Michael clenched his jaw. His hands gripped the phone so tightly that he worried the case would snap.

Then another photo appeared. Hannah on the front steps of Southgate Elementary, James bouncing along beside her, his backpack hanging askew.

Michael felt his heart give a jerk. He made a sound before he could stop himself. His fingers wouldn’t type, but his voice wasn’t broken.

“You leave them alone!” he yelled, shouting at the trees, at the distance, at the very air. The earth rumbled and split, forming a crack that led from his feet to the fence around the drainage pond. “You hear me? You leave them alone!”

The phone vibrated.

You meet me, and I’ll leave them alone.

Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He stared out at the trees, then back at the series of photos.

Then back at the trees.

Nothing.

Sweat had collected on his neck. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He wasn’t cold now.

He forced his fingers to work.

Fine. Where?

Another text, this time a link to the web page of a little bar and grill on the outskirts of town.

7 p.m. I’ll be in the bar.

Eventually, Michael couldn’t take the quiet stillness. Seven o’clock was almost half a day away, and he had to do something.

So he walked. Not far, just a short walk along the fence blocking the drainage ditch. At first, he’d been ready for a chastising text. A warning, a threat, something.

Nothing.

As his brothers slept and no danger presented itself, Michael gained confidence. That picture of him on the patio had to have been taken from the woods, and even if no one remained, he should at least be able to seek information from the ground.

If nothing else, the movement would do him good.

But the woods didn’t offer any answers, and they didn’t offer enough space to walk and think, either. The dense trees barely covered half an acre before giving way to Ritchie Highway; they were more to give the illusion of nature than any real attempt to preserve the land. The air was still brisk, reminding him that he didn’t have a sweatshirt, keeping his steps quick.

Every time his bare feet touched the earth, he asked for information.

Was someone here? Did someone cross this path?

Is someone here now?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

He checked his phone a few times, examining the picture of himself, aiming his own phone at the now-empty patio. The photo was grainy—no surprise since it had been taken from a pretty good distance. He could estimate the angle, but now that he was out here using his own phone to try to recreate it, he realized that the picture hadn’t been taken from the ground.

It had to have been taken from high up in a tree.

All of a sudden, Michael felt too exposed.

He cast his gaze up, searching the branches overhead. He put his hand against the trunk of the nearest tree, and as always, he could almost feel the tree leaning back into him.

Much like the earth, trees and plants didn’t speak to him in words, but in general impressions. He sensed nothing malicious, nothing insidious. The tree liked him here.

Another tree. This one was younger, and a few autumn leaves eagerly fell around Michael when he touched the trunk. Again, nothing negative.

Another tree. This one didn’t lean into him. The bark almost crumbled under his fingers when he touched it. Dead. No information to be found. He moved on to the next ones.

Nothing.

The young tree shed a few more leaves. One caught the wind and twirled to Michael. He caught it and spun it by the stem.

No one was out here. What had he expected to find? A journal detailing plans to destroy the Merrick neighborhood? He didn’t even know what he was doing out here.

Yes, he did.

He remembered being young, being terrified of the strength of his affinity to the earth—but finding relief in it too. When he’d been fourteen, he’d snuck out of the house to sleep in the woods almost every night.

His father had found him, every time.

He’d been an Earth Elemental, too.

With a jolt, Michael realized that’s what Chris had been doing: finding solace by the water. How had he missed that?

Being here, his feet in the dirt, his hand against a tree, brought Michael comfort. Some of the weight stacked on his heart eased, just a little.

Sorrow slid in to replace it. Sometimes he missed his father so much he almost couldn’t stand it.

Like now. Help me, Dad. What would you do?

Another leaf, vibrant red, fell from the young tree and floated in his direction. Michael smiled and caught this one too. He stepped back to the tree and leaned against it, letting it lean back against him. He slid the two fallen leaves between his fingers and scanned his surroundings for the hundredth time. Whoever had been texting him knew how to move through the woods without leaving a mark. No broken branches or twigs. Nothing disturbed. No malice, no ill intent.

This didn’t feel like Calla. Last night had, for sure. But this, this texting, it didn’t feel like her at all. She didn’t play games, and this definitely felt like a game. But there was something else, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He glanced at the patio again. No movement, no sign of danger.

Maybe the clue was here, in the woods. Calla was a sixteen-year-old Fire Elemental. She would have set these woods on fire to send a message. Or she would have burned down Adam’s apartment complex. She wouldn’t taunt him with texts and then ask him to meet her in a bar.

A bar.

Calla wouldn’t have asked to meet in a bar at all—she wouldn’t be allowed.