Alone on the Trail

By Emily Hepditch

From the #1 bestselling author of The Woman in the Attic

Four best friends. One wrong turn. One shack hidden in the mountains.

To celebrate their graduation from university, Sadie, Julie, Morgan, and Jonah decide to spend a week backcountry hiking in western Newfoundland, tackling a remote route through the Long Range Mountains. Zealous, rambunctious, and overconfident, the group embarks on their self-proclaimed adventure of a lifetime in Gros Morne National Park.

But alone on a trail with nowhere to hide, secrets begin to ooze through the cracks of their bond. The farther into the forest the group moves, the more they drift apart, until their friendship becomes as difficult to navigate as the look-alike trees. And when they stumble upon an illegal hunting shack, the companions suddenly find themselves in possession of dangerous knowledge. Injured, separated, and being hunted by expert poachers, the friends must find a way to get back home before they succumb to the dangers of the trail—and the dangers posed by one another.

Alone on the Trail is a riveting merger of adventure and drama that will keep you reading late into the night—and make you think twice before wandering, unprepared, into the Newfoundland wilderness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: Apr 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781774570494

Emily Hepditch

Emily Hepditch is an award-winning author from Mount Pearl, Newfoundland. In 2020, her debut novel, The Woman in the Attic, was published by Flanker Press and quickly became the #1 bestselling book in Newfoundland and Labrador. The book has remained on the Atlantic Books Today top five bestsellers list since its release. Emily's second thriller, Alone on the Trail, is also an ABT top-five bestseller. Sweater is her first children's illustrated book. Emily is a graduate of Memorial University of Newfoundland, where she studied linguistics, psychology, and criminology. When she is not writing novels, she is studying law, working on an illustration, or hiking the East Coast Trails. The Woman in the Attic has won the following awards and honours: Winner: Rakuten Kobo Emerging Writer Prize—Mystery Winner: NL Reads 2021—Margaret Duley Award Gold Medal Winner: Independent Publisher Awards—Canada, East, Regional Fiction Finalist: Crime Writers of Canada Awards—Best First Novel Long-listed: BMO Winterset Awards

Book preview

1.pngA group of three young people are walking down a foggy, spooky trail towards a cabin, the trail is surrounded by tall trees with no leaves, spatters of blood cover the trail, text reads Alone on the Trail, number one best selling author Emily Hepditch.

Contents

Praise for Emily Hepditch

Alone on the Trail

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

For my Nanny, my constant reminder to never, ever give up.

part one

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part two

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part three

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part four

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part five

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part six

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part seven

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part eight

Morgan

Julie

part nine

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part ten

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part eleven

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part twelve

Sadie

Morgan

Jonah

Julie

part thirteen

Sadie

Jonah

Julie

acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise for Emily Hepditch

The Woman in the Attic

"Described as a ‘claustrophobic psychological thriller,’ The Woman in the Attic is a novel that I simply could not put down until I turned the final page. Emily Hepditch does a superb job at developing true to life characters through a storyline that mirrors the lives of real life people in rural Newfoundland. Readers can’t help but feel compassion and empathy for Hannah as she is faced with the tragic realities that having a parent diagnosed with dementia brings but also feel the same torment, anguish and sadness that is revealed bit by bit as the plot develops. Through beautiful writing and wonderful use of figurative language, Hepditch creates vivid sensory images for readers, inviting them to become participants in the story." — Fireside Collections

Emily Hepditch has taken a classic haunting format and given it a fresh and youthful makeover. The brooding atmosphere in the house, the building tension in the weather outside, the erosion of land at the edge of the cliffs: all the required elements are assembled and re-animated and peppered with her own energy and wit.

— The Telegram

Hepditch builds the suspense nicely to a dramatic conclusion and the setting makes the story all the more intriguing. This is a solid first effort from an author who will clearly make her mark in the mystery/suspense genre.

