Wren knew she mocked the fact that Pippin was nearing forty and living in their dad’s basement. But here she was, twenty-six years of age and working in the administration building at camp, doing admin work. A secretary, if an old-school term could be applied. Which meant she’d been saving to buy her own house now for a few years, but she too was in limbo. Tempter’s Creek downtown was miles away from camp, so getting an apartment there had been impractical when she spent all but sleeping hours on the grounds.

  The truth was, between Wren and Pippin, her dad didn’t seem proud of their career successes—or failures. Pippin’s programming work at least sounded smart. Wren knew her dad still waited for the moment she would leave for higher pursuits. She loved her dad. Wren never questioned that. And he loved her. They just didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. Patty Markham, on the other hand, saw Wren’s heart.

  Pushing aside the disturbing thoughts, Wren joined the men by Patty’s bedside. “Do you need me to sit with her awhile?” Wren offered.

  Gary drew in a deep breath, weighted with the imminence of bidding his soulmate farewell, and shook his head. “No. No, I’ll stay with her, but thanks, Wren. I’ve got the chair here—I’ll catch some sleep later.”

  Wren didn’t miss Eddie from the corner of her eye. He had rounded his mother’s bed and now sat carefully on the edge. He looked so strong, so vibrant compared to Patty. Where they had once shared very similar features—the same eyes, the same cheeky grin, the same facial expressions—now it was just Eddie, looking down at the shell of the only woman he’d ever really adored. Wren knew this. Eddie was a mama’s boy through and through, and in the best of ways. They were inseparable. They always had been.

  Wren had to get away before she burst into inopportune tears. She gave Gary a quick nod and could tell he seemed to understand. One last glance at Eddie and Patty brought the first unwelcome tear rolling down her cheek. He had wrapped his hand around Patty’s and was singing some silly song from the Lawrence Welk show. About pleasant dreams. Sleep tight. It was all so pithy and would’ve been comical had Wren not known that it was the song Patty had sung to Eddie since he was a baby. He was tucking her in for the night. A reversal of roles.

  She hurried into the living room, leaned over the horrific doll, and snagged a tissue from a box on the end table. Wren wiped at her eyes, sniffed, and resorted to the one distraction that was sure to not fail.

  Her phone screen blinked to life, and Wren scrolled through her notifications. Text message from Troy. She quickly responded.

  At Markhams’ for the night.

  His reply was swift.

  Got it. Everything is going to be all right. See you in the morning.

  Troy. He was an optimist. Wren loved that about him. Right now she wished he’d also be heroic and show up at the door, wrap her in his arms, and let her hide her face in his chest. But coddling Wren over a weird scare about a doll and burned-out cabin remains was second priority to finding Jasmine. The little girl was going on her second night missing in the woods, and the longer it went without finding even a hint of her . . .

  Wren’s phone trilled in her hand, and she swiped to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Arwen.” It was her dad.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “I thought you might stop by the house tonight.”

  Wren grimaced, glad he couldn’t see her reaction. “Sorry. We’ve been out searching.”

  “Yes.” His voice became grave. “I checked in at the SAR base here on the grounds. They’ve found absolutely no sign of her.”

  “I know.” Wren waited. Her dad wasn’t one to waste time with empty chatter. He had a reason for calling her.

  “I ran into Troy—he said you were out looking in the Lost Lake area?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t offer more information.

  There was a pause. “Arwen, you know Ava Coons is a ghost story.”

  Wren didn’t answer.

  “She’s a campfire story. She didn’t take the little girl,” her father reiterated. “You can’t let your dreams get to you like this.”

  Her dreams. She leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes. Dad knew about her dreams and the way that they ate at her as if they were premonitions. It didn’t help that she’d had one right before Mom died. Years ago, as a little girl, she’d been afraid that Mom would leave. Where her sense of abandonment had come from, they had no idea, but it was there nonetheless. When she’d dreamt about Mom’s death and then it had happened, it was like a nail in a coffin. Dreams had meaning. They were prophetic. But they weren’t—at least that was Dad’s argument. Had been Dad’s argument. Yet Wren couldn’t help but question—wonder—because weren’t dreams typically the mental manifestation of some subliminal truth?

