Call Dad. Call Ma. But they’ll tell me to go home, to sit tight while they deal with this, when Bree’s running away from me now, doing something really stupid now, and I’m the only one here to stop her. And I’m her friend. Supposed to be.

I take off after her before she gets too big a head start.

The light fades so fast.

I sink with it, acknowledging some self-fulfilling prophecy. Of course, all this would begin and end in the woods, with Bree and me in the dark heart of this place. Everything started here, our first pilgrimage to the marsh, when everything with Kincaid was so new. His hand taking my arm for the first time as we stared down the nightmare on the opposite bank; the darkness taking Ivy, leaving only a trace for Bree and me to find.

And now maybe it has Hazel, but even as I shout her name, I’m trying to figure out how to call this off, go back before it’s too late. Find a way to reason with Bree, who I know is way beyond that. I’ve never seen anyone cry like she is, like her chest has been torn open but her body won’t stop going, won’t stop calling for her sister, expecting to see her behind every tree.

At last I stop, saying, “Let’s go back,” my voice exhausted, flat, because I know she won’t listen, watching as she keeps on going down the trail. “The longer we stay out here, the more time we’re wasting. Hazel could be anywhere. We need to call the cops.”

Bree does an unsteady half turn, gaze moving over the woods to me, almost like she’s ready to faint. “We haven’t checked the marsh.”

“She would never go to the marsh!” Déjà vu all over again: Landon, Ivy. You go if he takes you there. “I don’t want to be out here, Bree. I’m scared.”

“I’m not.”

“We should turn around!” I’m yelling now.

“Just go, Clara!” Bree’s words echo in the trees. She steps through brush onto a side trail, leaving the main path.

And I stand, hands useless at my sides. She left me. Or I left her, take your pick. I’ve never felt so disconnected in my life, so lost. I fumble Ma’s phone out, check the bars. No service. Naturally.

I thought I knew the way. Thought I’d been down this trail with the others before, remembering a curve, a blaze-orange marker on a tree trunk, then a right turn. But there’s no marker, and the curve is too gradual, with no right fork appearing as I follow it. The dark is coming down, and I have to outrun it, won’t admit to myself that I’ve done it again—lost myself in these pitch-pine woods.