The air left him as he realized too late what was in front of him. The thing was swift and for a moment—his last moment—it had been oddly familiar.

When it was over, the forest seemed to reassemble itself and there was nothing, except the sound of the two car radios playing “The Air That I Breathe” in unison.

Part 1: The Wedding That Wasn’t

Chapter 1

Kerrigan Falls, Virginia

October 8, 2004

It was the wrong dress; Lara realized that now.

It was the color of old bones. The intricate platinum beading dripped down the dress’s fitted bodice in a scrolled pattern. Mid-thigh, the long chiffon skirt emerged, sweeping the floor with a dramatic five-foot train. Tugging at the garment, she looked in the mirror and frowned. Yes, she was definitely disappointed with this dress.

It was the first time she’d actually been alone with the gown. No mother standing behind her pulling at the fabric with a hopeful tone in her voice. No “bridal consultants” or seamstresses fussing at her with their encouraging platitudes of just how wonderful she would look.

She did not look wonderful in this dress.

Cocking her head from side to side, hoping for an angle she’d like, Lara recalled the small stack of photographs she’d clipped from bridal magazines as a little girl. She and her friends would grab last year’s dog-eared copies of Modern Bride from the waiting areas of the hair salons while their mothers got their perms and double processes. When no one was looking, they’d slide the old magazines into book bags, poring over them later in their bedrooms, each girl tearing out the pages of silk, taffeta, and tulle creations that they liked best. Lara had actually kept a few of the pages over the years and pruned them down to this one dress style, now reflecting back at her in the mirror. She sighed. No dress could possibly shoulder such expectation. But this one was too mature and vintage, more like a costume than a wedding gown.

Turning around, Lara strained to hear if her mother was on her way back upstairs. The hall was silent. She smiled. Studying her reflection, Lara began wishing the dress was fuller in the train, less formfitting through the thighs. Tugging on it, she concentrated hard, and the fabric gave way and blossomed, like a time-lapse video of flowers blooming, folds of fabric bursting then tumbling down and arranging themselves before her.

“There,” she said, and the fabric obeyed. “A little less.” The fabric swirled as though it were alive, rustling and shifting to please her. “Perfect.” She turned, watching it retract until she said, “Stop.”