Page 98 of Middle of the Night

A new picture arrives while I’m still looking at the previous one. An image switch that would be jarring if the two photos weren’t exactly alike. I even toggle between them, making sure they’re not one and the same.

They aren’t.

Because there’s something in the most recent one not found in its predecessor.

A bit of shadow in the woods.

Darker than other nearby shadows.

And shaped differently, too.

I lean in closer, squinting at the screen, trying to get a better look.

Ping!

The image changes again, and this time itisjarring. Because instead of empty lawn, the trail cam has captured something else.

A face.

Inches from the camera.

Staring directly into it.

The sight of it makes me jump so hard it jolts the entire tent as I let loose with a string of obscenities. “Jesus fucking Christ, fuck!”

Outside the tent, a familiar voice says, “Wow, Mr. Marsh, that was a lot of swears.”

I take another look at the phone and collapse with relief. It’s not Billy, but another ten-year-old—Henry. The calm is short-lived because the tent’s front flaps suddenly burst open, prompting another startled “Fuck!”

“Another swear,” Henry says as he pokes his head inside the tent, the lenses of his glasses reflecting orange. “I see you bought the tent.”

“Yeah,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest in an attempt to calm my pounding heart. “Saw it in the store and couldn’t resist.”

Henry looks around the tent’s interior and, in that adorkable way of his, says, “May I enter?”

“Sure.” I scooch over so he can join me, making sure to hide the bourbon bottle under the sleeping bag. “Make yourself at home.”

Henry crawls inside and lies down, hands behind his head. “Does this mean I’m camping right now?”

“I guess,” I say. “You’ve never gone camping?”

“No. Mom says bad things happen to people who camp.”

While that’s certainly true on Hemlock Circle, I know it’s not the case elsewhere. Still, I admire Ashley’s attempt to make Henry want to avoid camping at all costs. It’s safer that way.

“I camped out here a lot when I was a kid,” I say, stretching out beside Henry, awed by how much taller I am, awed even more by the realization that I had once been as small as he is.

“Mr. Marsh, isn’t it weird to be camping in your own backyard?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Wallace,” I say as I nudge him in the side with my elbow. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“I think it’s neat.”

I gaze up at the shadows gathered in the peaked space where the tent’s sides meet, now questioning the wisdom of the purchase. I was so hopeful that being in the tent would somehow conjure memories of the night Billy was taken. But the longer I stay here, the more I doubt it will happen. It’s not that easy remembering something your mind insists on blocking out. Decades of failed therapy sessions have taught me that.

“You can come here anytime you want,” I tell Henry, figuring I might as well make the excuse I gave Russ for buying it a reality. Then the purchase won’t be a total waste after my strange experiment inevitably fails. “Think of it as a quiet place to read. Or hide from your mom.”

As if summoned by the mention of her, I hear footsteps in the grass, followed by Ashley’s voice as she says, “Henry? Where did you go?”

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