“Nikki?”

The bathroom was on the way to Nikki’s bedroom, so she kicked the door open as she went; nothing, an empty bath, the brief flash of her reflection staring back at her, pale and wild. As she came up the hallway to the room on the far end, she caught sight of dark smudges on the pale, biscuit-colored carpet which she hadn’t noticed before. Mud, she thought, it’s mud, it has to be mud.

The last room was the utilities room at the back, with the washing machine and dryer. There was a back door here, and racks for hikers to leave their muddy boots, but she and Nikki had barely used it. When she opened the door to it, there was a thick, mineral smell, the smell of a butcher’s shop in high summer, and Heather felt some of the strength leach out of her legs. She slammed on the light, throwing everything into a hectic, yellow glow.

I brought her here, she thought. I brought her up here, said it was safe. Oh god, I brought her here.

Her bones heavy with dread, she crept to the far end of the room. Slumped in the space between the washer and the door was a body. It was difficult, for a moment, in the midst of her shock and the sheer amount of blood, to recognize that it wasn’t Nikki at all, but eventually her mind caught up with what her eyes were seeing; it was a man in his boxer shorts, those parts of his skin not covered in blood painfully white. His neck was gaping open. It was Harry. Harry the artist, his hands lying palms up on his thighs and his face turned up to the ceiling, looking a little like a martyr in a sixteenth-century painting.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Heather ran back to the living room and snatched up the phone. There was no dial tone. Picking up the unit itself, she saw that the wires had been cut, ending a handspan before they reached the wall. She fumbled her phone out, but of course there was no signal. Outside, Nikki’s car was still missing from the drive way. She was stuck.

She sank down against the cottage wall. It was the middle of the night. Somewhere out there was a killer—someone who had murdered a man, perhaps while she had been sleeping in the same house, and taken her friend. She could not call the police. The nearest neighbor was a good hour’s walk away. You know where.

That was what the woman had said. She had said she knew where, that she had already told her.

“She called me a fool.” Heather thought of the Polaroid, with the beach in the background. The Folly, standing empty behind them—the Folly that was owned by the same environmental charity that partly owned this land. Something about this tickled at the back of her mind, but she dismissed it. There was no time. If she headed out through the woods, she would get there eventually. Right now, she was Nikki’s best hope of getting away alive. And more than that, she had the sense that this was exactly what she had been heading toward all along. Walking into these woods with murder on her mind—it would be a kind of coming home.