What She Found in the Woods

‘You think he’s real,’ I say.

Mila nods. Then she rolls a shoulder. ‘Is it so hard to believe?’ she asks. ‘Our shelter is over capacity, but how many people live in this area year round?’ She shakes her head and leans back in her chair. ‘Such a high percentage of addicts doesn’t happen for no reason. And people have been going missing in those woods for years.’

‘The woods are dangerous,’ I say, but she shakes her head and stops me from listing the many ways a vacationer can get herself killed.

‘I’ve hiked my whole life. Camping, fishing – I’ve been doing it all since I was born. I love it.’

She smiles softly, and I see another level to Mila I hadn’t seen before, but I’d sensed. Mila is a not a party girl. Not in the centre of her. Deep down, she’s a forest thing, like Bo.

‘I know the woods are dangerous,’ she says in a measured, rational way. ‘But this is something else. Too many people have died here. It’s been going on for years. Even Aura-Blue’s grandfather believes he’s real, and he used to be the sheriff.’

I sit back, momentarily silenced. But something still isn’t right about all this. ‘Sandy and that hunter weren’t put to sleep,’ I say. ‘They were cut up.’

‘Yeah. Cut up,’ she stresses. ‘That’s no accident.’

I resist the urge to nod. Obviously, there’s more going on than just the occasional hunting or hiking accident, but I refuse to accept anything Mila is saying right now. Besides, it doesn’t even line up. Cutting people up and putting them to sleep are two totally different things. She’s got to be imagining a connection.

She has to be. Because if I start accepting any of it, this would be the moment I would have to open my mouth and say, ‘Actually, I’ve met a genius doctor who lives in the woods and makes all kinds of drugs. Oh, and he’s wanted by the FBI for a crime my boyfriend won’t tell me about because he’s trying to protect me from the police with plausible deniability.’

Or, I say nothing and live with more blood on my hands.

So. What am I going to do?

Nothing.

I’m not going to do anything because Bo’s father is not Dr Goodnight. Dr Goodnight does not exist. There’s an undeniably large drug problem in this town, and that explains the deaths.

I don’t know anything about the drug trade, but I’ve seen network television. Where there are drugs, there is violence and a lot of dead bodies, and not just from overdosing. If this were New Orleans, the bodies would get dumped in the swamp, but here those bodies get dumped in the woods. It’s Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. And there is very rarely one diabolical genius masterminding a web of dastardly deeds in order to fulfil his bloodlust.

‘You don’t believe me,’ Mila says. Her eyes are sad, but her mouth is turned up in an endearing smile. I smile back and shake my head.

‘I’m sorry.’ I stop to laugh, and then collect myself. ‘Look, it’s not that I don’t think there’s something scary going on – that’s obvious. People are dying, and the FBI is here investigating something that is not a bear attack or a drug overdose. So it’s a big deal.’ I can’t help but grin. ‘But the whole Dr Goodnight thing is a little . . .’ I trail off. I see Mila’s eyes blaze and all humour drops from my tone. ‘I’m sorry. You knew Sandy, and it’s wrong of me to laugh. Nothing about this is funny.’

‘You don’t believe me,’ she repeats.

I shake my head regretfully. ‘I don’t believe in the bogeyman, either.’

I look out across the water so I don’t see Rachel bleeding out between our untouched ice creams, but instead I see a woman free-falling through the air to her death. That was Brooklyn, I remind myself sternly. Brooklyn is on the other side of the continent. That isn’t real. I blink until the image is gone.

‘I do believe that desperate people make bad choices, and there are a lot of desperate people around here. It’s not as romantic as what you’re suggesting. But the truth rarely is.’

Her face hardens. ‘Do I look like a romantic to you?’ she asks.

Again, I get a glimpse of something in Mila that goes against the grain of her perfect-girl persona. Something in her has shifted.

‘No. You don’t. And you’re certain he’s real,’ I say.

She doesn’t answer.

‘Why are you so certain?’ I ask. She looks down. ‘Have you met him?’

Her eyes shift to a faraway place. She looks back at me, smiles, and says, ‘Yeah. He lives under my bed. Right next to the bogeyman.’

She changes the subject, and I feel her take a giant step back from me.

We force down a few more bites of our ruined desserts, but the sweetness is too much, and our ice cream is too warm, and both of us just want to go. She takes me back to the shelter to get my bike in silence.

This is the first time I’ve left Mila feeling further from her at the end of the afternoon than I did at the start of it.