  Wren bit her tongue. What really upset her sometimes was how her father could see right through her dreams to her deeper fears. The ones that lived in the irrational, fictionalized realm. The part of Wren that made her believe Mordor and the ring, and Gollum and Orcs actually were real evil lurking. Dad had probably read her too much Tolkien when she was a toddler. She remembered the board book of The Hobbit she’d had as a three-year-old. It had come with a plastic ring she’d insisted on wearing to church. Dad had been proud. But as she grew, he’d become wary.

  “Don’t turn fantasy into reality,” he reminded her now. This from the man who’d encouraged his wife to name the rooms in their house after various locales in Tolkien’s novel The Lord of the Rings.

  “I’m not, Dad. You just—I’ve never liked the story of Ava Coons. The rumor that she snatches people and buries them in Lost Lake.”

  “It’s just a story,” he argued.

  “You know people have claimed to still see her.” Even as she said the words, Wren knew how silly they sounded. That Ava Coons—campfire terror—would return from the forest in which she’d disappeared to murder again. Besides, Jasmine hadn’t been murdered—God forbid—or even kidnapped. She’d just gone missing.

  Right?

  “Arwen.” Her dad’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Come home.”

  “I am home” was all she could think to say in response.

  12

  “They found blood.”

  It was not the phrase Wren wanted to hear. Troy came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her back into him. He whispered in her ear as they stood off to the side of the bulk of the SAR volunteers.

  “This morning, Group Six found Jasmine’s hoodie. It had blood on it.”

  Wren twisted in his arms, not feeling affectionate, even though she knew Troy’s way of dealing with emotion was to reach for her. She pulled away, a gripping fear tightening her middle. “What do you mean, blood? There shouldn’t be blood if she just wandered off and got lost, right? Unless she was injured?” Wren searched his face. “She is just lost, right, she wasn’t taken? Tell me they’re not changing their assessment.”

  There was a flicker in Troy’s eyes that spoke of more when a wail rent the air. Wren jumped at the sound and then clamped her hand over her mouth as she watched Jasmine’s mother collapse into her husband’s embrace. They had both come out this morning, intent on being part of the search, no longer willing to be coddled and mollified by the authorities. They wanted answers.

  Now they had one—a very unsavory one.

  “Friends. Volunteers,” Sheriff Floyd called from across the machine barn, his voice echoing off the concrete floor and metal sides. “Over here, please.”

  They all gathered, including Jasmine’s parents. Wren noticed Eddie’s pal Bruce standing off to the side in full police uniform. He met her eyes and looked away. That didn’t bode well. The already ominous overtones in the room had turned heavier. Weightier. Suffocating.

  Sheriff Floyd waited until they had all gathered around. He consulted in John Hipken’s ear, the director of the SAR teams. John gave a curt nod, his mouth a tight firm line.

  “All right,” Sheriff Floyd began, scanning the group of volunteers. Bruce moved to stand beside him and John. “As you probably know by now, earlier this morning Group Six found Jasmine’s sweatshirt. There was evidence of an injury, as we found some blood on the garment. Ben, Meghan”—he addressed Jasmine’s parents—“and the rest of you”—his eyes once again scanned the group—“this is still an ongoing search and rescue. We have no reason to believe anything other than that Jasmine is alive, but we do have concerns for her welfare in the event she’s suffering from an injury.”

  A hand shot up.

  John pointed at it. “Yes?”

  “Do we still believe she got lost?” one of the volunteers asked.

  John deferred to the sheriff, whose expression remained passive. “We are still going under the theory that Jasmine is lost and cannot find her way back home. However, we aren’t ruling out other possibilities.”

  “Abduction?” the volunteer asked.

  Wren wanted to throttle the person for the insensitivity with the girl’s parents being present.

  Sheriff Floyd managed it well. “As I said, we’re not ruling anything out at the moment. We’re looking at this from all angles. For now, we need all of you to maintain strict adherence to the direction of John and his experienced SAR team.” He held up his palms. “We don’t need heroes. Stick to the search grid and the techniques you’ve been coached on. Thank you.”

