But her eyes were not looking for me. They were searching for something else, a different presence. One I’d not detected.

Who’s there? she asked, and only then was she betrayed as a figment. Although this apparition looked as solid as the woods around us, her voice remained the hollow echo that marked the speech of all the ghosts I’ve ever heard. Avery, is that you?

Yes, ma’am.

He stepped from behind another large tree. He was wickedly handsome, as dark as European chocolate, with ivory white teeth. A cream undershirt showed from beneath the cotton plaid button-up he’d half tucked into a pair of dirty black pants. It would have been easy for me to say he resembled Dave, but he was so much bigger, and he walked with a sense of masculine aggression that my uncle generally lacked. This was a man accustomed to being obeyed.

It’s just me. His words had no more volume than Willa’s, but I heard each precise letter when he spoke them. He walked up close to her then, and picked at the moss on the tree. What are you doing getting this? We don’t need any. It ain’t the right kind.

Willa lowered her eyes to the bag sitting across her knees. I thought I saw fear beneath her lids before she averted her eyes. Fear and something else . . . guilt. Sure it is, she nodded, but Avery didn’t believe her and neither did I.

No, it ain’t. This is good for some things, but not for what we need tonight. You know this isn’t what I asked for.

She looked up at him. Honest I don’t. I thought this was what you said.

Well, it ain’t.

What kind do we need, then?

Never mind, he said. I got it already. I got almost everything I need to make it work.

He turned his back to me and offered her his hand, as if to help her rise. But in the other hand, behind the small of his back, he held a long, serrated knife with a wooden handle. I only need one more thing, and you can help me with it.

Oka—

The knife cut her word short.

She tried to move backwards but he held her by the shoulder, at the crook of her neck, and he would not let her fall. Blood gushed over his hands, and down the front of her dress in dark orange streaks where it wet the yellow fabric. She clawed at his arms, and pushed at his chest, and kicked weakly at his legs . . . and then went slack.

Her knees unlocked and she folded to the ground, still sucking at air through her slashed throat.