"He tolerates him, like I do. But if there were to be some kind of a throw-down, just know we'd back you up wholeheartedly. Renard is a leech, and he flirts with other women, too. To be honest, he's flirted with me. And he's probably jealous of your success, so he hurls insults at you. But it's not right, Alex." She placed her hand on my arm. "You have to see that."
"I...I don't—"
"Don't try to explain it away. You need to open your eyes, Alex. I don't like seeing my cousin treated like trash." She grabbed the ketchup bottle from my hand and put it back in the fridge. "He can get his own danged ketchup, and I'll tell him as much. You are going to stay in here with me and eat some ice cream."
And that was that. Renard eventually made his way into the kitchen for his ketchup. Emily watched him get it out of the fridge, one eyebrow raised as if daring him to say something sarcastic to me.
He didn't.
On the way home, he didn't speak to me, but from that moment on, he treated me worse. Although he knew he'd made a bad impression on my family, he didn't seem to feel any remorse over it. Instead, he amped up his belittling techniques.
Unwilling to mentally review any of my arguments with Renard—all of which he'd instigated—I pull on my softest pajamas. Next, I carefully arrange my salt lamp, my new books, and several of my "comfort rocks"—small, polished agates with swirling turquoise and cinnabar-colored veins—on the bedside table. The rocks fit perfectly in my hands, bringing a sense of comfort when I'm overwhelmed. I always set them out in a three-one-three pattern, knowing the exact shapes of each one. The wolf's head shape goes on the top left, like a protective talisman, although I don't believe in that kind of thing. The heart shape goes on the bottom right.
Then I turn off the lights and do a quick walk-through around the bed, making sure I can find my way to the door and windows in case of fire. I don't plan to leave the nightlight plugged up in the bathroom, because it'll keep me awake.
Taking the pillows and comforter off the bed, I make a nest for myself on the plush rug in the darkest corner of the room. Once I've turned off the light, I make my way over and settle onto the comforter, pulling my weighted blanket over me. Occasionally, I use a noisemaker app to drift off, but the frogs peeping outside my cracked window have the same effect, so it doesn't take long until I'm asleep.
My recurring dream of driving on an endless interstate is cut short when I'm awakened by a distinct clicking noise. I blink my eyes open in the pitch blackness, disoriented for a moment until I remember I'm sleeping on the floor in the cabin.
My habit of mapping darkened rooms once again plays in my favor. Grabbing my phone, I crawl swiftly toward the door. Surely my stalker hasn't followed me to West Virginia—there's no way that would be possible, over two separate flights.
Taking a deep, centering breath, I decide to tackle things head-on. I probably imagined the noise. Maybe I left something precariously positioned and it toppled over.
One by one, I flip on the lights, moving from room to room until I'm certain no one is upstairs. When nothing strikes me as amiss, I grab a knife from the kitchen, then creep downstairs. As I hit the bottom step, I flip on the overhead light, illuminating the recreation area.
The back door is completely shut, presumably still locked. I step toward the pool table, which looks untouched. The pool sticks stand neatly arranged in the wall holder, just as they were when I arrived this afternoon. But my eye is quickly drawn to the one thing that's off-kilter.
The sauna door is standing slightly ajar. I'm positive it was closed earlier today.
I've seen enough horror movies to know that this is the moment where the lead character would recklessly move toward the danger and get herself killed. I'm no idiot, so I inch backward, toward the steps. Using my phone camera, I zoom in on the glass sauna door, trying to make sure no one is crouching inside.
The interior of the sauna is clearly empty, save for a piece of clothing sitting on a wooden bench. Its familiar light green shade is enough to chill me to the core.
Setting the knife down, I take a careful step closer, forcing my camera to bring the clothing item into view. The moment I see ivory buttons, I'm left with little doubt as to what it is: my ex-husband's Ralph Lauren linen jacket. I bought it for him on our honeymoon.
I'd recognize it anywhere, with its distinctive pistachio color and ivory buttons. Renard looks amazing in that shade of green, and he knows it. He wore that jacket to many high-society functions—most of them without me—during the time we were married. He probably considers it a chick magnet, and he's never above flirting with chicks.