— Downhome Magazine

"The Woman in the Attic is a psychological thriller that takes you on a ride of unexpected events that lead to an ending you would never imagine. Spine-tingling! The characters are well developed with surprises popping out at you along the way. You think you have it all figured out, and lo and behold, the author takes you along a narrow, twisting path that makes you hold your breath. The surprises bring the reader to tears and anger. A suspenseful read from a young author who has talent!"

— The Wreckhouse Weekly

"So, as I have mentioned many times before on my blog, thrillers are not my favourite genre of books. . . . But this book has made me rethink that statement! The Woman in the Attic was easily one of my favourite books—even though it is a thriller! . . . The unique setting of rural Newfoundland added a level of intrigue for me and will help the book always stand out in my mind. This is a must read for fans of the thriller genre!"

— Sleep Less, Read More

"I’m chucking down my pen, so to speak, before I ‘slip’ and reveal all. Finally, a promise—at times The Woman in the Attic will give you the shivers."

— LOTP: Life on this Planet

Alone on the Trail

Emily Hepditch

Flanker Press Limited

St. John’s

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Alone on the trail : a novel / Emily Hepditch.

Names: Hepditch, Emily, 1997- author.

Description: Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210143495 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210143509 | ISBN

9781774570487 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774570494 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774570517 (PDF)

Classification: LCC PS8615.E675 W675 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

————————————————————————————————————————————------—------------------------------------

© 2021 Emily Hepditch

all rights reserved.

No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Printed in Canada

Edited by Robin McGrath Cover design by Graham Blair

Flanker Press Ltd.

PO Box 2522, Station C

St. John’s, NL

Canada

Telephone: [phone] Fax: [phone] Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

www.flankerpress.com

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The publisher acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

For my Nanny, my constant reminder to never, ever give up.

part one

Sadie

The bow of the shuttle glides through open water, black and deep, cold as the sea. The endless dark wall of the fjord looks down on the boat, blocking the heat of the sun. Overhead, clouds cast shadows over the length of the boat, cutting the light into slats across the top deck. Strange to think in a few hours we’ll be climbing up that towering fjord, like a staircase into the sky. I tuck myself deeper into the neck of my fleece and shiver against the wind.

When Jonah suggested we do a three-day trek through the west coast wilderness, none of us took him seriously. He was Jonah, after all, self-proclaimed indoorsy Jonah, who had in his lifetime conquered nothing beyond a couple of three-kilometre pond-side public walking paths which had, as he described, treachered him. When he waved the national park pamphlet in my face during our statistics lecture, I had stifled a laugh.

You aren’t serious, I said. 

But he was serious.

Picture this. You, me, Morgan, Julie, stomping through the woods in the middle of nowhere. He made a square with his fingers and implored me to join in on the fantasy, a scene from his personal reel of action movies where he himself plays the titular role.

"Jonah, it’s not that simple."

"But it’s cheap." He waved the pamphlet again, flashing his peroxide-whitened, signature Jonah smile. Maybe that’s how he swindled us: his charm.

He stands beside me now on the upper deck of the shuttle boat, near the nose, gripping the painted railing with white-knuckled hands. His eyes scan around the looming walls of the fjord that surrounds us, gawking up as if it’s a humbling reminder of his size. The mountains remind you of the inevitable—that you are only a minuscule speck on the face of the earth. I can’t help but feel it, too, a loss of control in the expanse of the outdoors, a sense that the wilderness has just as much a hand in your fate as your decisions. I twist my grandmother’s ring around my middle finger.

Julie stands on my left side, her blonde ponytail fluttering in the wind behind her. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open. She holds the rail for balance, but only tightly enough, allows herself to tilt with the gentle rock of the boat. She’s probably lost in one of her mindfulness moments, separate from the world. 

There’s a rattle of footsteps on the iron staircase in the centre of the deck behind us. I turn around to find Morgan ascending. He carries four shallow plastic cups of beer at shoulder level, pinching the rims with a steely, four-pronged grip. He’s moments away from an accident—if the boat jerks or moves too suddenly—but somehow he manages to navigate the short walk in our direction without losing a drop of beer. Composed as always. 

