"IT WAS PETER who you saw in the woods today; my uncle."
Jonah watched the dramatised shadows of the fire dance on the ceiling, performing all sorts of contortions as they meandered and twined in a competition to dominate the wood beneath.
Being put under Matthieu's scrutiny hadn't gotten any easier. It was like Jonah's body knew the man in front of him was anything but what he presented himself as; the manners he'd use had no effect on Jonah from the very beginning. Maybe the root of his anxiety was because, this time around, Jonah wasn't two steps ahead like he was used to being; he wasn't in control.
"Him too," Jonah mumbled to himself, his hands absorbing the warmth from the mug. "I didn't see that coming."
Matthieu sighed. "Jonah, you need to understand that it was never our intention to harm you—"
Jonah had reached his boiling point. He no longer possessed the patience to be the bird foraging for the crumbs of the truth Matthieu would scatter for him.
"No! Enough with your bullshit. Whatever you think you're trying to do, stop, because I'm not buying it. Was Shazia in any danger?" he jeered. "Alain? Since when did people wind up dead in trees from a wolf attack? Even if his death wasn't from your actions directly, I know you had something to do with it. In fact, the entire Dartmoore family has some sort of involvement with every corpse which winds up in Bêtemont. And here you're saying I was never in harm's way. Do you take me for an idiot? I'm done with people lying to my face about the blatant obvious; one of you tried to kill me— Peter tried to kill me."
Jonah shook his head, disbelief clouding his following words. "That 'thing' was Peter. This cannot be real."
He knew he'd be dissatisfied if he had gotten his theories about the Dartmoore family all wrong, but until now, Jonah had never stopped to question, what if he was right?
Thankfully, his explosion of frustration hadn't tempted Matthieu to go back on his word. From the moment he opened his eyes, Jonah, understandably, had been acting out of character, but never did Matthieu take advantage of his failing defences. He remained mellow and contained, allowing Jonah to release the outburst he'd been nurturing for weeks. Perhaps there was morality to his name after all?
His jaw clenched, Jonah refocused back to reality, eyes setting on the man across from him. He was waiting for the flood of threats to leave Matthieu's mouth at any moment, promising to put him in the ground if he shared anything about what he knows with another soul.
"How could we be in two places at once?"
This wasn't what Jonah expected.
"What?"
Matthieu continued. "The day of the search party for Shazia; there's no way any of us could have been in two places at once. Opal was with you in the main party, and I know you must have seen Peter; he was with the hunters."
The conversation they had shared that afternoon flashed before Jonah's eyes, only adding to his list of unanswered questions.
He scoffed. "The wound on your arm has been healing too slowly for you to have been shot that day, but it still doesn't explain your whereabouts."
Despite his snappy retort, Jonah could sense the light in his logic dim. It wasn't easy to acknowledge Matthieu's alibi when reluctance was reminding him of the monster which lurked no more than skin-deep, ready to bear its teeth at any given moment.
Matthieu's eyes went to his bicep, where now a phantom bullet resides, his hand hovering over the injury. "Interesting. I thought that I was your number one suspect regarding what happened in the forest, but you've made the connection," he noted. "Consider me impressed."
This was more or less true. Before Jonah learned of what Opal had shared with him about the bullet, which had been wedged in Matthieu's arm, he was dead set that it was Matthieu who attempted to send him to an early grave that day. Since then, the picture he'd painted had smeared into a blur; a shadow of the clarity he once had. Nevertheless, this didn't mean Jonah trusted the man, or was convinced of his innocence. As far as he's concerned, Matthieu is just as guilty as the rest of the Dartmoore clan.
Jonah waited for him to elaborate; he was interested to see if Matthieu's story aligned with the version Opal gave him.
"The day of the search party, I was sure to have it organised so that in the event of confrontation with anyone uninvited, we would avoid casualties. Peter was with the hunters, Opal was assisting in the main party, and I was further out in the forest, hoping to lead attention away from the activity." Matthieu paused, raising a brow Jonah's way. "And it's a good thing Peter was there; you got off lucky."
So Matthieu was in the forest that day after all? If so, then it wasn't impossible that a stray bullet could have found him while fleeing from the influx of hunters which had made their way into the clearing. Though, if Jonah's recollection of the memory was accurate, he only heard one bullet escape its chamber and it belonged to Peter, a firearm which required completely different shells compared to the one that had landed a hit on Matthieu.
