I said, “We thought of moving them.”
Koenig stilled. “Go on.”
I stumbled over the words. Koenig was so precise and logical that I felt, again, as if I needed to match it. “Someplace farther away from people. But then … it could just put us in a worse situation, unless we know what the people are like. And I don’t know what the pack will be like in a new place, without boundaries. I don’t know if I should try to sell Beck’s house to buy land, or what. There’s not enough money to buy a complete territory. Wolves range hugely, over miles and miles. So there’s always a chance of trouble.”
Koenig drummed his fingers on the wheel, eyes narrowed. A long moment of silence went by. I was glad of it. I needed it. The ramifications of my confession to Koenig felt unpredictable.
“I am just talking as I’m thinking,” Koenig said finally, “but I have property, a few hours farther up in the Boundary Waters. It was my father’s, but I just inherited it.”
I started, “I … don’t …”
“It’s a peninsula,” Koenig interrupted me. “Pretty big one. Used to be an old resort, but that’s all shut down because of old family politics. The end of it is fenced off. Not the best of fence, just box wire between trees in some places, but it could be reinforced.”
He glanced over at me at the same time that I looked at him, and I knew we were both thinking: This might be it.
“I don’t think a peninsula, even a big one, would be big enough to support the pack. We’d have to feed them,” I said.
“So you feed them,” Koenig said.
“And are there campers?” I asked.
“It faces mining land,” Koenig replied. “Mining company hasn’t been active since sixty-seven, but they hold on to the land. There’s a reason why the resort didn’t make it.”
I chewed my lip. It was hard to believe in hope. “We’d still have to get them there, somehow.”
“Quietly,” Koenig advised. “Tom Culpeper won’t consider relocation an alternative to their deaths.”
“And quickly,” I said. I was thinking about how long Cole had been unsuccessfully trying to trap wolves, however, and how long it would take to catch twenty-odd wolves and how we would transport them hours north.
Koenig was silent. Finally, he said, “Maybe it’s not a good idea. But you can consider it an option.”
An option. Option meant a plausible course of action, and I wasn’t sure it was even that. But what else did we have?
CHAPTER FORTY
GRACE
The interminable day finally ended when Sam came home with a pizza and an uncertain smile. Over the pizza, Sam told me everything that Koenig had said. We sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, his desk lamp and Christmas lights turned on, the pizza box between us. The desk lamp was next to the one sloping wall by the roof, and the way the wall diverted the light made the room seem warm and cavelike. The CD player by Sam’s bed was turned on, low, some smoky voice singing to a piano.
Sam described everything that had happened, making a little sweeping motion with his fingers across the floor with each one, as if unconsciously moving the last thing out of the way before he told me the next. Everything was a sort of a wreck, and I felt completely adrift, but I couldn’t help but think how much I liked to look at him in this low yellow light. He was not as soft as when I’d first met him, not as young, but the angles of his face, his quick gestures, the way he sucked in his lower lip to think before going on — I was in love with all of it.
Sam asked me what I thought.
“Of?”
“All of it. What do we do?”
He was stunningly trusting of my ability to logic it all through. It was such a lot to take in — Koenig guessing the secret of the wolves, the idea of moving being plausible, the thought of trusting all our fates to someone we barely knew. How did we know that he would keep our secret?
“I need another piece of pizza to answer that,” I said. “Didn’t Cole want any?”
Sam said, “He told me he was fasting. I don’t think I want to know why. He didn’t seem unhappy.”
I pulled the crust off a piece of pizza; Sam took what was left. I sighed. The idea of leaving Boundary Wood was a disheartening one. “I’m thinking it wouldn’t have to be permanent. The wolves being on the peninsula, I mean. We could come up with a better idea later, after the hunt business had all died down.”
“We have to get them out of the woods first.” He closed the pizza box and traced the logo with a finger.
“Did Koenig say he’d help you get out of trouble? I mean, about me being missing? Obviously he knows you didn’t kidnap and kill me,” I said. “Does he have some way to get them off your back?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything.”
I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice; I wasn’t really frustrated with him. “Don’t you think that’s kind of important?”
“I guess? The wolves have only got two weeks. I can worry about clearing my name afterward. I don’t think the cops can find anything to pin on me,” Sam said. But he wasn’t looking at me.
“I thought the cops didn’t suspect you anymore,” I said. “I thought Koenig knew.”
“Koenig knows. No one else. He can’t just tell them I’m innocent.”
“Sam!”
He shrugged, not meeting my gaze. “There’s nothing I can do about it right now.”
