Winterwood

It makes a soft clink sound, and I quickly cup my palms over it, to keep from waking Oliver. My knees ache on the hardwood floor, but I shift closer to the window, opening my palms like a clam unveiling a single pearl inside, and there, resting in my hand, is a silver pocket watch. The chain is broken—one of the links bent, the rest of the chain missing. But a soft ticking sound emanates from inside, the hidden gears clicking forward, tiny mechanisms fluttering in soft unison. It still works. I run my thumb over the glass, peering in at the white face of the watch, the gold hands keeping time.

It’s a simple pocket watch, skillfully crafted. And I wonder if it belonged to Oliver’s father or his grandfather. A memento maybe. Or perhaps he found it in the Wicker Woods—a lost item he plucked from the forest floor.

I turn the watch over, feeling the weight of the metal in my palm, gauging its worth, its value. It’s not particularly old, but it’s well made. Crafted by someone who knew what they were doing. I tilt the watch so I can see it more clearly in the moonlight. Lacelike designs are etched across the back, careful and delicate. But that’s not all. There are letters, too. A name. This was made for someone. A gift—a birthday present maybe.

It reads: For Max.

I drop the watch from my hand and it hits the floor with a blunt thud.

Shit, shit, shit.

My eyes cut over to the bed where Oliver has stirred, shifted onto his side, but he doesn’t wake. Doesn’t sit up and see me at the window—picking up something from the floor that doesn’t belong to me.

Something that doesn’t belong to him, either.

He didn’t find this watch in the woods.

It belonged to Max. The boy who is dead.

Lies sift along the floorboards like mice searching for a place to nest.

I touch Fin gently behind the ear, so I won’t startle him. His eyes open in one swift motion and I whisper, “Come on.” He rises and stretches on the rug before plodding after me to the stairs. His paws make soft clip clip clip sounds down each step, and I cringe at the noise, hoping no one will wake.

In the living room, I pause beside the door and look to Suzy, one arm draped off the edge of the couch, her face pressed into a cushion, snoring. She won’t be waking anytime soon.

But looking at the soft slope of her nose, the gentle flutter of her russet eyelashes, I wonder suddenly if she knows more than she’s saying. If little secrets bounce along behind her eyelids. Was she there that night, when the storm blew over the lake and they gathered in the cemetery? Was she there with the others?

A hard wedge of mistrust slams through me. Two strangers in my house. And maybe I can’t trust either of them.

I don’t take a breath, I don’t swallow the feeling of dread expanding in my chest. I turn for the door and run out into the pale dawn light.

For the first time since the storm, for the first time in a very long time, I actually wish my mom were here. Someone I can trust, who can see things clearly.

But I know this is a stupid thought. Mom would never believe me, never believe all the things that have happened. She would look at me with numbness in her eyes. Indifference. She wouldn’t be able to make anything right.

So I sprint down to the lake, ducking through the trees—heading toward the only place that feels safe.

I veer up along the shore, deep inhales and ragged exhales burning my lungs, and I glance back over my shoulder to see if Oliver has woken and come to look for me. If Suzy is standing among the pines. But I’m still alone, crashing through the snow. Gasping for air. Legs burning.

The light changes around me—becomes pale and milky. Night transforming to day. Yet, the morning birds don’t wake and chatter from the limbs. It’s too cold. The world too silent. Or maybe they’re too afraid. A Walker girl stirs among the trees with fury in her eyes—safer to stay quiet. Safer to stay hidden.

Thin ribbons of smoke rise up from the chimney of the small cabin beside the boathouse, and a candle gleams from one of the windows. Mr. Perkins is awake.

I hurry up the shallow steps to the porch, my breathing still sandpaper. And I knock on the door.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I flash a look over my shoulder, but the lake is still silent, a few soft flakes swaying down from the sky, remnants of last night’s storm. Late to arrive.

There is no sound from the other side of the door, and my body begins to shake, the cold settling beneath my skin. And inside my coat pocket is the silver watch—I can feel it ticking, the tiniest of vibrations against my palm, becoming a part of my own heartbeat. I stole it. And when Oliver wakes… how long until he realizes it’s gone?