by Jane Pryce (1183 words)

“Now what do we do?” Jane said, gritting her teeth.

The two campers burst through the trees, half-carrying, half-dragging Jasper. He was glassy-eyed, limp with intoxication, mumbling in a tone halfway between apology and complaint.

“Careful, mate, he’s slipping—”

Lucy stepped quickly out of the cabin, galvanized by a sudden, unexpected need to take charge. “Bring him in here. We’d better get him dry and sobered up.”

“We found him by the fire ring,” one camper said, exasperated. “He’s one of you lot. We’re happy to leave him here with you.”

Lucy instinctively moved toward Jasper, but the cabin door swung back open before she reached him.

Jane emerged first, her face arranged into something polite but tight. Behind her, Peter and Bunny appeared, followed by Charles, whose gaze locked on Lucy like a trap snapping shut.

“Oh,” Jane said brightly—far too brightly. “What’s happened here?”

“Your… writer?” the camper said. “He’s smashed. Nearly fell into the creek.”

Bunny looked at Jimmy—Jasper—like the old wound had been ripped fresh. Her chin trembled once before she forced it still.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered.

Charles strode forward. “We’ll take him.”

Lucy stepped in front of Jasper before she could second-guess herself. “I’ve got him,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.

Charles’ smile was thin. “No, you don’t.”

The campers looked between them, registering the tension. “We’ll just… leave him to you folks,” one said, releasing Jasper’s arm. Jasper sagged, and Lucy quickly caught him under the elbow.

“We should get him back to the main lodge,” she said. “Margaux will want to know he’s like this.”

“No,” Bunny snapped. “Not yet.”

Lucy felt Jasper’s weight pulling her sideways. He reeked of scotch and pine smoke.

“We need to talk,” Peter said to Lucy, “about what you overheard.”

One of the campers frowned. “Sorry—what exactly is going on?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Jane said smoothly, shepherding him away with a reassuring smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Thank you again.”

When the campers disappeared down the trail, the forest closed around them—dark, listening.

Charles crossed his arms. “If we’re going to carry out the plan, we’d better get inside.”

Lucy tightened her grip on Jasper. “I’m not going back into that cabin.”

“You followed us,” Jane said, voice soft but edged. “We’re owed an explanation.”

“I heard enough,” Lucy said. “Enough to know you’re planning something. And whatever Jasper did—whatever Jimmy did—this is not the way to deal with it.”

Bunny stepped forward. “Don’t you patronize me, you silly girl. You don’t know what it was like. You don’t know what he took.”

“I’m not saying I do,” Lucy said carefully. “I’m saying dragging a drunk man into a secluded cabin and talking about what to ‘do with me’ isn’t exactly reassuring.”

Peter rubbed his forehead. “Look, we’re not trying to hurt you. But you heard sensitive—painful—private information.”

“That you were sharing among yourselves,” Lucy said pointedly.

Charles’s jaw tightened. “We can’t have you running off and telling Margaux.”

Lucy stared at Jasper’s slack face. He was mumbling again, nothing coherent.

“Do you think he’d even understand?” she asked. “He’s barely conscious.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Bunny said.

Jasper stirred then, head lolling toward Lucy. “Good writer…” His voice slurred. “Better than me. Don’t let… don’t let them burn the last pages…” His eyes rolled back.

Lucy steadied him. “He needs to sleep this off. And Margaux needs to know about this. All of this.”

Jane exchanged a glance with Peter. A silent conversation passed between them.

Bunny’s voice wavered. “Margaux knows. She’s always known.”

That struck Lucy harder than she expected.

“Even so,” Lucy said, “this isn’t justice. This is desperation.”

Charles stepped closer. “And you think going down that path alone with him is safer?”

Lucy’s heart thudded. “It’s safer than whatever you’re planning.”

For a moment, no one moved. The forest hummed—wind, insects, the faint gurgle of the creek.

Then Bunny sighed, long and defeated. “She’s right. This isn’t the time.”

Peter frowned. “Bunny—”

“No,” Bunny said. “Not with him in this state. Not like this.”

Jane’s mouth pinched, but she didn’t argue.

Charles’s eyes flicked between them, frustrated. “We can’t just—”

“We can,” Bunny said sharply. “And we will.”

Lucy adjusted her grip on Jasper. “I’m taking him now.”

Charles looked ready to block her. Jane rested a hand on his arm. “Let her.”

Lucy didn’t wait for them to change their minds. She turned toward the trail, guiding Jasper downhill step by clumsy step. His boots scuffed, his breath rasped, but he followed.

Halfway down, Lucy looked back.

The four of them stood outside the cabin—Jane unreadable, Peter grim, Charles seething, Bunny hollow-eyed.

They watched her go.

And Lucy realized with a jolt that whatever storm was gathering around Jimmy—Jasper—it wasn’t finished. Not by a long stretch.

***

Back at the lodge, Margaux paced the length of the dining room, fingers drumming against her hip. Jasper should have been back an hour ago. She’d heard from Ed—sweet, overeager Ed—that Jimmy had wandered off “to think,” which usually meant “to drink,” and Margaux had learned long ago that the two were interchangeable for her brother.

Most of the participants had retired to their rooms, but Sicard Ficino lingered at the long table, scribbling comments in the margins of someone’s pages. He worked with a furious precision, as though every stroke of his pen was a verdict. Every so often, he muttered something in Italian, sharp enough to cut stone.

Margaux kept her distance. Something about him set her teeth on edge.

She poured herself a cup of too-strong tea and sat near the window, keeping Sicard in her line of sight. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge her, but she felt watched all the same.

When the clock chimed half past nine, she stood. “You haven’t seen my brother, have you?”

Sicard paused mid-sentence. His eyes lifted slowly.

“Your brother,” he repeated, as though trying on the word. “No.”

“You’d tell me if you had?” she pressed.

His dark brows rose, amused. “If I had wanted to hide something, Madame, I would not be sitting under the only working lamp in the room.”

Margaux wasn’t reassured.

She moved to the counter to tidy up the mugs left by the retreat participants. As she gathered them, a slip of paper fell from beneath one—Sicard’s mug. She bent to pick it up.

A name was scrawled on it. Not his own.

Gianni Ficinelli.

Margaux froze. It wasn’t Sicard Ficino. It wasn’t even close. And she had heard that name before—years ago, when Jasper was still riding high, when rumors swirled around a researcher who had once threatened to expose Jimmy for stealing material from an unpublished manuscript. Jasper had brushed it off as envy. Margaux hadn’t believed him, but she’d kept her silence.

The researcher’s name had been Gianni Ficinelli.

Margaux looked toward Sicard. He was writing again, unbothered, as though he hadn’t just dropped a ghost into her hands.