“I said, ‘Not yet.’ You can guess what happened next.”

Emilie said, “He died.”

“My last chance to forgive him, and I didn’t do it. Now you two are sitting there asking me to break the promise I made him. The one thing he asked me was that I never go back to the Crow. That place was cursed ground to him.”

Rafe waited for Jeremy to make his argument. He knew it was coming. He knew it would be a good one, but before Jeremy could say a word, Emilie spoke up.

“If you heard Jeremy was lost in the Crow again, and no one else could find him, you’d go then, right?”

“That was a low blow,” Rafe said.

“Would you like some frozen peas?” Emilie asked.

He laughed softly. The kid was all right. “I’ll make you both a deal. If Mom is okay with it, I’ll go.”

“That’s fair,” Emilie said. “Yes?” She looked to Jeremy.

Jeremy shook his head. “Complete waste of time.”

“It’s his mom, Jeremy,” Emilie said. “Do you even have a heart?”

“Not at the moment,” he said, his tone steely. “What if your mother says no?”

“Mom has all of Dad’s old maps of the Crow. Even if Mom says she doesn’t want me to go, they might help you all navigate the park. Best I can offer.”

“All right, we’ll go to your mom’s house right now,” Jeremy said. “You can get her blessing—which she’ll give you—then we’ll all head out in the morning. Yes? Yes. Everyone say yes.”

“Yes,” Emilie said.

“No,” Rafe said.

Jeremy glared at him. “No? Wrong answer. Try again.”

“She won’t let me in the house. I told you I’m banned from the house until I shave and get a haircut. And don’t think I’m joking. I’m not joking.”

“Then maybe—here’s an idea—shave and get a haircut,” Jeremy said with a nuclear blast of sarcasm that nearly peeled the paint off the walls. “The world will thank you. I will thank you.”

Rafe had no desire to shave, no desire to get a haircut. “I can shave tonight, but the haircut might have to wait until tomorrow. It’s already—”

“I can cut hair,” Emilie said.

“You can cut hair?” Rafe asked.

“Back at the vet’s office where I worked, I did some dog grooming. Human hair isn’t much different, right? Oh, forgot to ask—is it okay that I have my rat with me?” She reached into her hoodie pouch and produced a small white rat with gray spots.

“His name is Fritz,” Jeremy said. “That was Stevie Nicks’s first band.”

Rafe looked at Jeremy, at Emilie, back at Jeremy.

“I never should’ve let you two in my house.”

Chapter Eight

Nervously, but pretending not to be nervous, Emilie laid out her comb, her shears, and a couple of hair clips on the counter in Rafe’s tiny bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, watching her warily.

“You brought hair-cutting scissors with you?” he asked. He didn’t bother to keep the confused amusement out of his voice. Frankly, she didn’t blame him.

“You see these?” She pointed at her bangs. “These require constant upkeep. Constant. I keep a good pair of scissors in my glove box.”

“Are you going to give me bangs?”

“I’m thinking poodle cut.”

“I like poodles,” he said. She was relieved he had a sense of humor about the whole thing. All she wanted was to do a decent enough job that he didn’t cry when he looked at himself in the mirror. She never had to worry about that with the dogs.

“So…” she said as she started running her fingers through his hair, trying to figure out her plan of attack, “do I call you Ralph or Rafe? Or Mr. Howell?”

“Mr. Howell’s my father. You can call me Rafe. I like it better than Ralph.”

“Who wouldn’t? Sorry, that wasn’t nice. Did Jeremy tell you I have trouble self-censoring? Can you soak your hair now?”

“I guessed.” Rafe turned the shower on. “I’m going to take my shirt off. Don’t freak out.”

“I can handle seeing a shirtless guy without fainting,” she said, rolling her eyes. Men. In the medicine cabinet mirror, she saw Rafe raise his eyebrows. Then he pulled his T-shirt off and tossed it on the floor.

She didn’t scream, but she did gasp. “Oh my God.”

“Warned you.” Rafe stuck his head under the hot water. She turned around and stared, scissors and comb and haircut forgotten.

On his back, between his shoulder blades, were pale pink scars, lots of them. Thin and long and nasty-looking. They were healed, but still…

“What happened?”

“No idea. Happened when we were lost in the Crow. Bobcat, maybe? Or not. Jeremy says he doesn’t even know.”

“I…I’ve seen a lot of dog scratches and cat scratches. Even big ones. That’s not…that is not that.”

“Barbed-wire fence? Fell on something?” His voice was muffled with his head hanging upside down. She wanted to touch the scars but didn’t dare. They reminded her of something, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.

“You really don’t remember getting those?”

She was scared just looking at them. What was out in the woods?

“No.”

He sounded casual about the whole thing, too casual. He sounded like someone trying to pretend he wasn’t bothered by his inability to remember what he’d suffered to end up with those scars.

He turned off the water and sat down on the edge of the bathtub.