I’m dropped to the floor before I realize what’s going on, landing so hard on my feet I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk tomorrow. The sharp rocks hit my soles and send strikes of pain up my entire body until my knees give out and I fall to the ground.

When I look up, Graham is standing in front of me, staring straight into the woods beside us. His hands are at his sides, balled into fists so tight his white knuckles are reflecting the moonlight.

“A bear?” I ask, slowly getting back on my feet. But when I stand next to him, fully prepared to reason with this animal the same way I did the one at home, I’m speechless. “What is this?” I ask.

Stapled onto the trees in front of us, right on the edge of the gravel road, are posters—dozens of them:

MISSING: BERNADETTE WARD

Beneath that is a photo of a smiling blonde girl. It looks like an oil painting; she is so perfect, her hair so straight, her eyes so blue.

They don’t look like the kind of missing posters I’d seen on Law & Order. They don’t have any details, no age or height or weight, no date she was last seen, no description of her clothes. The more I stare at her, the more it looks like she is staring at me, watching me, pulling me closer and closer until my face meets hers. I reach forward and gently tug the paper off a tree, wanting to get a closer look at her.

“Don’t fucking touch that,” he says.

“Who is she?” I ask, her face smiling up at me like a hopeful child’s.

“I said don’t touch it.” He slaps my hand, hard, until the paper falls out of it and onto the cold ground. Then he rips another poster off another tree. He crumples it up in his hand as he reaches for the next. Then the next. He starts pulling them off two at a time, getting farther and farther into the dark forest as he does it, pulling each and every one off the trees so violently little paper slivers stick to the staples and wave at me in the wind.

“What is this about?” I ask. “Do you know her?”

Graham appears a few moments later, white-knuckling the posters like if he squeezed hard enough they’d disappear. Just like her, I guess.

“It’s an old case,” he says. “I don’t know anything about her. This makes our neighborhood look unsafe. And with everyone coming up here tomorrow—” He starts walking up the mountain toward the house, leaving me standing there by myself, the tough gravel maiming the bottoms of my feet. But I know better than to call him back. I know better than to ask any more questions.