are as lonely as Sophia’s, as lonely as mine—it’s just that they’re rimmed in bitterness instead of self-pity. He’ll help me.
The idea itself feels ridiculous—Samuel Reynolds doesn’t strike me as the type to long for epic conversations. I turn to face the empty side of the bedroom and picture the conversation I want to have with him playing on the blank wall, as if I’m watching a movie.
“Hey, can you help me learn to shoot a gun? I want to protect myself,” imagined-movie-me says brightly.
“Sure! I’d love to!” Samuel says with a grin. Or at least, what I think would be his grin—I’ve never actually seen him smile. I sigh.
I can’t be afraid any longer. I won’t be afraid any longer, won’t wait for the next time I see yellow eyes in the trees.
The only solution is to ask him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he problem with wanting to ask Samuel to teach me doesn’t begin with “he’ll probably say no.” It begins with “where the hell is he?”
Every time I run errands for Sophia—which I confess has become a little more seldom, since now I know for certain what’s waiting in the forest—I scout out Live Oak, waiting to see his motorcycle parked outside one of the open stores. People still treat me as a stranger—but a few talk to me. Unfortunately, it’s mostly totally unhelpful. The clerk at the drugstore scoffs and asks why I’d want to “find that jackass anyway.” I can’t exactly blame her—if Samuel is as charming to the rest of the world as he was to me, his attitude leaves something to be desired.
Five days after I was attacked—and four sleepless nights in which I was sure I heard a werewolf’s claws on the front door—I head into town for groceries. I stall at the Piggly Wiggly, hoping to see Samuel in the cereal aisle or at the checkout counter. No such luck, though.
I wheel my cart toward the only open checkout lane—the others must be seldom used, because they’re piled high with broken buggy parts or dented cans. The elderly cashier smiles and waves to a man in overalls as he exits the store, then turns her eyes toward me. The lipsticked grin fades, and what I thought were warm brown irises now look brittle and cold. I give her a feeble nod and begin unloading the groceries.
The old woman—Dorothy, according to her name tag—manhandles my purchases into plastic bags and punches in a code on the register so intensely that you’d think the machine had personally insulted her. Just when I thought a few people were starting to come around to me.
“Seventy-three twenty-two,” she tells me.
“Okay,” I answer, and hand over Sophia’s credit card. “I’m living with Sophia Kelly,” I explain quickly. “She gave me her card to use.”
“I know who you live with,” the woman says bitterly. “And you can tell her my granddaughter got her invitation, and we threw it straight into the garbage.”
“So… she’s not going?” I ask, unsure how else I’m supposed to react.
“I won’t have that woman convincing my baby girl to leave her family. Giving her money and God knows what else—who the hell knows what she puts in that chocolate, what kind of witchcraft she uses. I don’t care if Sophia’s grandmama was my friend—two years in a row is enough to convince any sane person to lock their little girls up tight the night of her party,” she says.
“She doesn’t… she isn’t giving them anything.” I stumble over the words, unsure how to even begin defending Sophia to someone clearly insane—especially now that I know without a doubt that it’s real witches, real monsters, who took those eight girls, not Sophia. Their names tear through my mind again, shouting at me, desperate not to be forgotten.
Dorothy puts her hands on her hips, daring me to argue more. “Don’t think you can just show up and understand how things work right off the bat. Secrets sink into this town and get stuck way down deep, deeper than some outsider can know in a
The idea itself feels ridiculous—Samuel Reynolds doesn’t strike me as the type to long for epic conversations. I turn to face the empty side of the bedroom and picture the conversation I want to have with him playing on the blank wall, as if I’m watching a movie.
“Hey, can you help me learn to shoot a gun? I want to protect myself,” imagined-movie-me says brightly.
“Sure! I’d love to!” Samuel says with a grin. Or at least, what I think would be his grin—I’ve never actually seen him smile. I sigh.
I can’t be afraid any longer. I won’t be afraid any longer, won’t wait for the next time I see yellow eyes in the trees.
The only solution is to ask him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he problem with wanting to ask Samuel to teach me doesn’t begin with “he’ll probably say no.” It begins with “where the hell is he?”
Every time I run errands for Sophia—which I confess has become a little more seldom, since now I know for certain what’s waiting in the forest—I scout out Live Oak, waiting to see his motorcycle parked outside one of the open stores. People still treat me as a stranger—but a few talk to me. Unfortunately, it’s mostly totally unhelpful. The clerk at the drugstore scoffs and asks why I’d want to “find that jackass anyway.” I can’t exactly blame her—if Samuel is as charming to the rest of the world as he was to me, his attitude leaves something to be desired.
Five days after I was attacked—and four sleepless nights in which I was sure I heard a werewolf’s claws on the front door—I head into town for groceries. I stall at the Piggly Wiggly, hoping to see Samuel in the cereal aisle or at the checkout counter. No such luck, though.
I wheel my cart toward the only open checkout lane—the others must be seldom used, because they’re piled high with broken buggy parts or dented cans. The elderly cashier smiles and waves to a man in overalls as he exits the store, then turns her eyes toward me. The lipsticked grin fades, and what I thought were warm brown irises now look brittle and cold. I give her a feeble nod and begin unloading the groceries.
The old woman—Dorothy, according to her name tag—manhandles my purchases into plastic bags and punches in a code on the register so intensely that you’d think the machine had personally insulted her. Just when I thought a few people were starting to come around to me.
“Seventy-three twenty-two,” she tells me.
“Okay,” I answer, and hand over Sophia’s credit card. “I’m living with Sophia Kelly,” I explain quickly. “She gave me her card to use.”
“I know who you live with,” the woman says bitterly. “And you can tell her my granddaughter got her invitation, and we threw it straight into the garbage.”
“So… she’s not going?” I ask, unsure how else I’m supposed to react.
“I won’t have that woman convincing my baby girl to leave her family. Giving her money and God knows what else—who the hell knows what she puts in that chocolate, what kind of witchcraft she uses. I don’t care if Sophia’s grandmama was my friend—two years in a row is enough to convince any sane person to lock their little girls up tight the night of her party,” she says.
“She doesn’t… she isn’t giving them anything.” I stumble over the words, unsure how to even begin defending Sophia to someone clearly insane—especially now that I know without a doubt that it’s real witches, real monsters, who took those eight girls, not Sophia. Their names tear through my mind again, shouting at me, desperate not to be forgotten.
Dorothy puts her hands on her hips, daring me to argue more. “Don’t think you can just show up and understand how things work right off the bat. Secrets sink into this town and get stuck way down deep, deeper than some outsider can know in a
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