Page 312 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
A flash of white appears in the distance, then vanishes behind a tree, and my jaw tightens. I was so close.
“Was that truly necessary?” I say as I scramble to my feet and reach for my camera. I use the hem of my shirt to wipe off the screen on the back.
The man holds out his hand, totally unfazed by my fury. “The camera,” he repeats.
Does he not realize what he just disrupted? Does he have any clue how long I’ve been attempting to verify the presence of white squirrels in this area?
I take a step backward. “You can’t have my camera.”
The man is wearing some sort of utility vest over a black T-shirt, and he makes a show of sliding the vest back and propping his hands on hips, an obvious move to show off the handgun strapped to his waist.
Okay.So I probably ought to take this man seriously. Still, he doesn’t look like he necessarily wants tousehis gun. And he isn’t trying to strongarm me, something he could absolutely do, though he does look poised to grab me if I try to run.
My eyes dart up to his face. There’s a slim earpiece looped over the top of his left ear.
Stern expression. Armed. Wearing an earpiece. He has to be some sort of security guard.
It occurs to me that I actually have no idea who purchased the land I’ve been trespassing on for the past eighteen months. Trespassing with zero issues, I might add. I’ve never seen a soul out here, and no one has ever seen me.
“Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” the man says, his tone gentle, like he’s trying to pacify me.
My initial frustration over losing the squirrel is fading, replaced by a sickening sense of dread. I worried I’d eventually get caught trespassing. Just not enough to actually stop.
I shrug with as much innocence as I can muster. “Do what? I’m taking pictures in the woods. I’m not breaking the law.” I spare a cautious glance over my shoulder, down the deer trail that brought me to the ravine. When I look back, the Incredible Hulk—honestly, the resemblance is uncanny—folds his arms across his chest, his meaty forearms flexing.
I’d like to think I could outrun him. How fast can you truly be when you have to haul around that much muscle? But I haven’t been in tiptop running shape since college.
The man takes a step closer. “Youarebreaking the law. You’re on private property, for which I’m responsible. The cops are already on their way, and I’m sure they’d appreciate you coming in easily. Wouldn’t want to add resisting arrest or evading a police officer to your rap sheet.”
“My rap sheet? I’m just taking pictures. This really doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
The man frowns. “You’re taking picturesonprivate property.”
I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes.
I mean, yes.Technically, I amon private property. And yes,when Carolina Southern University sold the seventy-five acres of research forest they owned in Polk County, I was supposed to shut down the multiple experiments I had going on and relocateto the public forest land on the other side of town. But I was here first. One doesn’t justshut downthree years of research on oak ecosystem restoration, forest stand dynamics, and wildlife response to human forest management. Not to mention the water samples we’ve been collecting from the Broad River. I can’t relocateour collection site without scrapping all our data and starting over. There are too many factors at play.
I look to my left at the house now sitting in the middle of my research forest. It’s hard to miss at this distance—a monstrosity of glass and brick and poured concrete that makes my chest ache for all the trees that were sacrificed to build it. Most of the time, I’m not anywhere near it. I stay intentionally close to the river, on the back thirty acres where most of my research takes place. I’m only here now because of the squirrels.
“Ma’am, the property line is well marked. Let’s not make this more complicated than it needs to be.” The man shifts again, one hand moving closer to the firearm strapped to his waist. I resist the urge to ask him the diameter of his bicep because I’m pretty sure it’s bigger than my entire left thigh.
My shoulders drop. “What if I just go quietly?” I motion down the deer trail, in the opposite direction of the house. “We can pretend like I was never here.”
He lifts a single eyebrow—a feat only thirty to forty percent of humans can do. (I’m convinced the ability is inherited, though some argue it’s simply a matter of muscle dexterity. I’d need to do my own research to fully rule out the genetic component.)
“You give me your memory card, and I’ll think about it,” the man says, reminding me that there is more at stake here than eyebrows.
I press my camera against my chest. There’s way too much research on my memory card—at least two months of documentation, not to mention potential photos of a rare andpossibly monumental white squirrel. I’ll go to jail before I give it up.
“No way,” I finally say. “You can’t have my memory card.”
He nods as though he expected my response. “Then you’re coming with me,” he says.“Now.” He moves forward and reaches for my elbow.
I jerk it out of his reach. “Fine. But I’ll walk by myself, thank you very much.”
He gestures for me to go ahead of him, pointing through the trees. “That way,” he grunts.
I push through the undergrowth for fifty yards or so, then follow Bruce Banner’s lead as he cuts around a thick stand of rhododendron and lands us on a rough trail that looks like it’s only recently been cut in. It isn’t quite wide enough for a car, but the utility vehicle sitting a few feet away clearly fits just fine.