Even now, trauma hadn't faltered to keep Jonah's remembrance of the near-death experience alive and well, but nowhere near as vivid as the creature's eyes; they had burned a place into his dreams. Whenever Jonah would envision them, he always imagined that they were Matthieu's irises staring back at him, not those of a stranger.
The discomfort of no longer having a name or a face to assign his attacker made Jonah shift in his seat. A former part of himself had found a twisted peace in knowing their identity, but that security blanket was no more. Now, he had to brave the freeze.
"Several days after the events of the forest, I went out on my own to search the moorland. Peter and I were sharing the task. That way, we could cover more ground."
Jonah caught the double meaning to his words, graver than the others; they went out as beasts.
"However, on the evening I was headed west, I hadn't been aware that it wasn't just myself who had taken to the moors to continue the search, until I found a bullet in my arm." Jonah saw his stare harden, unable to contain his bitterness from the incident. "Hunters, I believe. Two of them," he clarified.
Recognition sparked Jonah's memory.
'For the last few days, my brother and I have been out on the moors shooting.'
Julien and Hugo; the brothers who killed the wolf. The pair struck him as the sort to shoot at everything that moves, Julien in particular. The sheer pride and victory in his mannerisms were substantial enough.
Jonah sat up straighter in his chair. "I don't understand. If you were elsewhere, Peter was with the hunters and Opal was with me, then who..."
His mouth hung agape. "There are more of you."
It wasn't a question; it was a fact. He'd finally figured it out.
"Nobody here is responsible for what happened to you or those teenagers. It was somebody else." The clatter of a closing door snatched Jonah's attention from Matthieu to the entrance, where Peter had appeared, albeit worse for wear, answering his question. His hair was dishevelled and dripping wet, its resemblance closer to a bird's nest steeped in the rain. Like the rest of his clothing, although dry, his shirt was creased, as if thrown on out of haste. Goosebumps protruded from the skin of his exposed arms, evidence of the weather's cold shoulder.
"How many others are there?"
Matthieu was first to reply. "Just the one."
From now on, would he have to second-guess every social interaction he has? Could the killer be someone he knows? Someone he would have never suspected? As if sensing Jonah's unease, Matthieu opened his mouth to speak.
"He's not of immediate vicinity; nobody whom you know."
He.
Jonah pressed his lips into a firm line, words having failed him. Regardless of the revelation, he had no intentions of bartering to the pair his trust. There remained many things left unsaid, even with the upheaval of the family's long-deceased secrets. Not every fossil is so willing to be unearthed and put on display; there's a reason why people bury bodies six feet under.
Question after question lingered on the tip of Jonah's tongue, yet he knew only a select few could be voiced; the ones that mattered.
Behind every action lies a motive.
"What does it serve you by telling me this?" he probed. "I won't run my mouth; nobody would believe me—"
Nobody, except Celine's grandmother; she would.
Crouching down, Peter unfurled his hands, the skin blotted an irritated red, towards the casting warmth of the fireplace. "You'd be surprised," he muttered, eyes smouldering the same shade as the flames of which they were reflecting.
Jonah wanted to ask about what Celine's grandmother knew and how, as she was who solidified his theory about the Dartmoores to begin with, but he ended up swallowing his curiosity. He didn't wish to put the woman in any avoidable danger by mentioning her name.
Delivering a suspicious look Peter's way, Jonah returned his focus to Matthieu, who had cleared his throat. "There was a time when Bêtemont was... aware of my family's origins, and it didn't end well for anyone," he disclosed, his demeanour now as overcast as the clouds outside.
Jonah nodded stiffly. "I'm familiar with the story: La Bête du Gévaudan."
The echo of Matthieu's mug finding the surface jerked the table. "The reason I'm telling you is because I'd like to think I can trust you. This may be hard for you to believe, but contrary to what you might think, we were just as horrified as anyone else to learn of what happened to Alain and Shazia." At last, his stone mask had crumbled, uncovering the man behind it, and Jonah couldn't have been any more surprised to see a genuine display of emotion part from its former mould; grief. Perhaps Matthieu wasn't the heartless, unfeeling killer Jonah first pictured him of being? "They were my students, Jonah. I've mourned them all the same."
Jonah permitted a handful of seconds to escape him, using the time to carefully consider his next words. "But assuming you haven't found a body, doesn't that mean there's a chance Shazia could still be...?" For no more than a moment, he entertained the seedling of hope that had begun to spread in his chest. However, just as quickly as it had sprouted, his fantasy withered with swiftness which could compete with the descent of autumn leaves.
