulled the bag back out of reach. “It comes with company.”

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