Page 67 of Forget Me Not
After all, if Mitchell drove the camper into those woods, then he must have come from this general direction… and ifNataliewas near the camper during one of those parties, then I doubt they had to go far to find it.
I can feel the crunch of brush beneath my feet as I walk, the soft soil of the vineyard morphing into twigs and dead leaves. The forest is thick, and as soon as I enter, it immediately starts to feel darker out here: the moon blotted out of the sky, long shadows casting shapes in the night. I try my best to stay in a straight line, tapping on my flashlight as soon as I’ve ventured in a few yards.
Then I shine the light in a slow circle, the silhouettes of the trees staring straight back.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to keep moving forward; swallowing my fear and counting my steps as I walk. It would be so easy to get lost out here, disoriented in the bitter black, so I figure keeping track of my distance is the best way to avoid getting too turned around. I go for twenty minutes, over one thousand steps, sweeping the light back and forth across the dense forest floor as tiny gnat teeth nip at my ankles, sticky wet leaves adhere to my jeans.
Another thirty minutes pass and I look down at my phone, the battery drained to 10 percent.
I let out a sigh, stopping in place as I begin to wonder if this might have been a mistake. It’s creeping close to two in the morning and I could have easily underestimated the sheer size of thisplace, the time it would take to scour the grounds. Covering the whole property could realistically take me all the way to dawn and I don’t want to be stuck out here after my phone dies.
More than that, I don’t want to still be here when Mitchell wakes up.
I twist around, my eyes still struggling to adjust to the dark. IthinkI’m looking in the direction of the house, the way I need to go to make my way back, but at the same time, I can’t really be sure. Every inch of these woods is practically identical, so I take my best guess and start to walk back, my gait going faster as I start passing things I can’t remember passing before: a stump that looks different, the mangled limbs of a tree I don’t recognize, though I can’t tell if I’m actually lost or if my mind is just starting to play tricks.
I take another breath, a flimsy attempt at keeping myself calm, though I can feel my throat quiver as I start to pick up speed, sticks snapping like bones beneath my feet as I run. My flashlight is bouncing across the ground now, the blacks and greens and browns of the forest like an abyss that’s threatening to open beneath me and swallow me down—and then I lurch forward, my legs getting twisted in some kind of root, and I feel myself trip before coming down hard on my hands.
I lie still for a moment, catching my breath before standing up slowly, my skin stinging in pain as a flood of wet blood starts to gush from my palms. I can see my phone resting on the ground a few feet ahead, the light shining like a beacon into the sky, and I walk forward to grab it, looking down at the dirt smeared on my jeans, the liquid red glistening on both of my hands… but then I freeze, the sudden cushion of color obscuring my feet looking strangely out of place. I’m no longer standing on twigs or dead leaves; instead, I’m surrounded by a bed of wildflowers, delicate petals spreading out in each direction as I sweep my flashlight across a sea of lightblue. They’re absolutely everywhere, a hidden meadow in the midst of all this black, and I raise my gaze slowly. My eyes following the light until it lands on something a few feet ahead: a mound of rusted metal atop an altar of flowers like a lost tombstone or private shrine.
CHAPTER 43
My pulse picks up speed as my feet carry me forward, closing the final few feet in less than a minute. Then I lift my light higher, my phone illuminating this strange thing before me.
Yet another relic from Marcia’s memories, the most concrete proof I currently have.
It’s a car, unmistakably, and I take a few seconds to study the long aluminum body; the four deflated wheels and burnt-brown stripe. It’s almost completely obscured by vines and leaves, creepers crawling across the surface like the forest is a snake that unhinged its jaw and swallowed it whole, but I can still tell it’s the camper Marcia described in her journal. The same camper from that picture in the article about Katherine.
There’s not a single doubt in my mind.
I walk in a wide radius around it, the windows tinged green with pollen and mold. Then I turn off my light and start snapping pictures, the flash from my phone illuminating the woods for one, single, sickly second before my world is plunged back into black.
I blink a few times, the bright white orbs dotting my eyes making it even harder to see. Then I turn the flashlight on again and make my way toward the back of the car before sweeping the beam across the bumper. There’s a license plate there, caked in green, and I reach my hand out, buffing away the years of grime to uncover the collection of numbers printed beneath.
It’s from California, a golden sun rising at the top of the plate, and I take some more pictures, disbelief flooding my chest when I realize I actually got what I came for.
I can leave now, slide into my car and drive away fast. Never to see this place again.
I walk around to the front, fingers running along the rough side as I imagine barging back into the station, dropping my phone with these pictures onto Chief DiNello’s desk. Then I’ll show him the article about Katherine’s disappearance, the BOLO issued for this exact car. I’ll make him read all the entries in Marcia’s diary, bring him onto the property myself before forcing him to talk to her directly. Leading him straight to that bag buried deep in the floor.
I exhale, a strange sense of delirium taking over until my hand brushes against the camper’s handle.
I stop, my fingers curling around the lever. I know I already got what I came for, I don’t actually need to go inside, but now my curiosity is suddenly too big to contain as I imagine Marcia and Mitchell as they lay in the dark. I’ve read so much about this camper, that diary like a projector casting movies in my mind. I’ve envisioned it trundling down all those old roads, Marcia’s dainty ankles propped up on the dash before they eased to a stop beneath the limbs of that tree.
I look down at my phone again, now at 8 percent, deciding I can take a quick look.
I grip the handle harder, giving it a yank. I have to pull a fewtimes, years of disuse lodging it stuck, but when the rusty hinges eventually fly open a slap of must hits me like a solid wall. I climb the steps carefully, one at a time. Flashlight lifting as I eye the old steering wheel, the radio and knobs. Then I shine the light to the left, illuminating the living space of the car. It’s exactly the way Marcia described it, down to the yellow plaid couch and brown shag carpet; the small dining table off to the right and the queen-sized mattress still stuck in the back. It’s like the interior is a time capsule and I snap some more pictures once I’m fully inside, the flash from my camera feeling like a strobe light.
I look down at the waterlogged floor, dark like tar. The brown fabric ripping across the ceiling and the cobwebs collecting in every last corner, a single spider dangling just a few feet ahead.
I glance again at my phone—6 percent—and pick up my pace as I move along the inside, my eyes brushing across every surface I can find.
I enter the kitchen and open the fridge, taking in a few cloudy bottles of beer. There’s a chipped dish in the sink like someone was just in here, washing away the remnants of a late-night meal, and I make my way to the back next, sweeping my flashlight across the old mattress until the beam catches on something reflective, a quick flash of the light bouncing right back.
I freeze, wondering what it could be. A shard of glass, maybe. A piece of a mirror. Then I walk closer, forcing myself to crawl on top of the bed. Years of damp soaking into the knees of my jeans and the slippery sensation of mold on my palm. At last, I lean forward, as far as my body will go, and I reach out to grab it, my fingers curling around some kind of cold string… but then I realize it isn’t a string, my skin recognizing the faint ripples of chain.
It’s a necklace. I’m holding a necklace—but then the needles of fear start to prick at my neck as I eye the little gem attached to the center, the lime green cloudy from two decades in the dark.
CHAPTER 44
