Chapter 1
This is how “inspired by true events” Lifetime movies begin. The longer I stand in this field, holding a red plastic cup filled to the brim with warm beer and surrounded by my common-sense lacking, sex-obsessed peers, the more I convince myself that I am in the opening scene of a cheesy, low-budget slasher flick that people who like that sort of thing eat up. All the vital cliché elements are present.
Irresponsible young adults. Check.
Drugs and alcohol. Check.
Sex. I’m pretty sure some of that has been going on behind a cluster of trees for a good five minutes—but I refuse to confirm my suspicions. For two solid reasons. One, I don’t want to see Jeremiah Stone’s pasty butt, or Sarah Miller’s boobs. Two, I’m not stupid.
I’m not one of those movie characters. I’m the girl who points out glaring plot holes and insists the book is always better than the movie—on the rare occasion I spend my hard-earned paycheck on a theater stub and an overpriced bucket of popcorn. I’m not the dumb, big-breasted girl who unwittingly finds herself the first victim of the mask-wearing, butcher knife-yielding psychopath headlining the film.
For starters, I graduated today with a three-point-nine. As far as I am concerned, Calculus is my only enemy. I have brains and a modest B-cup. I’m the lone survivor. The shining star you don’t see coming. I’m the girl who gets dragged into a bad situation, but manages to come out on the other side with only superficial wounds and a few lingering emotional scars quickly erased by a handful of therapy sessions.
At least, I hope that will be me by the end of this disaster-prone party.
It certainly won’t be Jill Dugway—aka “the evil stepsister.” Nor will it be Steve Sullivan—her pretty-but-dumb boyfriend. They will meet their fate together. Because karma.
Because Steve used to be my boyfriend until he banged Jill in the back seat of his mom’s Buick on my eighteenth birthday. In my driveway. At a party thrown in my honor.
That was nearly seven months ago—Halloween night to be exact—and the last time I voluntarily spent any amount of time, not required by the Department of Education, with these people. In fact, I’m surprised I got an invite to tonight’s festivities.
No doubt my best friend, Vienna, had something to do with that. No matter how many times I tell her I’m perfectly happy as an introvert in social exile, she hasn’t given up trying to “help” me. She is the only reason I left a perfectly good book on my pillow and agreed to attend this sorry excuse for a graduation party.
And then she ditched me.
Not really. She took off a few minutes ago to see if there was any truth to the rumor about a few “hot guys” who didn’t go to Castien Valley being spotted near the keg. Knowing Vienna, she will not return until she secures the promise of marriage from at least one of them.
I take a sip of beer and face the heart of the party, where a cluster of classmates assembled around a poorly-constructed bonfire laugh in unison. In an attempt to appear casual, I put my back to the trees, the shadows, and the vast wilderness that surrounds us.
That’s dumb mistake number I’ve-lost-count. I’m smarter than that. I’m smarter than this entire situation, yet here I am. The smart girl doing the dumb thing.
Because there is one thing I know that my classmates obviously do not. The wilderness can be a dangerous place. It’s unpredictable and unforgiving.
Sure the cops probably won’t bother to break up an underage drinking party this far up the mountain, but there is always a chance that a territorial bear may crash. Or worse, the pack of wolves that have been known to terrorize campers in the area might stop by for a late-night snack. The first to go will be the ones who have slipped away into the forest for privacy. The dumbest of the dumb.
They should know better, having grown up in the Cascades—aka Grizzly Territory—their entire lives. The wolf problem hasn’t been an issue until recently, but it’s been a frequent discussion on the front page of the newspaper every morning for all to know—including self-absorbed high school students.
I’m not self-absorbed, I pay attention to the news, and I have respect for the wild. So why am I here, cheap beer in hand, flashing a “Come Eat Me” sign on my back?
I inch closer to the bonfire. Not to fit in, but to blend in. Unfortunately, my attempt to avoid being mauled by wild animals gets the attention of someone in the group—the last person whose attention I want.
“I’d rather be eaten by a bear,” I mutter as I tip my chin down to examine the cup in my hand. Anything to avoid Steve’s gaze.
All I want to do is get through my summer unscathed and watch as he, Jill, and the other evil spawn leave the nest for their expensive, big-name universities while I gear up for an exciting semester at community college.
The mere thought of dreams not coming true is worth another drink of beer. I swish it around in my mouth like a shot of Listerine as Steve stands and turns toward me.
I recognize the look on his face. He’s thinking too hard. Debating. He wants to come over and flash a smile to remind me of what he thinks I should be missing.
He will be lucky if I don’t spit my drink all over his expensive Under Armour jacket.
I reposition the bag on my shoulder, fully aware of the can of bear spray inside. One shot of aerosolized pepper will keep him away—well worth the misdemeanor assault charge I’ll undoubtedly be slapped with afterward.
Steve starts in my direction, then stops. I count my blessings before I realize the whole group is gawking at me. My throat squeezes shut as I wait for the plot twist.
I’m not the survivor, after all. I’m the punch line. I’m the misunderstood heroine, standing on a stage while a bucket of pig’s blood is dumped over her head.
Nothing happens.
I scratch the bridge of my nose self-consciously.
Do I have a booger playing peek-a-boo? A twig in my hair? A salivating wolf about to pounce on me from out of the shadows?
My fingers comb through the honey-colored locks spilling across my shoulder as I resist the urge to turn around and look. I twirl the humidity-frizzed ends around my pinky, and my back stiffens when I feel a presence behind me. Not a wolf, or bear, or any of the dangers I half expected to make an appearance tonight.
Something worse.
“I don’t know what it is,” a smooth, deep voice suddenly drawls from behind me. “But I get the impression that this isn’t your scene.”
I whip around as a young man comes to a stand beside me. He is nothing like the boys I walked across the stage in Castien Valley High’s auditorium with today. While his wider frame and taller height give him an obvious physical advantage, it is the way he stands that sets him apart from the other, inferior males on the mountain tonight.
No wonder my classmates are staring. And now I am staring.
He oozes confidence and influence, and when his gaze meets mine, I feel a nuclear-like blast of charm. A shade of blue I thought only possible in Disney films, it’s hard not to feel something peering into them. A flicker of recognition is the last thing I expect.
“Do I know you?” I blurt.
He stares at me for a long moment. Almost long enough to encroach on creepy territory. Then he looks away with a barely-there smirk on his lips. “If you have to ask, then the answer is no.”