It’s all a bit hopeless now. Mary Anne and Archie. Booker. Baby Blue. Sylvia. How does it all fit together?

‘So what do we do next?’

But neither of us have an answer, and we’re both a bit shaken, so Ellis and I cut our losses and go, the No-Names breathing behind us.

After I say goodbye to Ellis, on the way home, because everything is very confusing, I’m thinking of Booker and where he fits in, but I also can’t stop thinking about the deep, dark woods, and I’m searching for information on my phone. No dice; I’m looking maybe for something in the local paper about the woods being blocked off, but the archives only go back so far and it doesn’t look like they’ve digitized any of their papers pre-2005.

But I’m stuck on this now and I can’t shake the curiosity.

Finally I come across a digitized collection of news from a small publication that is primarily focused on locations from the mainland but also includes news from Sandown. I try the search. Woods closure Sandown. Forest. Shut. I close a warning about Hurricane Arthur.

Finally I find it – an article headline. SANDOWN SURPRISES WITH IMMEDIATE FORESTRY CLOSURE.

Sandown County has announced the official closure of its forest today after a series of accidents city officials attributed to the untamed nature of the wood. Police chief Clark says it’s for the best. ‘We’re lucky it’s so beautifully preserved, but until we can ensure our visitors can safely experience the beauty Sandown has to offer, we can’t in good conscience leave it open to the public.’ A ten-year beautification project has been proposed but is yet to be approved by the town council.

It’s dated 4 November 1986, a little more than two months after Roxy’s disappearance.

My heart quickens.

This strikes me as unusual timing.

I don’t have too long to linger on this, though, as I open the door to my dorm and I realize –

Somebody has been here.

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

The mess is hard to identify.

It doesn’t look like anything, really. Debris. Detritus. Black bits of string and plastic, like the viscera of a roll of film. I actually worry at first that something has happened to Peyton – although she leaves behind the occasional cold cup of coffee or shirt on the floor, she wouldn’t leave the room in this state.

And then I realize what it actually is on the floor, based on the one drawer of my desk that is flung open wide, the explosion radiating from that central point.

It’s all the equipment for How to Disappear.

My microphone is shattered. Closer inspection reveals the wires have been cut into little segments, in some places meticulously but in others they’re completely ripped. A tape recorder has been smashed to bits. My headphones dashed. Even my pop filter is torn up.