That’s why he targeted our group, so he told the police. Because we were that kind; he could just tell. Bad kids. He was in the woods, his hunting ground, that night we carried the jack-o’-lanterns to the bridge. He stalked us through the marsh, watching Kincaid and me from the opposite bank, later seeking us out at school, learning where all of us lived, our routines. Casually asking Mrs. Mac about me, learning I was new, had fallen in with a bad crowd. A perfect candidate to go missing.
He won’t admit to killing either of the boys, but you know it’s coming, they say. Sometimes, these things take years, waiting for some sicko to get bored enough in his prison cell to get the press interested again with a fresh murder story. For now, Pender has to take what closure it can get. The edge of the woods near the trails has become a sort of shrine, people leaving candles, stuffed animals, cards for Ivy and Dabney. Miss you. Love you. So sorry.
They say she should’ve known, Mrs. Mac. That he was using her own files to gather information on his victims, to target her problem cases. They say somebody with her training should’ve recognized the signs.
What remains is a dark, empty office in PDHS. Her sign, her lamps, her doilies, all gone, making room for the next person who just wants to help the neglected, the apathetic, the belligerent. God help them.
They thought I’d want to get out of this town, Ma and Dad. Dad said he’d put in for another job anywhere, any place I wanted to go. I said this is where I want to be. Then I said I wanted to get some curtains for our apartment. Their going theory is PTSD.
These days, I take the sidewalk to the park, learning my way from the Terraces to Maple out here in the open. Takes about seven minutes longer, but who’s counting.
It’s the second week of November. Yesterday, Bree and Hazel and I walked home together, just the three of us. Bree seems to be trying it out, trusting me again. I know it isn’t something she comes to easily, and that me getting her sister out of Mr. Mac’s cabin has a lot to do with it. I’m just glad she’s willing. I won’t need a third chance. I want to be the person she comes to, no matter what. And I know I need to earn that.
Now, I hear the roll of plastic wheels behind me. I don’t turn, letting him come up alongside, coasting like he does, hands in his coat pockets.
“How long have you been back there?” I ask.
Kincaid shrugs, weaving his board slightly, eyes on the road ahead.
“I appreciate you playing bodyguard and all, but it’s not necessary.” I glance over. “Mumbler’s gone, or haven’t you heard?”
He shakes his head, staying deadpan. “He’ll always be with us.”
I give him an incredulous look. “As long as we keep him alive in our hearts?”
A shrug. “Lots of stuff we don’t have an answer to. Two dead boys that piece of shit won’t cop to. Who do you think did it?”
“Sounds like you’re about to tell me.”
He’s serious now—I recognize his barely perceptible shift from teasing to pensive. “I’ve just been thinking. I mean . . . those times in the woods, when I saw him. You know. Standing. Watching me. Why didn’t he do anything?” He catches my look. “I mean, if Mr. Mac was taking his tool kit to girls and guys, why didn’t he kill me?” Kincaid’s silent a moment, looking down at his worn Converses, dragging one foot down to slow and walk with me. “Do you think it was because I was out there, hiding, like him?”
I stop, facing him. “Kincaid. You’re nothing like him.” I punch his shoulder lightly. “Right? That’s over.” Last week, I went with him to the little brown house on Lorimer, standing back a bit, just being there with him when his mom opened the door to find us on her front steps. By the time we were sitting at the kitchen table, she was crying. He’s spending nights at home again, the two of them trying to find their way together, trying to give each other their space, learn to coexist even with all their differences. He’s at school most days now; perfect attendance probably isn’t in the cards for Kincaid.
“I guess.” He looks at me, taking my hand, fingers finding the burn scars on my palm, finally not afraid to touch them anymore, as if his gentle pressure could be enough to bring back the memory of it all.
I look around at the bare trees. “You know what? I like November. No serial killings to plan around. All-you-can-eat turkey.”
“My birthday’s in November.”
“Wait. You’re sharing information with me?” I let go of his hand, start walking backward. “Does this mean I can throw away my secret Kincaid decoder ring?” He smiles, doesn’t answer.
They’re waiting on us now: Trace, Sage, Moon, and Bree. Maybe Hazel, if Faye decided she could let her out of her sight. Things have changed a little at their place. Hazel’s still having nightmares, and Bree told me that Hazel can’t sleep unless Faye’s with her. I know Bree seems a bit lighter, finally listening to me when I told her to stop hating herself for how it went that night. I look over at the trees, dark embroidery between the houses, thinking of moths and half-open closet doors. How the separation between reality and nightmares can be so thin. “Yeah. No more woods for me. Even though the Mumbler’s gone.”
“We’ll see what happens next Halloween.”
“Yes,” I say, “we will.” And keep on going, making him jog a little to catch up so he can hold my hand.
About the Author
PHOTO BY JACQUELINE HALL
GILLIAN FRENCH is the author of The Lies They Tell and Edgar Award finalist Grit, which was an Indie Next List pick and received starred reviews from Kirkus Reviews and ALA Booklist. She holds a BA in English from the University of Maine and lives in Hermon, Maine, with her husband and sons. To learn more about Gillian, visit her online at www.gillianfrench.com.
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Books by Gillian French
Grit
The Lies They Tell
The Door to January
The Missing Season
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE MISSING SEASON. Copyright © 2019 by Gillian French. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover photographs: tree © 2019 Matthew James/Getty Images; background © 2019 Szabo Ervin-Edward/Getty Images
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2019933063
Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-280335-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-280333-7
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1920212223PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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