"It's unlikely," Peter finished sorrowfully, the toned lines of his forearms tensing while he balanced his elbows on his knees.
Dipping his head, Jonah gave reality a chance to sink in, yet it wouldn't settle. Everything he knows, and thought he knew, had been torn down, leaving a raw, hideous truth that he wasn't sure if he could stand the sight of for much longer.
"I need to go," Jonah murmured, only then realising he'd voiced the thought out loud. Equipped with his newfound confidence, Jonah exerted his weight to diverge his chair from the table. Rising to his feet, he stared down Matthieu with a ferocity he didn't know he had.
"A key detail has seemed to have slipped your mind so I'll remind you; my face was inside his mouth—" he gestured towards Peter who had since relocated to the doorway leading into the kitchen "—and that was how long ago, a couple of hours?" he challenged, glancing at the clock nailed to the wall behind him. "For once, I agree that you may actually be telling the truth about what happened, but I'll take my chances before I put my trust in either one of you. Whatever shit storm you're caught in, I don't want any part in it."
Matthieu's head fell apologetically, while Jonah edged towards the door where Peter was blocking the exit, braving to meet his eye. "If you truly mean me no harm, you'll let me go."
The silence thickening the air was suffocating, yet Jonah stood his ground. Now would determine if the Dartmoores truly are men of their word as they claim to be.
Without complaint, Peter stepped aside, allowing him passage. Jonah spared the two one last, fleeting glance before guiding himself through the kitchen and, finally, to the front door; freedom.
Although the only other person to be seen was a couple on a seemingly innocent stroll, Jonah withheld from launching himself across the bald, dirt footpath paving the way to civilisation, opting for a light jog as he feared sprinting would draw unwanted attention. Just as he was about to scale the wooden field gate, the echo of a door slamming vibrated through his bones, holding the idea of motion captive.
"Wait!"
He did nothing of the sort. Wedging his foot between the bottom two panels, Jonah leapt over the gate, ensuring a barrier to separate him from a girl whom he once thought he knew.
Opal.
"Wait, Jonah! Please." Jonah didn't pay her a spec of attention. His strides carried him away from the gate, while his hands reached for the phone in his pocket. However, the rattle of wood and metal colliding had collared him in a chokehold of emotions, which he'd been consistent in quelling until now.
Pivoting to face the girl responsible for dismantling the reality he favoured, Jonah told himself he didn't feel anything when he looked at her. He didn't feel concern scratch at him from the salinity slipping down her cheeks, flushing them rose and highlighting her freckles. He didn't feel entranced by her unusual eyes whose allure, despite their current franticness, had labelled him as no better than a drunken sailor at sea. And most of all, he certainly didn't feel the attempts of his heart at breaking away from his chest, declaring her as its sole owner.
Jonah had been a fool; a complete and utter idiot. No matter what you think you'll find, nothing good ever comes from flying too close to the sun. She had been the fire in the sky to melt his wings, rendering him as another Icarus to plummet back down to earth.
"I've wanted to tell you." Her voice was brittle. "I've wanted to since—"
He cut her off. "I understand; it wasn't just your secret to share."
Despite the pain, despair and betrayal searing his soul, Jonah couldn't bring himself to raise his voice at her. Opal had disarmed him in every way possible. He was without a militia and she was invincible.
"—I didn't mean those things I said about you; any of it." Her eyes pleaded with him in ways words could not, and Jonah felt himself begin to sway towards her magnificence once more; fall for her again. Before history could repeat itself, he severed their eye contact, peering over his shoulder at the couple which had now crossed into the nearby field.
"I never w-wanted things to go like this," she whispered. "Did they threaten you; Matthieu and Peter? Because—"
"No. They were perfectly polite." Jonah paused, searching for the appropriate word. "Enlightening."
Her lips trembled. "Why aren't you angry?"
"God, Opal." A sigh forced itself from his lungs. "Of course I'm angry. I'm angry that you lied; that you allowed me to think I was going insane. And I'm angry that I think you still are lying, even now, but it was me who chose to believe you."
Her hand raked through her hair. "Let me explain."
Jonah shook his head. "I don't want to know. At least not right now."
He watched her lip come between her teeth, her eyes dropping to her feet before they found his face again. "Alright." Opal gulped, washing away the aridness clinging to the roof of her mouth. "When you're ready, find me."
Jonah wasn't sure if that day would ever arrive.