M’lady. He hands a cup in Julie’s direction, then one in mine, and finally one in Jonah’s. Small golden bubbles roil up from the bottom. The cup barely holds half a can, but it’s ice cold and dream-like beneath the opulent apricot sun.

To adventure, Morgan says, raising his plastic cup in the air.

Adventure! Everyone cheers. Then we swallow the beer—three long, sharp gulps—and crush the cups like high school kids. 

To adventure.

The trip across the pond to the trailhead takes roughly

forty minutes. It is a guided tour of Western Brook Pond, and its encompassing prehistoric glacial walls, that doubles as a shuttle for hikers looking to take on the backcountry trails of the Long Range Mountains. The boat has two floors, but most people have gathered on top like us, seated in the anchored plastic chairs to listen to a narrated tour of the hills. I’m on the inside seat, pressed against the rail, with Julie in the aisle seat beside me. Jonah and Morgan are before us in the front row, Jonah’s legs crossed and stuck out carelessly into the aisle. 

The tour guide, Paul, is a short, bearded man in a red ball cap. He stands at the front of the upper deck like a composer before his orchestra. His hands signal rhythmically to different portions of the rock formations, directing our attention to sites of ancient volcanoes, crevasses, the long trail-like bruise of an epic rockslide from eighty years ago. He’s jolly, and professional, so you find yourself genuinely intrigued by his otherwise snoozy tales of fossils and thousand-year-old sediment deposits. Technically, these aren’t fjords, so he explains—something to do with the composition of the water—but to the naked eye they’re just as good as the real thing in Norwegian valleys. He sells you that with a convincing wink.

Just ahead of me, about fifteen minutes away, you’ll see what looks like an arrow. Paul points his microphone in the direction of the trailhead sign. It’s a typical slab of shellacked pine, forest-green lettering carved into the face. That there is the start of one of the park’s biggest wilderness hikes, a four-day doozy called the Northern Traverse. He flaunts the title like it’s an attraction at Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. This boat actually serves as one of the only shuttles to the trailhead, as the route cannot be accessed any other way.

The crowd oohs playfully. 

Actually, Paul says, putting his hands on his hips, if I’m not mistaken, we have a few of those brave folks willing to take on a challenge like the Northern Traverse.

I can see the excitement in Jonah’s face as the crowd oohs again. Paul turns excitedly to our group. 

It’s you fellas, isn’t it? Paul grins. He sticks the microphone in Jonah’s direction and motions for him to get up. Jonah does, unhesitatingly. 

Let me tell you something, Paul says to the crowd, laying a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. This young man and a couple of his good friends are about to trek out in the middle of the deep woods— He pauses for emphasis. —in bear country— Thanks for the grim reminder. —for four days.

A murmur breaks out among the people on the deck. Jonah loves it, is trying with all his might to keep the smile on his face to a humble proportion. 

Paul laughs, shakes his head playfully. So, where are you nutbars coming from, anyways? 

Jonah grins. Well, not to get anyone up in arms, but we’re proud east-coasters. He waits for a reaction from the crowd. He hasn’t clued into the fact that the bulk of the boat’s passengers are tourists, unaware of the playful west coast versus east coast rivalry. A few people offer him painful sympathy chuckles, so he clarifies, We’re from St. John’s. 

Paul, his hands on his hips, pretends like he’s assessing the situation at hand. "Well, all right, then, St. John’s, what are a few townies like you doing wandering through the Northern Traverse?" 

Everyone laughs. Newfoundland slang is a common token of tourist attractions, so most of the passengers pick up on the joke. 

Well, Jonah continues, we are recent university graduates— He waits a split second, as if to check for the possibility of applause. "—and we wanted to celebrate four years of hard work with a little adventure."

Paul nods. People clap. I feel a sudden burst of happiness, an appreciation for the coming fun. 

