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AFTER THE INCIDENT - Spring '19

"What if they catch us?" Oliver asked. His voice sounded small in the vast expanse of forest trees.

It was nearing evening, and the sun spilled orange-colored light through the canopy. The air smelled crisp, the scent of pine needles overpowering everything else. I gripped Oliver's hand, taking in everything from the birds nesting in the trees to the leaves on the ground.

"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to," I reminded him.

I frowned at the indents we made in the path. Our footsteps stood out, pressed spaces of mud that seemed to jump out and grab your attention. They were obvious, and I bet they would be even more so to trained forensic specialists. We had to cover them up, at least partly.

"But I wanted to," Oliver said. He adjusted the sketchbook tucked underneath his arm, determination painted across his features. I looked away, nostalgia a heavy shadow in my heart. He looked so much like Papa sometimes. "I don't want you to be alone. What if the lake takes you again?"

Warmth blossomed in my chest, and I squeezed his hand tight.

"Thanks, Ollie. Now, wait here for a second."

I let go of his hand and grabbed the mulch of fallen leaves that littered the base of the trees. The canopy swayed above us, scatters of sunlight shining through the gaps above. The leaves were wet where the darkness reached them and fell apart in my hands. I grabbed a handful, my stomach rolling at the feeling. They squelched between my fingers, dripping mud onto the ground.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm covering our tracks. Come on, help me scatter these leaves over our footsteps." I said, jerking my head to the path.

Together, we sprinkled the wet leaves over the indents. Oliver tried to clean his hands on my leggings. I grabbed his tiny wrists and pushed him away.

"Stop it." My voice sounded tense. Oliver frowned and stepped away from me.

Nerves sat at the base of my throat, so heavy I felt I couldn't breathe. I forced my legs to work and breathed deep into the cool spring air. I guided Oliver to the edge of the clearing that opened up to the lake banks.

"Be very still and quiet, now, ok?" I said.

Oliver nodded, waving me off. Rolling my eyes, I hid behind huge bushes, staring at the big white tent on the far bank of the lake. Memories of murky lake water and floating logs flashed across my vision. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself, and tried not to think of the freezing winter air on my bare skin.

The lake called to me.

That was the only way I could describe it. The lap of the water reached my ears from far away. It sounded like a strange type of music, lilting and echoey. I shook my head to clear it and forced myself to pay attention.

People bustled around the tent, most of them in white HazMat suits and bright blue face masks. Some people held what looked like high-tech metal detectors. Almost everyone fiddled with something, scribbling notes down on clipboards. Some spoke in hushed whispers, their eyes promising confidentiality. Past the tent sat five lumps in large body bags. They looked like bin bags, black and filmy, tied around with tape.

It felt like somebody had poured a bucket of ice water over me.

I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, biting my lip. A small hand gripped the elbow of my pink puffer jacket, radiating warmth. Right. I needed to pull myself together, or we'd get caught. I'd get thrown into prison until I grew grey and started thinking of my childhood as 'the good old days'.

"We need to get closer," I hissed.

Oliver threw me a look. "They'll catch you, pelotuda. You're gonna be in so much trouble."

But the lake was calling, and they'd tied my friends with packaging tape in black bin bags. I felt like dying all the time because I missed them so much.

I couldn't find it in myself to care about the consequences.

Sending Oliver a tight smile, I crept around the edge of the clearing. The rush of the lake water rose, deafening me for a moment before it died back down. I gritted my teeth together and continued on.

If Oliver followed me, I didn't know. I heard no footsteps behind me. I moved a few leaves aside. The people in Hazmat suits stood on the other side of the lake. On my side, somebody spoke with a short, stout man with long, grey hair. He wore a blue Hazmat suit, the vibrant color of Emily's eyes, and his facemask dangled around his neck. He looked like a squashed bulldog. He spoke with his hands flying, flapping his wrists like they were rubber. The other man stood tall, with glasses that looked too spindly to be real. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that covered the top of his face, casting it in shadows.

I moved in as close as I dared, straining my ears to hear their conversation.

"-My job depends on this, Niall. I can't let you go interfering with the evidence. Look, I've given you the photos, go on and use them as much as you like."

The other man huffed and shuffled papers that I hadn't noticed in his hand. They glinted in the fading light, the tell-tale laminate of photographs. The man tipped the brim of his hat.

"Fine. Tell me this one thing. You're sure you've seen these symbols before?"

The man with grey hair nodded. "Swear it. Might not have been in this town exactly, or even in a book, but I've seen it. It sickens me that some fucker branded it onto the soles of their feet. Must've hurt."

Branded. Like, burned?

"By the looks of it," the man in the hat agreed. He rubbed a hand over his beard. "I need this done within the year. This place gives me the willies."

"You and me both, pal." The grey-haired man adjusted his facemask and pushed it over his nose and mouth. "What doesn't make sense to me is how we've only found the bodies. I'd say the killer must have hidden them until he wanted them discovered."