  There was a general murmur that started up in the group. Jasmine’s parents moved to a cluster of metal folding chairs. Bruce made his way toward Troy, and Wren held on to Troy’s hand, squeezing it as the officer approached. His brown eyes were missing the customary sparkle Wren was used to, even though she didn’t know Bruce nearly as well as Eddie did.

  “Please pass our thanks on to the camp administration.” Bruce shook Troy’s hand, then Wren’s.

  Troy nodded. “Of course.”

  Bruce ran his fingers around the collar at his neck. “This is just—heavy.”

  “Not what you signed up for?” Troy tried to meet the officer in conversation halfway.

  Bruce gave him a quick look. “Oh, I signed up for it. It just isn’t easy. Not when it’s a kid.”

  “Is there a possibility Jasmine was taken?” Wren inserted, not missing the way Sheriff Floyd had left that door open.

  Bruce gave her a semi-apologetic smile. “You know I can’t comment about that, Wren.”

  “But the fact you can’t says there is that possibility,” she surmised.

  Bruce shrugged. “Interpret it however you want. Either way, she’s missing. The investigation is ongoing.”

  Wren knew she shouldn’t push further. Her gaze landed on the grieving parents, Ben and Meghan. “And the Rivieras? How are they holding up?”

  Bruce barked a short, dry laugh. “Horrid.” He sighed. “I have a daughter now, and man, if it were Clara out there, I’d . . . I don’t know how the Rivieras are even keeping it together.”

  Wren’s heart constricted at the idea. “I feel like I should talk to them. The camp should be offering them support beyond just a place to run SAR.”

  “They could use that,” Bruce said before ducking his head and walking away.

  Troy tugged at her hand, pulling her closer. Wren came but with barely concealed resistance. She peered over his shoulder at the grieving, desperate parents even as Troy held her.

  Sensing the stiffness in her body, he drew back, searching her face. “You okay?”

  Wren bit her lip. Troy’s gaze followed the movement, and then he returned his attention to her, waiting for an answer.

  “I’m just—” Wren hesitated. Somehow telling Eddie was easier than telling Troy. But it was Troy who held her, wanted her, who understood her in so many ways. “I’ve got a bad feeling. Ever since last night—when we were at the Coons cabin ruins and Lost Lake. Something isn’t right.”

  “It’s not.” Troy reached up and pushed a tendril of her coppery hair from her face. “It’s not all right. We’ve got a camp full of campers to run, a missing girl, and for what it’s worth, that doll was creepy. It would’ve unnerved you on a good day.”

  “But it was just a doll,” Wren affirmed, more for herself than for Troy.

  He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Yeah. Just a doll. It’s not like Ava Coons wanders the woods and writes your name on an old doll’s foot. She’s not hunting you—or anyone.”

  Wren pulled away. “I’m not afraid of a ghost, Troy.”

  He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean that you were. I’m just saying—”

  “Never mind.” Wren waved his explanation off. It wasn’t worth the tension. Jasmine was the focus—should be the focus. Not the doll, or the cabin, or Ava Coons.

  “I get why she’s on your mind.” Troy didn’t let it go.

  Wren met his frank liquid-blue stare.

  Troy continued, “Everyone is thinking it to a degree. Jasmine isn’t the first to go missing around here.”

  Wren bit the inside of her cheek and looked away from him. No. No, she wasn’t. There was that girl who disappeared when Wren was in high school. They never found her either. No one talked about it anymore, and the most accepted explanation was that the girl’s father had kidnapped her. People liked to blame Ava Coons when bad things happened. Sometimes a ghost story was easier than the raw truth.

  “But you know they’re all explained. Hunting accident. That kid’s dad taking her. It wasn’t anything with these woods—or Lost Lake. Or you.”

  Wren jerked her head back and locked eyes with Troy. She didn’t like the way he was searching her face, trying to impress some element of truth on her she didn’t want to hear.

  “I never said this was about me,” she snapped. Why on earth would Troy think that, outside of the doll they’d found? A nagging feeling in her stomach worried Wren that somehow she was coming across narcissistic enough to turn Jasmine’s disappearance into her issue. Her problem. Some plea for attention. “It’s about Jasmine,” she reaffirmed.

