The Wilderness Between Us

New Jersey, Present Day

They pulled into the gravel driveway, the tires crunching like bone beneath their wheels. Travis's house was small, tucked between trees like it was hiding. Diana sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield, her heart hammering against her ribs. She hadn't seen Travis in years, but she still knew every inch of him. Every scar, every smirk, every stupid joke that made him her best friend—and kept her missing him long after he was gone.

She was so deep in thought she didn't notice Natalie's hand until it slid over hers. Natalie rubbed the back of it gently with her thumb. For a second, it grounded her.

Then, Misty—fucking Misty—opened her mouth.

"You should have brought your rifle," she chirped from the back seat.

Diana blinked, turning sharply. "Misty, really? What the fuck?"

"What?" Misty shrugged. "We haven't seen Travis in like twenty-five years. He moved to the middle of nowhere. Changed his name. This place has Unabomber written all over it."

Diana clenched her jaw, stepping out of the car without another word. The three of them approached the porch. Natalie knocked, peering in.

"I don't see a car," Misty said, squinting at the empty drive. "We could head back to town, maybe check it out, grab snacks, come back later..."

Natalie didn't answer. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a rock.

Glass shattered.

"Or that works too," Misty muttered.

Diana flinched at the sound, heart racing. "Well, if he didn't know we were here before, he definitely does now."

Natalie reached in and unlocked the door. Diana followed, her boots creaking across the floorboards.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Misty asked from behind. "What if the neighbors see?"

"What neighbors?" Natalie muttered, pushing the door open fully.

The house smelled like dust and old sweat. The living room was a wreck—clothes, papers, empty beer cans, a tipped-over chair. Diana's stomach twisted.

"Yikes," Misty muttered. "Someone could use a trip to Tuesday Morning. This kind of mess? It's never a good sign. We see it all the time with suspects—complete isolation, zero hygiene. It's always bad news."

Misty and Natalie said something to each other, causing Misty turn on her heel and head back out the front door.

Diana barely heard them. Her eyes swept across the room, searching for any sign of life. Any trace of Travis. She drifted toward the kitchen, opened the fridge. A couple beers. Expired milk. A half-used stick of butter. That was it.

Natalie leaned in the doorway behind her. "Remember when Travis tried to gut that fish with a stick in the woods? Cut his own leg?"

Diana cracked a small smile. "And he still swore the stick was the better choice. Even while bleeding."

"He was a stubborn idiot," Natalie said quietly, eyes on the floor.

There was a long pause.

"I need to tell you something."

Diana turned, sensing the shift in her voice.

"Back in 2002. During one of our... breakups. Travis and I hooked up."

The words landed like a slap.

Diana froze.

Natalie kept talking, like she could talk fast enough to outrun it. "We were both drunk. High. It meant nothing. It was stupid. I didn't even—look, we weren't together. And it wasn't about you. It just happened."