I blinked. I'd never thought of that.

"Then I'd say stick to your job, Lionel, and I'll stick to mine," the other man said.

The grey-haired man shrugged, raising both hands as a peace sign. "You got a place to be, now?" he asked.

"Yeah. Down by the Madigan house at around eight. I need to get that girl and her mother to cooperate with us otherwise this whole thing is a dud."

My heart skipped into my throat. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, dimmed the brightness, and checked the time. We had an hour to get back home.

I drew away from the opening in the leaves, biting my lip. My head felt stuffed full of cotton wool, and my vision blurred. It made the ground swim underneath my feet, and for a second I thought I caught a whiff of something. Something raw and rotting, like the copper tang of blood.

We had to go.

I staggered around and latched onto Oliver's shoulder through the growing darkness. He squinted up at me, worry etched onto his face. I pushed down my panic and led Oliver away from the clearing's entrance and back onto the pathway.

The cut on my hip fired hot lightning bolts down my leg. My limbs were numb and felt like molten led. Something curled around my brain and squeezed.

The last thing I saw before I fell was Oliver, one hand gripping his sketchbook like a lifeline.

🌊

I opened my eyes to Oliver shoving a drawing into my face. Grabbing his arm, I pushed him away from me and stumbled onto my knees. My bones creaked like rusty door hinges and I ignored the worrying sound, pushing myself up. Taking a deep breath, I waited for the cold air to settle my churning stomach.

What was wrong with me? Was I dying? My hands trembled until I clenched them into tight fists, trying to will down my panic.

"What happened?" I asked. I let Oliver shove the drawing into my hands."It feels like I've been asleep for years."

"It felt like it," Oliver whined. "You wouldn't wake up for ages. I told you I should've come and you didn't believe me."

He turned away, scrubbing at his eyes. I wrapped an arm around Oliver's shoulders, smiling into his hair. It smelled of little boy and Mum's shampoo.

"Thank you for staying with me," I whispered. "But we have to go now. Someone wants to see me, and if Mum finds out we're here then we're dead."

I glanced at the sketch Oliver had done and stopped in my tracks. Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach and settled like a heavy weight in my gut. I couldn't take my eyes off of it.

"Oliver, what-" My voice came out quiet. "Why did you draw this?"

I tilted the page and squinted through one eye, trying to figure out what 'this' even was.

Oliver shrugged, his eyes clouding over. "It's the lake."

"It's a demon. With a mouth longer than the page," I said.

"Yes." Oliver nodded once. That was that. He grabbed my hand, his grip tight for such small, soft fingers, and led me back home.

This time we avoided the path, traipsing through dense foliage. Long strands of my hair tangled in gnarled branches, my trainers sinking deep into the mud. I hurried to clean them with broad leaves. They didn't make visible marks on the tarmac right outside the treeline, thank God. We got home, shivering and bone-tired. A silver station wagon had parked in our driveway behind Mum's beat-up car. I hurried Oliver up the tree in our front yard and climbed in after him.

My jacket snagged on the window latch. I tugged at it, biting my lip at the tell-tale ripping sound. There was no time to mourn my beautiful puffer jacket. Removing the jacket, I left it hanging on the latch and dropped down onto the soft carpet of my bedroom.

And looked straight up into Mum's face.

Oh, shit.

I pushed my hair out of my face and tried to push down the trepidation that spiraled down my spine. Voices came from downstairs, and I recognized the deep, gruff voice of the man in the hat. He spoke with another voice I couldn't place. Mum crossed her arms, her face pinched in disappointment. I pursed my lips, steeling myself against her incoming tirade.

"How could you involve Oliver like that?" She asked.

It sounded like an accusation. Her face pinched tighter as she took in the mud that trailed up my jeans, and the leaves stuck in my hair.

I shrugged. "He wanted to come to protect me from the lake." An image of the monster with a wide, gaping mouth flashed behind my eyelids. I shoved it away.

"He wanted to come, Mum. I didn't force him into anything."

Mum's lower lip trembled, and I felt a spike of worry in my stomach. She never cried. I looked away.

"It's like back then, isn't it?" she said.

I scoffed, and rolled my eyes."Felix isn't here. I haven't done- I wouldn't do that. I promised you, and I kept my promise, didn't I Relax and trust me for once, please."

"It pains me," she whispered, her eyes glossy.

A few moments passed before she seemed to draw herself together. She spoke with her eyes shut.

"There are nice, helpful people downstairs that want to meet you, Anna. They've been waiting for a few minutes now. You are going to go down there and answer their questions, and they are going to get us out of this mess. I've prayed so many times I fear Dios has tired from listening."

I couldn't argue with her. I let her pick out twigs and leaves from the ends of my hair, changing my jeans to clean grey sweatpants. When Mum deemed me acceptable, she corralled me downstairs.

The man in the hat sat on our squishy grey couch in the living room beside a woman I'd never seen before. He looked different in this light, his beard trailing down to tickle his neck and he'd changed his hat to a fedora. When he saw me he stood up, taking off the hat to reveal a completely bald head.

