Page 90 of What Lies in the Woods

Cass had taken the bracelet with Persephone’s name on it, too, but she’d given it to me at the hospital. A bit of extra magic, she said, to help me get better.

I picked up the stack of Polaroid pictures. I remembered that camera. I’d found it in my dad’s stuff when a stack toppled, along with a few boxes of film. The film had been old even then, and the photos hadcome out washed-out and hard to decipher at times, but I’d hauled it with me everywhere until I ran out of film. I hadn’t thought about it since, but I supposed that was the spark that had gotten me interested in photography.

It always came back to that summer, didn’t it?

With the passage of years, the poor quality had given the photos an eerie quality. A blurry snapshot of Cass in the woods, holding up the goblet with the starry scarf around her shoulders like a shawl, took on an air of ancient mystery. A shadowed shot of Liv, looking upward, her surroundings indistinct, seemed as if she were emerging from a blackened void. Cass and Liv walking side by side, pinkies hooked together, Liv looking over her shoulder at the camera, at me, with a brilliant slice of smile.

Then a photo of the three of us, together. I was clearly holding the camera. We were sitting on Liv’s childhood bed, shoulder to shoulder, and I was in the middle. Cass and Liv were sticking out their tongues, looking at the camera. I was looking at Liv, my eyes shining.

A little breath slipped between my lips, my heart aching. Liv was dead—but so were all three of those girls. The girls we’d been before.

Under the photos were two pieces of notebook paper, folded over, the creases worn with age. I unfolded one delicately, and my breath caught in my throat.

I stole money from Mrs. Green’s purse.

I hate my dad and sometimes I wish that he would die. He’s a drunk and he’s useless.

I cheated on a math test last month.

There were a dozen more lines. I’d written them all. My secrets. We’d all made a page like this—the sixth ritual. The darkest secrets of our hearts, Cass had said. We wrote them down and then we burned them. She’d thrown them into the fire and rambled about purifying our souls with the flames. But then how were they here?

I unfolded the other page. It had to be Liv’s—I recognized the handwriting.

I’m not good enough for the Goddesses. I have to try harder but I’m afraid.

I’m not a good friend.

I’m weak and I’m a coward.

I can’t do anything right.

“Oh, Liv,” I whispered. “I didn’t know it was that bad.” My heart ached for the little girl she’d been. She’d been so vulnerable, and the things that were coming for her were too immense for anyone to handle, much less a child whose demons were starting to wake. But she’d survived them—only for her life to be stolen from her.

I tried to picture it again. Liv by the pond, a gun pointing at her head, and the hand holding the gun—Ethan’s. I bit down on a scream, crumpling the papers in my fist. Cass must have kept these. Had she thrown fake pages into the fire? Why?

Probably so that she could read them, I realized, and sighed. She’d always had trouble letting go of control. She’d probably been worried we’d written something about her.

“What are you doing?”

I twisted around, adrenaline spiking. Oscar stood in the doorway, watching me with his usual blunt curiosity.

“Just reliving some old memories,” I said. I gestured at the Polaroids, mouth dry. “I took these. Ages ago.”

Oscar leaned against the doorframe. He’d ditched his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, baring thick forearms. “You were always a nosy little—”

“Can you try to not be a complete creep for thirty seconds?” I snapped.

He grinned. “—kid,” he finished. He pushed off the doorframe and ambled toward me. My body tensed but I made myself stay still. Hepicked up one of the photographs. Cass with a crown of wildflowers, holding a crystal we’d tied to a bit of twine. “You were always doing such weird shit.”

“We were weird kids,” I said. He was close enough that I could feel his proximity, the shift of air on my skin. I’d never felt safe when Oscar was around. Once upon a time, that was why I’d gone to see him. Danger and pain had felt easier than safety. Now I was all too aware of the strength in those broad hands and of how badly he could hurt me.

“Nah, it was cool,” he said. “Weird-ass little witch girls. At least you were interesting.”

I stared at him, bile in my throat. “You hated me. The things you did—”

“You really are still hung up on that, aren’t you? Yeah, I was a piece of shit.”

“Still are,” I said bitterly.

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