Paul takes the microphone back. And what compelled you to visit this beautiful park?

Nature! Jonah says, motioning to the scenery around us. Nature and—well, anything for the Gram.

I clench my jaw, cringing. He doesn’t realize how embarrassing he sounds. The Gram? Who actually says that? I feel Julie tense beside me, watch the flush of red on her face.

She nudges me in the ribs and lowers her head to my ear. How does he consistently find opportunities to speak in public?

I shake my head. Morgan is oblivious in the seat in front of us, twisting the enormous macro lens of his camera. Morgan and Jonah met two years ago, when Morgan’s amateur photography business was still in its infancy. Jonah, with his ever-growing 75,000 Instagram followers, solicited Morgan to take some pictures of him for his then-debut apparel company. I guess, somehow, they hit it off. As business partners, at least, but maybe as friends, too. Sometimes it’s hard to tell who Morgan actually likes.

Paul relieves Jonah from centre stage and he returns to his seat, obviously pleased with himself. Jonah waits for us to acknowledge him, and when none of us do, he turns toward Morgan. Get any good snaps?

Morgan pulls the camera away from his eye and thumbs through the photos on the display. He frowns. Nothing outstanding.

Outstanding. Simple isn’t ever good enough for Morgan. A shot of the fjord wall won’t be enough for him until it features breathtaking, misty lighting, or rich colours with deep blacks. He’ll pick and pick until he gets the shot but remain in a tight state of agitation until he does.

Julie reaches an arm across and rests it lovingly on his shoulder blade. You’ll get one, babe.

Morgan pivots in his seat and snaps a photo of Julie, shutter clattering like a splatter of rain. He looks at the monitor. You’re right, just got one.

She giggles and smacks him on the shoulder. Her cheeks are red, but her smile is bright. 

Julie, for as long as I’ve known her, has never been one to relish anybody’s attention. A striking lone wolf, always fine on her own. She’s never craved the feeling of eyes on her, the way so many people often do. But with Morgan she’s different. She reels in his affection. It’s like he has a hold on her, like he’s cast a spell, and somehow she’s oblivious to all of it. 

A soft wind blows over the deck. I dissolve away from the moment, into my own. It’s so strange to feel the sun on my face and know this stretch of time, the summer months free of commitments, is as good as forever now. Graduation came and went and freed me from school forever—or at least for as long as I wish to stay away from the books. The feeling is surreal, to be the sole agent in my future now, a feeling I am not used to.

The bounce of the boat carries me away from my troubles. The pressures of school, of my exhaustive job hunt, the uncertainty, it all melts away in the whitewash that froths behind the vessel. All that matters is now—at least for this little while.

I’m not going to worry about school or any of the little hang-ups attached. That’s the purpose of going off the grid, isn’t it? To escape?

Or is it to run away?

Morgan

I slip away from the upper deck once Jonah finishes his show, break from the group with the excuse of finding a washroom. The eyes of tourists follow me as I head down the aisle in the direction of the stairs, and I won’t deny that it feels nice to be noticed, even if only by strangers.

My camera is heavy on my neck and hits me in the stomach as I descend the wobbly stairs. Below deck is an indoor seating area, and an iron perimeter of standing space, smattered with rail-side plastic chairs. Inside the sitting area, enclosed by walls around the staircase, there is a small concession stand. A colourful row of fun-sized bags of chips is clothespinned to the wall. It takes restraint to dodge the impulse of Doritos. I keep going.

A woman sits in the window of the galley, leaning against the cool glass of the window. Her cheeks are nearly green. She nurses a cup of ginger ale and eyes me enviously as I stride comfortably past her. How pathetic, to get seasick on a pond where there’s barely a wave.

I feel the opposite of sick while travelling on a boat. Instead, I feel eager and free, the happy buzz of anticipation spreading throughout my body like pleasurable heat. On the lower half of the boat, shadows plunge me into pleasant, cooler air. I push through a group of men standing around the railing, talking golf, sneaking a cigarette between them. One of them nods his head to me as I keep going, practises his swing in the air with a wave of his arms.

