I know where Bobby is.

Laura put a hand to her mouth. The letter continued:

Bobby is dead.

She read this, and felt a peculiar rushing sensation in her ears. Her heart contracted in her chest so hard she thought she might die right there on the spot. She reached out blindly for the stair bannister behind her, and slowly felt for the bottom step, upon which she collapsed, knees splayed out, frog-like. Her eyes stung, but remained dry. All the tears she was supposed to cry were trapped in the cavity around her heart, and they would stay there for many years to come, solidifying to a hard, waxen case.

I’m sorry for it.

I couldn’t help it.

I expect you’d like me to tell you where he is. I expect you think I’ll do it out of the goodness of my heart, or because I feel guilty. I am sorry for what I did. But I don’t trust you well enough yet to tell you my secrets, not yet. You have to earn my trust.

So here’s how it works, Laura. If you want Bobby, you have to give me something first. Something personal. If you do as I ask, I will send you a clue. Something for something, an eye for an eye, all natural and fair, just like nature intended. Do you see? It has to be fair. That’s the rule. Like a game. I know you like games, Laura. I watch you playing them sometimes with your family.

I think you are very beautiful, Laura. Has anyone told you that, yet? I hope not. I would like to be the first to say it. You are beautiful. Sometimes I watch you and all I can think about after is your sweet face.

There is another rule I must tell you about. This one is easy. If you take this letter to the Police you will never find Bobby’s body. This has to be our secret, or the arrangement is off.

No Police. I hope I can trust you, Laura. I shall send further instructions separately.

Yours with respect,

X.

10.

Once the dark had turned its gaze on the forest, there was no stopping it. Soon Laura was surrounded by the full force of the night, and moving on became impossible. Every space grew treacherous, every surface unreliable. It was summer, so dawn would not be that far away, but she was afraid she had no time to wait for it. She was supposed to be at her destination by seven-thirty the next morning. Seven-thirty, or I will come after your boy, and I will take him like I took Bobby, the last letter had said.

Eventually, the decision was taken out of her hands. It was too black a night for her to reliably keep to the straight line she had plotted on her map. Every misstep she took in the dark jolted her swollen, tender ankle and brought her immense discomfort. When she walked into a low-hanging tree branch, spearing herself on another pointed twig and narrowly missing an eye in the process, she admitted defeat.