  “I don’t doubt your intentions.” Troy offered her a gentle smile. God bless him. Wren allowed the strain to ebb from her body. Troy looked over to the Rivieras. “Go,” he nudged her. “You said you wanted to reach out to Jasmine’s parents. Go. Do it. It’s a good idea. I’m not sure if camp has had the chance to yet, and Deer Lake Bible Camp should be more to them than just a base camp for their daughter’s search.”

  Troy dropped a kiss on her cheek. Affectionate but understandably distant, considering Wren hadn’t shown any particular warmth toward him that morning. She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded. He chucked her under the chin with his knuckle and moved away, heading toward John and the other SAR teams. He was going to lead Group Four today. Wren had chosen to stay behind. Something about the woods seemed darker this morning. More dangerous. She wasn’t convinced she wanted to enter them.

  “Ben? Meghan?” Wren approached the parents, who clutched Styrofoam cups of camp coffee. The two looked up, lost expressions on their faces. Wren eased onto a chair, the cold from the metal seeping through her shorts and cooling the backs of her bare legs.

  Ben lifted dark eyes. He was handsome, his dark hair and olive skin a striking physical contrast next to his wife, Meghan, who was blond and even on a bad day could probably walk the runway as a model. But stress and trauma were taking a toll. Wren could see the remnants of hours of tears by the red-rimmed eyes, the puffiness, and the trembling in Meghan’s hands.

  Wren leaned forward and drew in a deep breath, praying for the right words.

  “I’m Wren. Wren Blythe. I work here at Deer Lake Bible Camp. We just wanted to let you know we are praying, and hoping, and will do whatever we can to help.”

  “You will?” Meghan’s head snapped up, her blue eyes intense.

  Wren shot a hesitant look at Ben, who reached for his wife’s hand.

  “Meghan,” he began.

  “No.” Meghan shook her head at her husband. “I know—I know Jasmine didn’t just wander off!” Meghan swung her attention back to Wren. She leaned forward, matching Wren’s stance of elbows on knees. She lowered her voice. “The day Jasmine disappeared, she told me about a woman she’d seen. In the woods.”

  “A woman?” Wren ignored the return of the tension in her stomach. The foreboding that she consistently stuffed away as ludicrous.

  Meghan nodded, ignoring Ben’s squeeze of his hand on her upper thigh. “Jasmine said it was a woman wearing overalls.”

  “There isn’t anything suspicious about a woman in overalls.” Ben’s grave tone sliced through his wife’s frantic words.

  “See?” Meghan waved her hand at Ben, bitter desperation trailing across her features. “He doesn’t believe me.”

  “Por el amor de Dios! I believe you.” Ben blew out a breath. “I just don’t see what is—”

  “Overalls!” Meghan almost shrieked. A few of the people gathered not far away cast covert glances.

  Ben squeezed Meghan’s knee. Wren noticed it wasn’t a tight squeeze but meant to be comforting, calming.

  Meghan drew in a deep breath, pursing her lips together. “We may be from Milwaukee, but I grew up in this area, you know? Our family owned a cabin close to camp. We’ve come up every summer, sometimes for a week at a time. I know the story of Ava Coons in her overalls and her boots. I know she haunts the woods. I know she hunts in these woods.”

  Ben growled deep in his throat, hanging his head and shaking it back and forth. His black hair flipped forward, hiding his expression. Meghan side-eyed him as she addressed Wren. “He doesn’t think it’s true—the story of Ava Coons—but he didn’t grow up around here. He’s from Florida, where their biggest fear is alligators!”

  Wren squelched all the various responses flying through her head. None of them were adequate. None of them helped her ease her own insecurities about the recent events, nor would they help Meghan.

  “You believe in Ava Coons, don’t you?” Meghan sniffed. The edge of anger in her voice was dissipating into a watery hope that someone wouldn’t think she was crazy.

  Wren tapped her fingers on her bare knees, feeling a rivulet of sweat trickle down her back. It wasn’t that hot outside. But it didn’t change the fact that she felt as though she were in the hot seat.

 

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