I walk all the way around the inner galley and into the nose of the bottom deck, where there’s a full view of the rock walls that split as we travel through the glacial pathway. I know that from down here the group can’t see me from above, but I check around first to make sure none of them have followed. It was a lie that I wanted the washroom, but it was the only way I could stop them from trying to tag along, to stop Jonah from demanding yet another photo shoot in his designer fleece and aviators, to stop Julie from trying to help me flush out angles and views to take photos. I need a few minutes without distraction so I can get the right shot, the perfect photo, undisturbed.

I bring the viewfinder of my camera up to my eye and peer through the tiny lens. On this lower deck, closer to sea level, you have a better view of the magnitude of the fjords. Against them, down low, you feel smaller, weaker, frailer—precisely what I want the viewer of the photograph to feel. There are at least fifty other people wielding DSLR cameras on this boat, but it seems like I’m the only one who’s really considering the quality of the shots I’m taking. I’m the only one whose work is going to stand out among the thousands of pictures taken aboard this vessel today. No head-strapped GoPro will compare to the work of Morgan Ryan.

I focus in on a cluster of trees and press down on the shutter. I can feel it like a spark in my fingertip when the button sinks against its hilt: this is the one. And when I glance down at the LCD screen, I’m right. It’s perfect. A flare of satisfaction bursts into flames inside of me. Mission accomplished.

Got the money shot, hey? someone says, a soft voice like an aria amongst the mundane chatter in the air. A girl has appeared beside me carrying a camera of her own. It’s a Pentax 35mm, a stray thrift-shop artifact from the ’80s. She wears it around her neck on a beaded strap, bright and colourful against her black cropped T-shirt.

I smile. Humble, Morgan. You could say that.

She watches me carefully for a moment, dark eyes taking me in. Would you mind? she asks, motioning her camera toward me. "My friends are useless behind the camera. Would be nice to have a decent picture of myself for once."

There’s a playful gleam in her eyes, as if she’s testing me. My head turns instinctively and glances over my shoulder, just in case. I check the camera first, to make sure the film is properly installed, then raise the black rectangle to my face. It still smells of age, of closet, where it’s probably spent the last twenty years. She hasn’t done a bad job setting it up, but I still adjust the exposure. Always room for improvement.

The girl leans against the railing, popping a hip out. I like it, her boldness, the comfort she wears on herself. Her curly black hair blows softly in the wind. The collar of her shirt slides with her lean, exposing a small crack of clavicle.

I take the photo. Unlike on my DSLR, you can’t preview the shot, so my merit will only be exposed when she develops the pictures. There’s something thrilling about the idea—that she will never be able to look at the photo without thinking of me.

Let me take another, I say, handing her back her camera. I raise my own. Something from this century.

The girl poses again, this time leaning on the rail, staring out at the fjords. I snap a couple, watching them flash on the screen in rapid succession. All perfect. She’s a good model.

How do you suggest I get these from you? she asks when I’m done. She leans over my arm and swipes through the pictures of her on my camera’s little screen, her mouth curled into a little smirk of satisfaction. I check the deck again for any surprise visitors. No one, at least no one I can see.

A solution tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. Give me your email, I say.

She seems to like that idea.

All right, give me your phone.

I dig in my pocket and hand her my iPhone, watch as she types her contact info into the screen. She hands it back to me.

You’re a hiker, eh? She motions to my backpack and pantomimes slurping water from my hydration pouch.

You could say that.

She offers me a crooked little smile. That’s cool.

Satisfied, she turns away from me and strides off down the aisle. I watch her leave, eyes tracking the confident stride in her long, smooth brown legs. In my notes app, she’s typed her email, under the bold heading Kirsten.

Kirsten.

