"So what's going on with the sauna?" I ask, a bit too sharply.
Snapping out of his reverie, he says, "I checked. The door was shut." He lets out a prolonged whoosh of breath. "There was nothing inside."
EIGHT
Istare. "What do you mean? I just saw that green jacket. You told me it wasn't here when you cleaned the place." I sniff at the lingering scent of cologne in the air. "And do you smell that?"
He sniffs, then shrugs. "It smells like...potpourri? Is that yours?"
"No, it's not potpourri, and it's not mine. It's a men's cologne. Someone else has been in this cabin tonight."
He shoots me a dubious look, which only adds to my exasperation. If he knew me better, he'd know I'm not lying.
I stand and march toward him. I try to project authority, like I've seen Emily do. "I want you to take me down there and show me."
With a slow nod, he turns and leads me downstairs. Together, we make our way to the sauna, which is closed up tight, with no green jacket in sight.
To his credit, Henry doesn't gloat. He just opens the sauna door, allowing me to glance around the confined space. The wraparound bench is bare.
"I swear the jacket was sitting right there." I point. "And the door was open. I wouldn't have called you over otherwise."
He leans against the sauna's wooden exterior, and once again, his eyes roam over my face. With a thoughtful nod, he says, "I believe you."
I sigh. "Then where does that leave us? What happened here?"
"I'm not sure."
I wait for him to say more, but he stays quiet. Trying to nudge him into some kind of action, I ask, "Do you think we should call the cops about something like this?"
"There's nothing for them to find. I suppose they could dust for fingerprints, but we can't really prove anything happened."
"I guess you're right. But what am I supposed to do, just go back to sleep like nothing happened?"
He gives this some consideration. "I could call my mother's backup caregiver, then I could stay on one of the downstairs couches tonight, if you're worried about someone breaking into the place."
I'm not sure what my face does, but it must indicate that he's not sleeping inside, because he rushes on. "Or I could get my sleeping bag and camp out in the gazebo. It's nice out, and my bag's really comfy."
"Okay...that would work." I'm reminded of what I found in the gazebo. "Henry, have you ever gone through the desk drawers out there?"
He looks confused. "Sure, I dust them regularly, if that's what you mean."
"I'm not questioning your cleaning prowess—I just wondered if you've ever noticed anything unusual."
After reflecting a moment, he says, "I once found a stash of chewed-up gum stuck in the bottom of the trash can, but I can't think of anything else out of the ordinary. Why do you ask?"
I'm not ready to share about the manuscript I found, at least not until I've read through it. If, by some perverse twist, The Visitor is autobiographical, Jordan might have hinted at who killed her in the sauna. I should probably skip to the end as soon as possible, just to be sure she didn't point to the man standing right next to me.
Trying to come up with an adequate motivation for my offbeat question, I say, "I looked around for books to read, but couldn't find many for adults." That much was true.
"Is that really so unusual?" he asks, clearly stymied.
I shrug, unwilling to elaborate on my half-truth.
He waves his hand upward. "You'll find adult books in the far bedroom—the one that's set up like an office. We have a collection of novels and some classics, as well."
I hadn't really noticed the office space, but it sounded like a good place to write if I had to work indoors. "Thanks—that's helpful," I say.
He gives a brusque nod. "Okay. I'll get Cleo over for Mother, then I'll come back. You have my number if you need anything."
As he walks out, the outdoor light comes on. I'm guessing it has a motion sensor, which gives me some level of comfort that I'll be alerted to anyone approaching the back door.
Without warning, tears well up. This entire day—from my hasty flights to the necessary interactions with complete strangers to the angst of catching sight of Renard's jacket—comes crashing down on me, and I'm incapable of processing it. I hurry upstairs, ready for the darkened cave of my temporary room, which currently seems like the only place on earth where I can get even a scrap of mental peace.
At this point, I don't even care if someone's stalking me. Sleep is the only thing that'll restore me, and if I don't get it, I'm heading for a total meltdown—which isn't the best direction when I'm staring down the barrel of a book deadline.
Feeling equal parts relief and apprehension to know that Henry will be sleeping outside the cabin, I close my eyes. Scarlett O'Hara's mindless mantra jumps to mind—"Tomorrow is another day."
If I make it till tomorrow, it will be. That's good enough for now.
A loud, warbling birdsong wakes me, and cool morning air wafts in through my cracked window. The inexplicable events of last night rush to mind, but I refuse to dwell on them. Instead, I go about giving my concentration a boost, heading straight for the kitchen and turning on the coffeemaker.
The house is completely still, and the greenery outside the front wall of windows is breathtaking. It's like I'm sitting in some kind of eagle's nest, surveying my own personal spread of full-leafed trees.
I grab a toaster strudel from the freezer, crank the toaster darkness level up, and pop it in. Then I wander down the hallway to my right, checking for the room that's set up as an office. Sure enough, during my cursory inspection, I missed an adjoining workspace off one of the master bedrooms.
In the cozy office, bookshelves frame a wide desk that sits behind a floor-to-ceiling window offering an unobstructed view of the back yard.
