Winterwood

“Mm,” she answers, wriggling herself deeper and burying her head in the pillow.

The wind claps against the house, and my heart claps inside my chest. I move down the steps, one at a time, careful and quiet. A boy is dead, my mind repeats with each thud of my heartbeat.

I hear the knock again, distinct and quick, coming from the other side of the front door. It might only be Mr. Perkins or one of the counselors from camp—come to warn me that a murderer is among us. Come to tell me to lock my doors and stay inside. I used to be the one to fear in these woods, but maybe not anymore.

I walk to the front window, breathing slowly, trying to calm the adrenaline pressing at my temples, and pull back the curtain. Someone stands on the porch, hands in pockets, shoulders bent away from the cold.

My fingers slide the dead bolt free and pull open the door. Snow coils in around me, wind whipping into the living room, and he lifts his head.

Oliver.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says, a line puckering between his brows.

The breath returns to my lungs and I take a step back, letting him move swiftly inside. “What are you doing here?”

He pushes back the hood of his sweatshirt, and his eyes sweep up to mine. Dark pupils, made even darker in the unlit house. “I need a place to stay.”

I cross my arms over my midsection, my thoughts still cycling over the words I can’t shake, a tune on repeat: A boy is dead. “Why can’t you stay at the camp?” I ask.

I watch him, trying to pinpoint all the reasons why I shouldn’t allow this boy I hardly know to stand inside my home, why I should tell him to leave, but I only see the boy I found inside the Wicker Woods: cold and shivering and alone. His bare chest facing the fire when I brought him back. How his hands felt like ice, how his jaw clenched, how his muscles only relaxed when I touched him.

“I don’t trust anyone there,” he answers.

“Why not?”

His eyes hook on mine before slipping away. And after a long, muted pause, he says simply, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

I think I hear movement upstairs, Suzy waking up, or maybe just turning over in bed. The sound fades. A boy died, I think again. The words on loop, echo, echo, echo. I swallow and look back at Oliver, saying aloud the thing I can’t escape. “A boy died the night you went missing,” I say, words tumbling out, causing a strange pain inside my ribs—like being snagged by a fishing hook.

Oliver’s brow stiffens. “What?”

I feel my jaw contract, my eyes afraid to look away from him, afraid I’ll miss a flutter of an eyelash that might mean something. Reveal some clue Oliver is trying to hide. “A boy is dead,” I say, firmer this time.

But Oliver’s expression tightens, like he doesn’t understand.

“You didn’t know?” I ask.

“No. I don’t…” He trails off, swaying a little on his feet, and I see how pale he is—the cold hasn’t left him completely yet. “I don’t remember anything. I can’t…” Again his voice breaks.

I want to touch him, to steady him, but I keep my hands at my sides, examining every line of his face, the slope of his cheekbones. I’m looking for a lie, for something he’s hiding. But there is only muted confusion.

“I can’t go back to the camp,” he says finally. “If the road wasn’t snowed in, I’d leave, but”—he exhales deeply—“I’m stuck here.”

Oliver breathes and I swear the wind calms, he closes his eyes and the forest trembles against the house.

My lost item found in the woods. Who is now more forest than boy.

I say the next thing before I can stop myself, before I can tell myself it’s a bad idea. “Okay.” A prick of unease cuts through me. “You can stay here tonight.”

One night, I tell myself. One more night, I’ll let him sleep here, this boy who speaks as if a soft wind stirs inside him, who can’t remember what happened to him the night another boy died. Whose eyes make me feel slightly unmoored in ways that make me want to scream. Walkers cannot trust our own hearts—our slippy, sloppy bleeding hearts. They are reckless, stupid things. Muscles that beat too fast, that cave inward when they break. Too fragile to be trusted. Yet, I let him stay.

I lock the front door and add more logs to the stove. And when Oliver settles onto the couch, I see he still has the bag of herbs I gave him, clutched in his hand. I was certain he wouldn’t keep it—but he did.

“Thank you,” he says to me, and I stall at the bottom of the stairs, chewing on the side of my lip, twirling the moonstone ring around my finger.

“Can I trust you?” I ask. Too late now, I think. I’ve already let him stay. I’ve already let my heart slip two degrees off-center, let myself believe he might be different. That he isn’t like the others. That he might have the same hole inside him that I do. And if he says no, will I force him to leave? Probably not.