The thought of him being questioned in the police department was acutely painful. The idea that my parents might think him capable of hurting me was even worse. And the possibility that he could be tried for murder was unthinkable.
An idea presented itself.
“I have to tell my parents,” I said. I thought about my conversation with Isabel earlier that day. “Or Rachel. Or someone. I have to let someone know that I’m alive. No dead Grace, no murder mystery.”
“And your parents will be understanding,” Sam said.
“I don’t know what they’ll be, Sam! But I’m not going to just let you — let you go to jail.” I wadded my napkin and threw it at the pizza box angrily. We’d so narrowly avoided being pulled apart — it seemed appalling to think that after everything else, an entirely man-made, unscientific event might be what finally separated us. And there was Sam, looking guilty, as if he believed that he’d been responsible for my supposed death. “No matter how bad my parents are, that’s worse.”
Sam looked at me. “Do you trust them?”
“Sam, they’re not going to try to kill me,” I snapped.
I stopped and put my hands over my nose and mouth, my breath coming out in a rush.
Sam’s face didn’t change. The napkin he had been very carefully ripping apart stilled in his hands.
I covered my whole face now. I couldn’t stand to look at him. “I’m sorry, Sam,” I said. “I’m sorry.” The thought of his face, unchanging, gaze steady and lupine — I felt tears trying to tease themselves out of my eyes.
I heard the floor creak as he stood up. I pulled my hands away from my face. “Please don’t go,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“I got you a present,” Sam said. “I forgot it in the car. I’m going to go get it.” He touched the top of my head as he went quietly out, shutting the door.
So I was still feeling like the most terrible person in the world when he gave me the dress. He was sitting on his knees in front of me like a penitent, watching my face carefully as I pulled it out. For some reason I thought, at first, that it would be skimpy underwear, and I felt relieved and disappointed, somehow, when it was a pretty summer dress instead. I couldn’t seem to sort out my emotions lately.
I flattened the top out with my hand, smoothing the fabric, looking at the fine straps. It was a dress for a hot, carefree summer, which felt like a long time from now. I looked up at Sam and saw that he was biting the inside of his lip, watching my reaction.
“You’re the nicest boy ever,” I told him, feeling undeserving and terrible. “You didn’t have to get me anything. I like thinking about you thinking about me when I’m not around.” I reached out and put my hand on his cheek. He turned his face and kissed my palm; his lips inside my hand made something inside me squeeze. My voice was a little lower when I said, “Should I go try it on now?”
In the bathroom, it took me several long minutes how to work out putting it on, though there was nothing complicated about it. I was unused to wearing dresses, and I felt like I had nothing on. I stood on the edge of the tub to look in the mirror, trying to imagine what had made Sam look at this dress and say Get that for Grace. Was it because he thought I would like it? Because he thought it was sexy? Because he wanted to get me something and this happened to be the first thing? I wasn’t sure why it made a difference whether he had asked a salesgirl what his girlfriend would like versus found it hanging on a hanger and imagined my body in it.
In the mirror, I thought I looked like a college girl, confident, pretty. Sure of what would show off her body to its best advantage. I smoothed the front of the dress; the skirt tickled and teased my legs. I could just see the curve of my breasts. Suddenly it seemed very urgent to go back to the room so that Sam could see me. It seemed very urgent to make him look at me and touch me.
But when I made it back to the room and slid in the doorway, I was abruptly self-conscious. Sam was sitting on the floor, leaning against his bed with his eyes closed, listening to the music, far away from this room, but he opened his eyes when I shut the door behind me. I made a face, twisted my hands behind my back.
“What do you think?” I asked.
He scrambled to his feet.
“Oh,” he said.
I said, “The only thing is that I couldn’t do the tie in the back myself.”
Sam took a breath and stepped to me. I could feel my heart pounding, though I couldn’t understand why it was. He picked up the ties where they attached to the side of the dress and put his arms behind me. But instead of tying them, he dropped the ties and pressed his hands up against my back, his hands hot through the thin cotton of the dress. It felt like there was nothing between his fingertips and my skin. His face rested on my neck. I could hear him breathing; each breath sounded measured, restrained.
I whispered, “You like it, then?”
Then, all of a sudden, we were kissing. It felt like such a long time since we’d kissed like this, like it was deadly serious — for a second, all I thought was, I just ate pizza, until I realized that Sam had, too. Sam slid his hands around to rest on my hips, wrinkling the fabric, erasing my doubt, his fingers tight with wanting. Just that, just the heat of his palms through the dress, holding my hips, was enough to make my insides twist fiercely. I was wound so tightly it hurt. A little sigh escaped from me.
“I can stop,” he said, “if you’re not ready.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t stop.”