"Annalise? I'm Detective Mulroy, and this is my wife, Fiona."

The woman stood up as well, and I gaped up at her. She was taller than anyone I'd ever seen before. How did their relationship work?

"Chief Editor of The Picker," she introduced herself.

She fit the part of a journalist, with bright eyes that took in everything. I wiped my face, hoping that I didn't look like I'd fallen unconscious in a forest. A forest full of evidence. The gush of the lake rose and ebbed in the distance. I plopped down in the wicker back chair our old neighbor gifted us before she passed away.

"I'm sure you've had a lot of people calling in today," Mulroy said. He glanced up at Mum, who only shrugged her shoulders, and went back to busying herself around the kitchen. She cooked when she got nervous.

"Fiona and I are here for something different. Those police officers want to find out what happened and how to prevent it from happening again. My job is to find who did this in the first place. Are you with me, so far?"

I nodded and tried not to shift in my chair. What did all this have to do with me? Whatever killed the others hadn't touched me, apart from the swollen cut on my hip. I could hardly provide any witness information.

"Folks here seem a bit one-track minded and have focused on pinning you as the culprit. If we had your help we'd be able to narrow some suspects down, and get insight into the victims' pasts."

Fiona took it up from there. "Of course, The Picker will help clear your name. We're not the number one news site in the country for nothing. The victims only hung around each other until you came along, and they welcomed you into their circle. Your help would be beneficial in finding out what happened to your friends."

So, help out and get absolved of my supposed sins, or get shoved into police custody. It wasn't much of a choice. I looked at my Mum. She leaned over the island counter, her chin resting on her clenched fists. Her skin was blotchy, flushed red and white like a spring onion.

"Is this blackmail?" Mum asked, her voice low.

Somewhere outside, a police car drove past, the sirens on full-blast. I shrunk back into my chair. Fiona glanced at Mulroy, who nodded and brought out what looked like a walkie-talkie.

"Not if you don't want it to be," Mulroy said as he dropped the black box onto his lap. "We run a strict operation here, Ms. Madigan. If your daughter doesn't cooperate, we'll have a lot less evidence to go off of. It's a matter of life and death."

I took a deep breath, wondering how my life had come to this. I'd wanted to escape everything, and moving to Black Hill had seemed like the solution at the time. That had lasted a few months before it all went to hell, too.

Bad luck follows me.

"Fine."

The adults turned to look at me. "I'll do it," I said, gritting my teeth. "I'll help because they were my friends and now they're gone, and I want to know what happened. More than anything."

Fiona nodded, a light of what looked like approval in her eyes. She reached into her tote bag - Ratings don't last, good journalism does! - and brought out a shiny black file. Flicking it open, most of the pages were blank or filled with chicken scratch writing. Finally, she picked out a few sheets of paper and handed them to me. Her nails looked bitten to the quick, long strands of hangnails around her cuticles. It was a glaring contrast to her neat bun and the sharp blazer she wore.

I looked through the photos, and immediately I knew what they were. Brandings. Burn marks on the soles of their feet. Exactly what Mulroy had told the forensic scientist. I trailed trembling fingers over the curves and weird shapes, something going off in my mind.

I'd seen these somewhere, before. When I'd first met Yana and Dylan at Arthur's 'End of Summer' basement party. The memory stayed fuzzy in the back of my mind. I brushed mental fingers against it but it slipped away from my grasp.

"You've seen these before," Mulroy said. It wasn't a question. I looked up. He studied me and didn't look away, even when my eyes met his.

"I- I'm not sure," I mumbled, passing the photos back to Fiona. My hands felt dirty. "They look kind of familiar."

Her hands gripped the edges of the sheets, but she didn't take them. Her eyes were bright stones nestled in the stern expression on her face. "Do you know what they mean? Were they a tattoo idea, or something about Black Hill?"

I opened my mouth and closed it again, unsure of what to say. The only thing that came to mind was the McMahon woman. She looked old, old enough to know about the inner workings of Black Hill. Old enough to know about the brandings. I wanted to smack my forehead. How come I'd never thought of that?

I'd been sitting idle for so long. If anyone needed to find out what happened to my friends, it was me. They had meant the world to me. I looked away, wiping at the tears that fell on my cheeks like unwanted rain.

As Mum cleared her throat, Mulroy's black box shrilled, a piercing sound that cut through the air.

"Detective Mulroy. No, I'm on case forty-four right now, can I call you back?" Mulroy wiped a hand over his face. "Shit. Right, I'll bring Fiona. Tell them to touch nothing, I want everything as it is when I get there."

He hung up and threw the device down onto the couch. Fiona pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow.

"A girl's turned up dead in the lake," Mulroy said. In that moment he looked haggard, older than he seemed. I sat back in the wicker chair, ignoring the way it dug into my shoulder blades.

Another death. And this time, I was nowhere near it.