She nods.
"How did he know?"
"He saw me."
"You," I say. "Not us."
She nods again.
"You found the body, didn't you? Margot's, I mean. That was the blood in the journal. Wayne wasn't talking about me. He was talking about you."
"Yes."
I think about it, about how scared she must have been, how she probably ran to her father, how Ira would have panicked too. "Ira saw you in blood. He thought…" She doesn't speak. But now it makes sense. "Ira wouldn't kill Gil and me to protect himself," I say. "But he was a father. In the end, with all his peace, love and understanding, Ira was first and foremost a father like any other. And so he'd kill to protect his little girl."
She sobs again.
Everyone had kept quiet. Everyone had been afraid-my sister, my mother, Gil, his family, and now Lucy. They all bear some of the blame, and they all paid a stiff price. And what about me? I like to excuse myself by claiming youth and the need to, what, sow some wild oats. But is that really any excuse? I had a responsibility to watch the campers that night. I shirked it.
The trees seem to close in on us. I look up at them and then I look at Lucy’s face. I see the beauty. I see the damage. I want to go to her. But I can't. I don't know why. I want to-I know it is the right thing to do. But I cant.
I turn instead and walk away from the woman I love. I expect her to call out for me to stop. But she doesn't. She lets me go. I hear her sobs. I walk some more. I walk until I am out of the woods and back by the car. I sit on the curb and close my eyes. Eventually she will have to come back here. So I sit and wait for her. I wonder where we will go after she comes out. I wonder if we will drive off together or if these woods, after all these years, will have claimed one last victim.
Acknowledgments
I'm not an expert in much, so it's a good thing I know generous geniuses who are. This might sound like name-dropping, but I was helped by my friends and/or colleagues Dr. Michael Baden, Linda Fairstein, Dr. David Gold, Dr. AnneArmstrong-Coben, Christopher J. Christie, and the real Jeff Bedford.
Thanks to Mitch Hoffman, Lisa Johnson, Brian Tart, Erika Imranyi, and everyone at Dutton. Thanks to Jon Wood at Orion and Franoise Triffaux at Belfond. Thanks to Aaron Priest and everyone at the creatively dubbed Aaron Priest Literary Agency.
Lastly, I would like to give a special thanks to the brilliant Lisa Erbach Vance, who has learned over the past decade to deal splendidly with my moods and insecurities. You rock, Lisa.
