Chapter 1
Tiger has a thorn in his paw.
Pushed in deep, no doubt, but he won’t let me help. He burrows his glossy black nose into the pads, digs around between the folds with his incisors, then yelps a small cry of frustration or pain that drags a wrench of pity through my chest. I want to feel sorry for him, but it’s hard to fully commit. He’s brought this on himself.
“I told you this would happen,” I say, and his ears flap, the silky russet-red and black triangle ends that flop over to rest on top of his head twisting in acknowledgment. “You insist on walking through bur grass anyway.”
He digs away, whimpering as he excavates.
I’ve had him since I was fourteen, my parents’ solution to what they called the “lonely girl, rebel without a clear cause” attitude that took me over in middle school. We went to the animal shelter after I got suspended from school for fighting. Not a reward; Dad was firm on this point.
You can take care of each other. Tiger was this small, ruddy ball of fur. Big hazel eyes lined in dark charcoal, a white patch on his chest, oversized paws he’d have to grow into. A mutt, the volunteer said—probably pit bull and boxer, but they weren’t sure. His litter had been abandoned at the side of the road.
He should have been afraid. His other siblings were. But Tiger came right up to the bars between us and looked me straight in the eyes. We understood each other.
Captivity is all in your head.
We’re sitting a few feet apart in the grass on the front lawn because he refused to walk the ten more feet to the deck. He took the shadiest spot too, of course. The oak in our front yard is a broad oval umbrella, but it’s not all-encompassing. I could move, leave him here to tear up his paw in peace. I could grab an ice tea and get back to not cleaning the kitchen from last night’s dinner.
The sun beats against the top of my thighs as I fall back into the grass and close my eyes. I watch light dance in the new darkness, little aura spirals twisting and turning, fracturing when they hit the edges. My lips fall open, and I exhale, not exactly content.
Never content.
Bugs move in the grass beneath my hair, causing microshifts in the blades that tickle my skin, caressing nerves that play tricks on my body. A shiver wriggles through me.
A shiver of tiny little legs crawling, crawling all over me.
The ripple of panic as it drags me awake.
Everywhere, all over, all-consuming—
Her face flashes, mouth open wide. I twitch, trying to pry my eyes open but unable to move the lids.
Lips peel over gums and teeth, exposing the flesh, the red outline of the little white squares—pearly, so pearly. My hand grips grass; that’s how I know I’m not back there, not for real.
Lashes flutter; eyeballs glisten, spidering bloody lines at the curve of their edges. The dark of the iris sharpens into focus—Right on me.I sit bolt upright, ripping grass from the earth as I force my eyes to open. But I don’t let the scream leave my lips.
I won’t.
Tiger stares at me, head tilted, eyes curious and concerned. That shimmer over the eyeballs, the knit-together ridges. I recognize it for what it is.
Fear looks the same in every mammal.
Even humans.
I grab Tiger’s paw in both hands, and this time he doesn’t fight me. I squint into the charcoal checkered pattern of his paw pads, using my finger to gently spread them so I can see between. He squirms, which means I’m close. I make a
schttz sound between my teeth—a little warning he knows means
Calm down. I focus on the tiny tan spike sticking out, flex my fingers. “You don’t belong here,” I tell it.
I smirk because it comes out fast when I get a grip. Tiger’s gratitude is immediate and immense, proven with a lick before he circles me and then jumps in the air, tail wiggling. The end of the thorn pricks the tip of my pointer finger, sticking out upright, like a spike. When I flick it away, there’s a tiny plume of red in its place.
*
Mom insists that rock paper scissors is the fair and balanced way to decide all manner of disputes. That Dad goes along with her has always seemed out of character for a former man of the law. But I guess he doesn’t extend this logic to disputes of a violent or malicious nature.
I lost the duel for cleanup duty. On the worst night to lose: lasagna night. Marinara and meat grease are a bitch. Normal things like rock paper scissors or lasagna night, movie night, walks with Tiger by Wilde River, tubing to welcome the summer season—they’re a game of pretend for a life that doesn’t exist now.
We all know that what happened at Hollow Lake changed me, hardened whatever soft edges I had left. Even before we got lost out there, my sweetness had already started to sour. Girlhood caution had been replaced with the urge to chase recklessly and wildly after any kind of danger I could find.
But chasing a phantom is different from catching a monster.
Seeing a dead body right when the life leaves the eyes.
That changes everything.
How things taste and smell. The way you hold your body in a crowd. It alters the color of the world. Creates more shadows, corners too dark to look right at. Brightens light, makes certain colors sharper, richer. That’s the thing about a dead body. Once it sparked electric, and when you see what it looks like for that spark to go out, the drive to keep yours lit gets a lot more intense.
I turn the faucet on to warm up, letting my eyes fix on the steady stream.
My mind clears. The ripples blank. There is nothing but the rush of the water hitting the saucepot sitting in the center of the sink.
This is the new game I play. Free of the old idea of me. Free of the before time. Free of my own judgment. The game of
what comes first. Will it be one of the horrors caked in the dirt I’ve tried to bury it under, or one of the others, tucked into little jeweled boxes hidden on high shelves for safekeeping?
She unwraps her hair from its high pony, letting the silky black strands fall like a curtain around our faces.The alarm bell of pain sounds in my brain, and I yank my hand out of the saucepot, which is now full of hot water. I turn the faucet to warm and squirt the sponge with some dish soap.
This weekend is usually my favorite of the year. The Fourth of July town festival is a tradition for the whole family to enjoy, and Tiger and I have participated in the Pet Parade down Main Street since the summer after I got him. But this year, even that feels like a game of pretend.
I’m just getting to the gritty ridges of caked-on tomato when I catch movement in the corner of my vision. The reflection of sunlight on glass.
No, sunlight hitting a lens.
His black ball cap shows over the edge of our hedge, it gets weirder stitched on it in bright white. And if he’s there, she won’t be far behind. I slam the faucet off and wipe my hands on the ass of my cutoff blue jeans on my way out the back door. Tiger is at my heels, ever ready. He has never attacked anyone who messed with me, but when the frenzy got bad after we were found—and all those freaks and fiends were on the lawn day after day, ignoring the orders from local law enforcement—Tiger was the reason none of them came up to the front door.
We’ve never had a chance to find out if his bite is actually worse than his bark.
I round the hedge that forms the boundary between our boat dock and our neighbor’s and nearly slam into
her.Brynn Schroeder. The psychic arm of the YouTube paranormal show
It Gets Weirder. One-half of the bane of my existence—her cameraman husband’s the other half. Her long red hair and searing green eyes make her look like a mermaid trapped onshore, but her black clothes and sun-damaged skin give her hard-living humanness away.
“This is my yard.” My fists clench, ready to strike. “I reserve the right to fuck up your face as long you’re on it.”
She raises her hands. She’s been punched by me before, and she knows I won’t hesitate to break her nose this time.
“Evie, Evie, come on now, please. We’re just here to talk.” On cue, Billy Schroeder emerges from behind the hedge, camera up in front of his face, though I can still see his syrupy smirk, those too-white teeth gleaming in the midday sun.
“We have nothing to talk about,” I reply.
They latched onto the story about eight girls vanishing without a trace on their Environmental Science trip to Hollow Lake National Park. Brandishing their outlandish and opportunistic shooting style, they spun a tail from myth and lore, from digging into our social media to talking to teachers, friends, family—anyone who would sit down for a few minutes on camera.
Copyright © 2026 by Rebekah Faubion. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