Then I snap a few dozen more photos of the fjords, just so Kirsten’s photos aren’t the first thing Julie sees if she happens to ask for my camera. Just in case.

I knew this trip was a good idea. No drama, no monotony, just us in the wild, free from the outside world and all its miserable noise.

Jonah

Once Morgan slips away, Julie and Sadie start whispering to each other, and I am left to my own devices in the aisle seat. There’s no consistent cell service this deep into the mountains, and we’re still an easy fifteen minutes away from the port. I stand up and decide to meander.

There’s a few dozen people piled onto the upper deck who have clearly forgotten about me already. They’re more fascinated by the cliff walls than by the hikers attempting to trek through them. An old woman peers through the eyes of an enormous pair of binoculars, cooing at the trees made misshapen by wind. I smile at her as I pass by, but she doesn’t even notice. Why would she? That nasty little voice in my head speaks up, clear and resonant. You’re unremarkable.

Maybe another drink.

The stairs to the lower deck quiver when you descend, and with the gentle rock of the boat I find myself gripping onto the rail for balance. The sun fades away as I move south, the cool breeze soothing against the sunned skin of my arms.

The lower deck is less crowded than the top, and there is a different vibe to the voices. I push past a group of men in sport shirts, who are disenchanted by the glorious view, and open the door to the galley.

Inside, the galley smells of deep fryer and slightly of vomit. A seasick woman has her cheek pressed against the widow. She raises her can of ginger ale, and on first glance I assume it is to me, but then she presses the cold metal against her forehead miserably. At the concession stand, a bored-looking teenaged girl leans against the counter, dragging her finger back and forth through a sprinkle of salt on the metal surface.

Canadian, I say, to which she nods and moves for the cooler.

There is no one looking for adventure on the bottom deck, clearly. Most everyone wears casual clothes, Adidas sneakers, floppy sun hats. I paid almost $200 for the fleece tied around my waist, and it feels somewhat betraying that no one seems to have noticed it.

The girl at the counter returns with my beer. Ten bucks for the bottle, which floors me. I wouldn’t normally spend that much on a beer, but the girl has already popped the cap off, cold vapour whirling from the tip. Bitterly, I snatch the bottle and sip, revelling in the rush of barley comfort.

I move back to the galley door and close it behind me, returning to the outer bottom deck. I scan around, decide to move to the nose of the boat for a breath of fresh air. As I round the corner, I notice there are already people at the top. One has the unmistakable silhouette of Morgan, all calves and shoulders, and he’s got his camera to his face. Taking a photo of some girl.

It’s probably not what it looks like, and yet I find myself cowering back into the shadows when I see him glancing around, checking over his shoulder for onlookers. For a moment, I sip the foam off the top of my bottle and contemplate what to do. He lied about going to the washroom, just to do this. And Julie is upstairs, oblivious.

Do I confront him? Interrupt them so this—whatever the hell this little impromptu photo shoot is—doesn’t go any further?

I take two steps in Morgan’s direction, when a rattling sound catches my attention. Walking down the aisle now, in the direction of the galley, is another guy about our age. He wears a polo vacation shirt and a pair of burlap flip-flops. As my head turns, our eyes meet, and a cold current moves through my body.

The guy pauses, just briefly enough to contemplate who I am. Like he can remember. With no luck, he keeps going, sends me a curt nod, and then opens the door to the galley. My concern for Morgan’s actions evaporates, because my own anxiety has doubled in size. I take a long, powerful mouthful of beer and wonder how I’m going to stomach the rest of the boat ride, knowing that guy is here, on board. Knowing what I did to him.

Julie

The boat, high and slow, crawls toward the end of the fjord valley at a snail’s pace. The farther we move, the farther away the platform feels, shrinking in the distance. My knees bob up and down in anticipation, and I grip the railing of the boat to peer down at the water below.

We’re never letting him near a microphone again, Sadie says as Jonah scurries off down the aisle, bored at the sudden lapse of attention on him.

I turn toward her and