What horrific insights would he glean from reading her journal? Did he really want to know the inner musings of a madwoman? He set the book down on top of the neat blanket, splashed two ounces of bourbon into his coffee mug, tapped on his desktop keyboard, briefly closed his eyes when Calypso began playing, and then picked up Lizzy’s journal again.
Dear Diary,
For my first entry, I want to thank my cousin for this gift. We are kindred spirits, Charlotte and I. She, being three years older and infinitely worldlier after traveling from Kentucky all by herself this summer, is my role model. We shared many dark secrets these past few months, so when she gave me this unexpected treasure in which to express myself after she leaves, I vowed to write in it regularly. And so here I am.
The handwriting personified Lizzy herself — vaguely gothic, unsettling on some ambiguous level, and generally creepy as hell. He thumbed through a couple hundred pages of spiky, cramped longhand to the blank sheets at the end. There were no more than a dozen. He flipped back to the most recently written passage, then reached for the bourbon bottle as Lizzy’s voice tentacles slithered past John Denver and squirmed into his brain:
If you’re reading this, Ray, it means my mission was successful. Of course, it was. You do realize that I only ever remained here because I chose to, right? Silly man. No one can keep me in a cage unless I want to be in it. It was fun while it lasted. The service was exemplary and the company most intriguing. I absorbed so much more from you than you realize, Ray. You thought you were being careful, but you weren’t careful enough. I wonder how profoundly you’ll regret that failure in the weeks and months to come. I’m smiling as I write this because I’m pondering your distress. Let’s face it, you’re not the most emotionally stable person in the world. I doubt your conscience will be able to tolerate knowing that you’re responsible for the carnage I intend to leave in my wake.
Do you think the guilt will compel you to take your own life?
I wish I could watch.
It wasn’t an easy decision to leave my journal behind. But even now as I imagine you sitting on your tidy bed with the red blanket, sipping from your coffee mug while reading its dark secrets, I’m smiling. And so I know it was the correct decision. Besides, this one is almost full and so I shall find an unstoried replacement with which to document my new life.
In the woods...
He slapped the book shut. The first thing he noticed was her use of the singular pronoun. All that ‘we’ and ‘us’ business when referring to herself had been for show. She had been trying to convince him she was insane. It had worked. Lizzy wasn’t a schizophrenic lunatic. She was a killer. A psychopath.
A predator.
The only way she could know about his red blanket and coffee mug was if she had spied on him during her incarceration. Had she been slipping out of her cell on a regular basis? She’d gotten out at least once, as evidenced by the ink pen. The image of her skulking about the warehouse while he relaxed in the evening — or worse, while he slept — made his stomach churn and his skin crawl.
He opened the journal again. Despite the dread washing over him, he would force himself to read it. He must know what he faced if he managed to work up the courage to join in the hunt.
Chapter 9
Willadean
“What’s it say?” Cricket demanded. His mouth wasn’t full of strawberry Pop-Tarts this time. Their benefactor — ‘Ray’ as it turned out — had sent candy, just as requested. Jolly Ranchers and Smarties didn’t break Willa’s Top Ten Favorite Candy list, but they were better than no candy at all.
“It says there’s a dangerous woman on the loose. Mister Fergus wants us to stay out of the forest for now.” Frowning, she scanned the surrounding woods. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No sudden hush of wildlife telegraphed approaching danger.
“Reckon we better skedaddle?” Unease tinged Cricket’s words. She normally disparaged her friend’s ready caution, but not today.
“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. Finish up boys, and let’s put this stuff in the cache. Not sure when we’ll be able to get back here.”
The thought of ending their forest adventures, even temporarily, threatened her cheerful mood. As soon as Mister Fergus returned, she would pump him for information. She hoped it would be that night. Pops had done an excellent job covering for him, but that couldn’t last much longer. Serena Jo would demand to see him in person if he didn’t show up for school the next day.
Her mind was preoccupied as they traipsed through the woods. With Harlan in the lead as usual, they navigated the treacherous ravines and thorny underbrush. They were approaching the perimeter. Everett and Otis could be nearby, or any one of the other folks whose primary job it was to keep strangers from stumbling upon their village and its surrounding land. The ones assigned to the farthest corners of Whitaker Holler got to move about the forest in all directions, looking for tracks and other evidence of people and wildlife. The Scouts, as they were known, included Everett and Otis; their group presided at
