Page 68 of What Lies in the Woods

“What are you doing?” I demanded, thrashing my way free of the blankets.

He looked up with a hint of guilt. “I’m tracking your phone. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh.” I should have thought of that. Blame it on the head trauma.I wrapped the coverlet around me and stood next to him. He had the Track My Phone page open, but all it showed was a last location—the hotel.

“He must have turned it off. But if he switches it back on, we’ll know where,” Ethan said.

“How did you log in?” I asked. I was hardly a security whiz, but I did have everything password protected.

“Your password for the phone was stored on your browser,” he said. “I guessed your laptop password. Took me a few tries, and I locked myself out twice, but I got it. Artemis—that was your goddess, right?”

“Cass picked it,” I said. “Probably not the most secure.”

“It is in the book,” he acknowledged. “I would have just asked you, but—”

“But you didn’t want to wake me up,” I said. It made sense, but it still made me feel uneasy. An intruder had rifled through my files, and the fact that he was a friend didn’t make it less unsettling. He’d brought all my luggage in, too, leaving it by the wall. I should be grateful for that, too—I shouldn’t have left my expensive gear out in the car overnight. I should be. I wasn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about what we know, and what we don’t,” Ethan said. “I still think that the most useful thing to pursue is Persephone—Jessi Walker.”

“What about Junior?” I asked, shaking off my unease. He was just trying to help.

He sighed. “I can keep looking, but he’s done a pretty thorough job of vanishing,” Ethan said.

“If I could just see a picture of him, I’d know if it was him,” I said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he assured me. “In the meantime, I think we need to make a rule. No going anywhere alone. He could have killed you.”

“He didn’t, though,” I said. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Did it mean he hadn’t killed Liv? Or was it just because I’d caught him by surprise? Ethan was right. We didn’t know how to find answers about mymystery man, not yet. The questions we knew how to ask were about Jessi. Although I did have one lead.

Oscar.

But talking to Oscar would mean Ethan finding out about the worst decision I’d ever made. It would change things. The disgust I felt at myself—he’d feel that, too.

“You should get yourself cleaned up,” Ethan was saying. “You look—”

I held up a warning finger. “If you ever want me to ill-advisedly hop into bed with you again, you will stop talking,” I said.

“Stunning. Truly stunning,” he course-corrected. I rolled my eyes.

“Very convincing.”

I commandeered the laptop long enough to email my engagement-shoot clients, letting them know I’d had a family emergency and had to reschedule. Then I showered, cleaning tenderly around my various injuries. I was moving like a geriatric patient, shuffling and hunching, and the hot water did little to ease my tightly wound muscles, but I at least looked less like an accident victim by the time I emerged from the shower. As I dried off, Ethan’s muffled voice filtered in. He was talking to someone.

“… longer than I expected. No, nothing’s wrong. I’m just doing some research.” Who was he talking to? “No, you don’t want to know, because it always upsets you. No. No. Yes. Mom—”

I relaxed a bit and then scolded myself. Who did Ithinkhe would be talking to? My initial reaction had been suspicion, but that didn’t make any sense. If he was talking to someone nefarious he wouldn’t take the call while I was a cheap hollow-core door away.

I stepped out, drying my hair, and he gave me an apologetic look as he continued talking. “It’s my job. I like it. I know you don’t get it, but I really don’t want to have this conversation with you right now. I promise you I am fine. I’ll come visit soon. Okay. Give my love to George and the girls. Love you, Mom. Bye.” He hung up and sagged.

“Let me guess. Your mother is horrified by the fact that you spend all your time researching gruesome murders?”

“Pretty much,” Ethan said. “Her husband doesn’t help. He thinks it’s a sign of fundamental amorality or something. A small price to pay for her having a decent guy in her life.”

“Being worried about you means she cares, at least,” I said. I finger-combed my damp hair into a semblance of proper order.

“Do you ever talk to your mom?”

“Once a year on her birthday,” I replied. “She swooped in to play Good Mother for a few weeks after the attack, but it didn’t last long. We get along better at a distance anyway. She just was never meant to be a parent. What about your dad? You close with him?”

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