The Box in the Woods (Truly Devious #4)(15)

“We’ve been wondering about that for the last few hours,” Janelle replied. “We think they use a hook to pull the trapeze over to the loft, then they must jump off really gently and kind of hang there. They probably use that to get down.”

She indicated a large rolled-up tarp against the wall.

“So they just hang from the ceiling and fall into a tarp?” Stevie asked.

“Yeah. It’s not really a trapeze as much as it’s a . . . dangler?”

“He calls them Think Jams,” Nate said, allowing himself to sink deeper into the beanbag. “Did he tell you that? Think Jams.”

“I mean, the thing is, I don’t hate it,” Janelle said. “And that fact makes me hate myself.”

Along the side of the main room there were hundreds of inch-square pieces of fabric, little flaps of them in a grid pattern, attached to the wall with tape. It wasn’t art, Stevie was pretty sure.

“We have no idea what those are for,” Janelle said. “Maybe he’s really into quilting.”

Stevie flopped into one of the massive beanbags, which





caught her in its space beads or foam or whatever was in it.

Funny how the world shifts when you’re in the same space with your friends. The air is energized, the light is warmer. The two weeks they had been separated evaporated, and they began to talk as if they had finished their last in-person conversation moments before.

“I’m so ready for this,” Nate said. “I love summer camp horror movies, so I rewatched a bunch of them last week to prepare. Do you want to hear about summer camp horror movies?”

“Nate . . . ,” Janelle began.

“You cannot deny me this,” Nate said. “This is a murder story at a camp. It’s how I want to go. My favorite is called Sleepaway Camp. It makes the least sense. First of all, the campers in this movie are, like, eighteen years old. Not the counselors. The campers. Everyone in this movie is terrible. They spend pretty much all their time trying to have the sex. Obviously, though, in terms of the killer, Jason is still the best. He lives in a lake and commits murders in space.”

“Are you done?” Janelle asked.

“Do you live in a lake?”

“Okay,” Janelle said, getting up and smoothing out her dress. “I have to call Vi. I won’t be long—we have to schedule because of the time difference.”

“How’s Vi?” Stevie asked.

“They’re good. They like Da Nang. It’s a lot of family stuff. They’re mostly working on their Vietnamese, plus





learning more Mandarin. It’s . . . you know. Really far, though. I’ll be right back in. Okay? Right back!”

“Do you have to make a romance call?” Nate said when Janelle was gone.

“No,” Stevie replied. “We don’t have a schedule.”

“How is David?”

“Good,” she replied with a shrug.

One of the things that made Nate and Stevie such good friends was their mutual hatred of sharing emotional things. Somehow, they managed to have a deeper bond by staying on the surface—as if they were snorkeling their feelings, floating along side by side, observing all of nature’s wonders without getting close enough to be stung by something under a rock.

“So here we are again in Murder Town,” Nate said. “Where you live.”

They both gazed up at the trapeze, suspended from the ceiling. It was an innocent-enough object, meant to be fun, but in that moment it reminded Stevie of another Nutshell Study, one called Attic, which featured a hanging.

“What do you think?” he asked.

He didn’t need to explain. Stevie knew what he meant, because he meant a lot of things. How was it to be back on a case? What did she think about this case?

“I don’t know yet,” she replied.

“I think it’s going to be great,” he said. “Murder camp, living in a tree, not seeing anyone. This is my summer. This is when I shine. I’m going to achieve peak me. And there are no





tunnels here, so you probably won’t get trapped underground. I feel good about it. I think?”

That Nate was feeling so positive should have served as a warning, but people rarely recognize signs when they appear.





July 7, 1978

8:05 a.m.



SHERIFF ELLIOT REYNOLDS AND HIS DEPUTY, DON MCGURK, TURNED down the drive into Camp Wonder Falls. Don tapped absently on the passenger’s side window.

“What do you think it is?” Don asked. “Drowning?”

“I hope not,” Sheriff Reynolds replied.

“Can’t be someone dead. Eight in the morning at the camp?”

It didn’t make sense to Sheriff Reynolds either. From the sound of the confused message he had gotten over the radio, something very bad had gone down. A serious accident, no ambulance needed. But, as Don pointed out, it seemed unlikely that there was a dead person at the camp on a sunny weekday morning.

Then again, since Michael Penhale, Sheriff Reynolds had felt something turn in Barlow Corners. Of course, accidents happened everywhere. But that business—it had tainted things, tainted his reputation. A barely perceptible but inescapable whiff of rot had taken over this once-pristine little corner of America.