The Creeping

It’s painful to meet his red-rimmed eyes. I’ve been pushing him hard to solve the coldest of cold cases for the last two days. I want to be able to wash my hands of it. I want to bury the tiny seed of doubt and not have it sprout into a sapling. “There has to be a way to find more details on the investigations.”


He fiddles with the lid of a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the console. “There’s an old warehouse south of Minneapolis where police records are stored from the surrounding counties after they’ve been closed or retired.” He takes a sip of the brown liquid. His mouth purses, and he replaces the cup in the console. “I’m heading down tomorrow to look through them. I’ll be able to see if there were suspects they never made public. That’s what I’m guessing I’ll find. Sometimes the police know who did it, but they can’t prove it, and crimes go unsolved officially.” He looks more resigned than hopeful.

I unbuckle my seat belt, carefully drawing the strap over my shoulder, but I don’t move to leave the car. I blink up at him. “Griever said it was the creature in the woods.”

He smiles ruefully. “I’m sure she did.”

I squint at him. “There isn’t even a part of you that wonders?”

“Stella, you’re the one who figured out a way to prove Daniel killed Jane Doe. You cleared up all the mystery surrounding Jeanie. If a beast killed those kids in the thirties, where has it been? What’s it been up to? Why hasn’t it taken anyone for so long? I don’t wonder. I told you the story of the Norse settlers not to create doubt in your mind, but to eliminate it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “Is that why my grandmother told the story to me? Maybe not. She could have believed like Griever. And why did her mother tell her the story when she was a girl? And why might you retell it to your children someday?” He inclines his head. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

I pull the door lever and kick one foot out. “The same story can be used to prove and disprove that the monster exists.” I don’t mean to sound so petulant.

“Interpretation is everything,” he says in this maddeningly rational way. “It’s only real if you let it be.”

I know Shane’s right. I want knowing that monsters don’t—can’t—exist to be enough. Instead those missing girls are like flypaper sticking to my thoughts. “It’s crazy,” I admit. “I just need to know for certain what happened to all those little girls. I need that to move on.” Shane’s crescent eyes pool with liquid watching me as I heave out of the sedan. As I bend to wave, he nods his head ever so slightly, an echo of the nod he gave me last September when I asked for the case file, the nod that started everything. I hope this one finishes it.





Chapter Thirty


When she gets to my house, Zoey looks smaller. Okay, so no one packs on the freshman fifteen scarfing hospital food, but even I didn’t waste away living off green Jell-O. Every time she catches something moving in her peripheral vision, she recoils like a turtle trying to take cover in its shell. She arrives a few hours after Shane dropped me off, while Dad is still cooking my welcome-home dinner, and Sam and his mom haven’t arrived yet.

Zoey’s wearing yoga pants and tennis shoes—an ensemble she’d usually consider too casual for the school gym. The plum bruise on her right cheekbone is fading to a sickly yellow. I get bleary-eyed watching her ferret through a box of assorted truffles Dad picked up on the way home from work. She nibbles on the corner of a caramel, then places it back in the box.

“What?” she snaps as I watch her. “It’s not like I’m contagious.” She selects another truffle and licks it before replacing it. “I’m just not hungry.” She smiles a crooked smile that fades too quickly. It feels like a performance; Zoey playing at being Zoey.

I shrug. “I’ve never seen you resist stuffing your face when candy is involved is all.” She crosses her arms against her chest as she leans back into Dad’s recliner. The cushions practically swallow her. “How was this morning, you know, since he was found . . . ?”

She swipes at a tear escaping the corner of her eye. “My mom had a shit-ton of questions. What did I do to Caleb to make him pissed at me? Why would Caleb try to hurt me? How could I believe Caleb could hurt anyone? Once she heard that they found him, she ran down to the police station like she was going to save her innocent baby. It was so freaking obvi that she blames me. Big surprise, right?” I reach for Zoey’s hand and lace my fingers with hers.

She blinks faster, trying to keep up with the tears. “What are those loose-lipped bitches at school going to say? Who is going to take me to senior prom now? Those dickless guys will treat me like I’ve got a safety pin through my eyebrow or like I wear fat jeans.” She half laughs, half sobs.