“All I remember were people asking me questions,” Patty said. “I told the police the others had been out in the woods as well. Then my dad came and took me home. We all went home. Everything stopped—camp, life in general. The only thing that happened after that was a big gathering in town. Some of us met up on the football field at school. I was there with Greg. He was drunk and high, so the usual. We fought, which was also usual, and he got on his motorcycle—no helmet, of course—and rode off. There’s a sharp turn up the road from the school—a really nasty one. There are accidents there all the time.”
Stevie remembered the turn from that morning’s drive. It was almost ninety degrees, bordered on one side by a large wall of rock.
“He knew the turn well,” Patty went on, “but everything was so confused that week. He was too drunk, or too stoned, or just distracted . . . I don’t know. But he crashed. He died on the way to the hospital. My friends were all gone.”
Patty spread her hands on the table and looked at them.
“If therapy had been more common, my dad would have put me into it,” she said. “As it was, all he really understood was hard work and business. He talked me into getting serious about baking, since it was the one thing I really liked to do. He pushed me into culinary school, and it helped. I threw myself into it completely. You work long hours in bakeries and kitchens. You sweat it out. Mentally, I recovered by chopping and mixing and standing in front of stoves and ovens. I changed. My father fronted the money for me to open this place. I’m glad my dad got to see my business get off the ground before he died. That’s why I keep his picture up in here—he was my angel investor. He believed in me. I tried to make something good come out of the horror of it all.”
After a polite pause to let the gravity of what had been said settle, Stevie picked up her questioning. “What did you think happened?” she asked.
“I know there have been questions about the Woodsman, but that’s the only thing that ever made sense to me. That guy, or someone copying him. I don’t know if you watch much true crime, but there were a lot of serial killers back then. . . .”
Nate actually guffawed. That was the only word for it. This confused Patty for a moment, but she disregarded it.
“I think some sicko went into the woods and killed my friends, and we’ll always be replaying the events. We’re always going to be the town with the murders. It’ll never stop. After you, there will be someone else. It’s our story, and we have to live with it. But I try to make something beautiful here—something people can enjoy. I called this place Sunshine Bakery because that’s the vibe I want to give off. The truth is, this is a nice place, and the camp is a great place to spend the summer. I had so many good times there, before . . . you will too.”
It was clear from her body language and tone that Patty was done talking. She insisted on giving them a bag of muffins and brownies to take with them as they left. They stepped back out into the muggy night. The picnic had fizzled while they were inside. The food trucks were gone, and the square had mostly emptied out. Stevie could make out Carson, sitting alone at a table under the marquee, looking at his phone. A queasy feeling came over her—the burning shame of Allison’s upset.
Somehow, she had to manage this situation—the case, Carson, the feelings that were barely under the surface. The pain was so immediate for Allison and Patty. The past was not in the past for them, not really. The emotional current was alive and well, and the questions still lingered in the air.
She looked down the street, at the peaceful storefronts of Barlow Corners. This really was the perfect small town, with flower baskets hanging from the lampposts, everything tidy and quaint. She felt an internal quiver again, but this time, it wasn’t anxiety; it was something akin to excitement, edged with fear. As long as the case was unsolved, the phantom that haunted Barlow Corners remained—restless, waiting for someone to dispel it. As stupid as she felt being connected to Carson, maybe she really could be the one to bring this to a close.
Now Carson was up on his feet, and he was doing yoga by himself in the empty tent.
Stevie’s confidence vanished as soon as it had come. She was a teenager, saddled with a tech bro, trying to solve something she knew little about.
9
“SO,” NATE SAID, “WHAT DID WE LEARN FROM TONIGHT, CLASS?”
They were back at camp, sitting on the gently bobbing dock, watching the moonlight spill over the water. They had a second dinner of brownies and muffins while millions of mosquitoes descended upon them, despite the best efforts of Janelle and her many sprays.
“Well,” Stevie said, brushing one from her arm, “people don’t love it when you come to town saying you want to donate a library, and then they find out that you actually want to make a podcast about a local tragedy.”
“Very good. And what did you learn, Janelle?”
Janelle looked up from her phone. She had been texting with Vi. Stevie could tell this without seeing the texts, because Janelle had a particular expression when communicating with Vi—a focus, but also a softness. Her shoulders dropped.
“That people love to put up statues of people who owned other people,” she said. “This guy John Barlow? I just looked him up. He had eight enslaved people on his property. Eight. And he has a statue.”
Oh. Not texting with Vi then. Stevie was way off.
“So what happens now?” Nate asked. “Do you think this whole thing is still going to happen? Mr. Think Jams isn’t going to be put off by criticism or public scorn, but I don’t know what that means for the podcast or whatever he’s doing.”
“I think people are going to be pissed,” Stevie said. “But I think it will still happen. It also sounds like Todd Cooper killed Michael Penhale. That’s a pretty good motive for wanting him dead. But it doesn’t make any sense to punish him for killing an innocent kid by killing three other innocent people along with him.”
“Does it need to make sense?” Janelle asked. “Does sense matter in murder?”
“Not always,” Stevie said. “But I think it does when you have one this carefully planned. Someone researched the Woodsman. Someone brought supplies. Someone chased Eric Wilde through the woods for miles. Why do all of that if you just wanted Todd Cooper dead?”
There was no answer to this question.
“You know what Patty is, right?” Nate said after a moment. “It just hit me. She’s the final girl—that’s what you call the survivor in horror movies. It’s almost always a girl, and . . .”
“Nate,” Janelle said.
“No, hear me out. This whole thing is ticking a lot of the horror movie boxes. Murder at a sleepaway camp. A serial killer. A final girl. A kid who died because some teenagers were being irresponsible.”
“But this is real,” Janelle said.
“I’m not denying that,” Nate replied. “I’m just telling you the tropes.”
“Does this mean you know who did it?” Stevie asked.
“Jason Voorhees, and like I said before, he lives in a lake. And he’s been to space.”
They let this profound insight linger in the space between the moon and the surface of the water. A gentle drizzle began to fall, and there was a rumble of thunder in the distance.