He's also worn it numerous times on his social media sites, where he's trying to build a following as a luxury brand representative. It's an expensive hobby, influencing, but he's never been one to concern himself with trivialities like funding.
He gets all he needs from my royalty payouts.
But how would he possibly manage to follow me here? Has he covertly hidden some kind of tracking app on my phone? He's always been the techie in our marriage, so I let him handle all the computer and phone issues. Maybe he took advantage of my ignorance and installed something back when we were together.
It wouldn't be beneath Renard to throw a brick through my window just to torment me. Although I can't see how he could've broken into this cabin, I'm sure he could find a way. There are plenty of rooms I haven't yet explored, plus I noticed a large, connecting garage outside.
It also makes sense that he would want Natasha to end up with Matteo. I'd once made the mistake of telling him I was modeling Matteo after him, which, ironically, had finally inspired him to pick up one of my books. He skimmed it, then preened around, knowing he'd been immortalized in my readers' hearts. "What an outlaw that Matteo is," he'd say afterward, a superior grin on his face.
I don't want to text Micah about this strange sighting, since I have no clue what time of the day or night it is in Hawaii.
Even though I saw Henry's cell number listed on the laminated sheet of emergency numbers in the guest folder, I hesitate to call him so late. Is this really an emergency situation?
I return to the bottom stair, picking up the knife and turning it idly in my hands. Staring at the swaying glass door, I try to talk myself down. Sure, the door was closed earlier today, but I'd hardly gotten close enough for a thorough examination. Maybe the jacket was inside then, and I didn't notice it. It could've been left behind by some guest, or even by Micah himself...although it doesn't seem his style at all. He's more of a black turtleneck and vintage tweed kind of guy.
The house has definitely cooled off, so there's also the possibility that the temperature shift caused the door mechanism to release. That would explain the faint click I heard.
I'm about to write the whole thing off when a scent drifts my way. It's a distinctive men's cologne—cloying and sweet—and I've smelled it before. It's Renard's signature scent. And it seems to be close by. Maybe around the corner of the stairwell?
I dart upstairs, fumbling in the guest folder for Henry's number. I quickly plug each digit into my phone, then hit the call button. Henry picks up before I've even planned out what to say.
His bass voice rumbles like a bear that's come out of hibernation. "Henry here."
I haltingly tell him who I am, then share my fear that someone's gotten into the house and placed a jacket in the sauna—maybe my ex-husband. "I'm not sure if Micah told you much, but I'm an author, and a violent stalker found my home in Connecticut. That's why I'm staying here for awhile," I explain.
A hefty note of concern charges his southern-accented words. "Stay upstairs. I'll be right over to check on things."
I sit down on the leather couch, placing the knife next to me as I wait. I force myself to think about something other than the cologne smell that's started to make me queasy.
At least I know I can make outgoing calls, even with the spotty cellular service. This is supposed to be a safe haven, a place where I can hunker down and write my next book. Thorvald Media has already assured me that book seven will be a bestseller, given the staggering sales of book six.
The four-wheeler whips up the drive and comes to an abrupt stop. The porch light clicks on, and a couple of moments later, Henry opens the door.
He shouts, "I'm here, Miss Alexandra." He immediately starts banging around, checking on things. The sauna door clicks a few times in rapid succession.
It's strange to hear him call me by my full author name. If I would've had time to think things through, I would've come up with a pseudonym to use in Cedar Gap. It could get awkward if townspeople get a whiff that the Alexandra Dubois is staying nearby. I suppose I could get my hair colored turquoise, since it's a wish I've been harboring for months. But my hairdresser has warned me it's a lengthy process for brunettes, and I can't bear the thought of sitting for hours in a salon chair, trying to keep up a stream of chitchat.
Henry abruptly stops rummaging around, and heavy footsteps pound up the stairs. The tall man comes into view, wearing ripped jeans and a rumpled red Henley. It looks like he donned the first outfit he grabbed. His brown eyes are liquid-dark, and his wide, bushy brows are quirked upward. He's wearing a frown, but seems reluctant to say anything.
His eyes play over my face and hitch on my lips, as if he can't quite process what he's seeing. I've gotten this reaction from men before, but it always irritates me. I don't need this, tonight of all nights. After all, this isn't a social call.
