I send her a text. "Does a woman with a pale blonde bob named Mariah live in town, do you know? She's in her thirties, like me."
Hope's response is quick. "I don't know anyone by that name, and there actually aren't a lot of blondes around. Since the town is largely Scotch-Irish, there are tons of brunettes like you. Trust me, redheads and blondes tend to stand out."
So much for my theory that Mariah might live here. "Okay, thank you."
She texts back, "Thanks for coming tonight. I'm sorry if Quincy made things awkward for you. He's a bit star-struck, I think."
"It was enjoyable." That is definitely a stretch, but I did enjoy the pizza, as well as my observations of Henry.
"See you at the signing," she responds.
ELEVEN
Istart placing the slices of my uneaten pizza into individual sandwich bags. I can't handle cramming them all into one large bag, because the cheese on top will sog up the crispy crust.
My phone rings, so I glance at the screen. Once I see it's Emily, I quickly wash my hands and pick up.
My cousin sounds peppy, as if she might've had a day off. "How's the writing, hon?"
"I've gotten several chapters done, and it seems to be rolling along."
"And how's life at the cabin?"
I explain that it's more like a mansion, and Emily oohs and ahs as I briefly describe the place. "You'll have to watch a movie in the theater room," she says. "Maybe have someone over for popcorn. Have you met anyone nice?"
I think of Hope, who's the only one I'd feel comfortable watching a movie with. I have mixed feelings about being alone with Henry.
I dutifully tell Emily about the jacket sighting, although I omit the tragic backstory of the sauna. She doesn't need to know about Jordan's untimely demise or the manuscript she left behind, since that would only fuel her worries.
She gets unusually quiet. "How did that make you feel, seeing Renard's jacket?" Without waiting for my answer, she continues. "He was such a bully. I can't believe he went straight into the arms of that floozy, though I guess he got as good as he deserved."
I try not to think about the brainless yet incredibly fit twenty-something Renard picked up after our divorce—or maybe before it, for all I knew. I really wish Emily would stop bringing her up.
"Yeah, right." I don't elaborate.
Emily accordingly changes the subject. "I wanted to let you know that Jeff went over to open your place so the window repairman could get in. He stayed the entire time the guy was fixing it, which didn't take too long. He said your back door looks as good as new."
That's a relief. It'll be one less thing I'll have to worry about when I get home. "Tell him I said thanks."
"He picked up your mail, too." Her hesitation alerts me that she's leaving something out.
I force myself to ask, "What was in it? Anything weird?"
She sighs. "It's another letter, I'm afraid. But Jeff took it straight to the police. Maybe they'll get some prints this time."
"What did it say?"
"They told me not to bother you about it."
I feel a flare of irritation. "It's my mail. They can't withhold it from me."
"Makes sense to me. You have the right to know." Her voice got louder as she moved the phone closer. "It was actually pretty mundane this time. It said, 'I hope the writing is going well. Remember Matteo.' It was signed by the Highly Invested Reader again."
"He must think I'm still there, working in my home," I say. "That actually eases my mind. I've been paranoid that someone might've followed me here."
"Good. You know they're going to catch this guy, sooner or later. And when you do come back, Jeff and I can stay with you until things blow over."
I'm convinced that Emily would take a bullet for me. Blood loyalty runs deep for her, and she seems to view me more as a sister than a cousin. She is one of maybe two people who have loved me for who I am. My dad was the other one.
"Thanks, Emily. I hope I can get back up there soon."
Once we've said goodbye, I decide to relax with the most recent episode of my favorite Alaskan show. I manage to get my phone to cast to the TV, although my cell coverage keeps coming and going, causing the program to restart several times.
When it finally gets rolling, sunlight sparkles along the frozen river as the narrator describes the sub-zero temperatures the townspeople will have to endure going ice fishing. The footage flashes to a scene where one of the boys will be setting traps for various winter animals, including wolves, lynx, wolverines, and foxes.
Over the course of watching this show, I've discovered that trapping fascinates me. The idea that people can tie snares in certain ways or make contraptions to catch and even kill dangerous animals seems one of the most fundamental skills on the planet. To research an escape scene in one of my books, I whittled the spring mechanism for a trap, then attached it to a snare wire and tried it out on an old stuffed animal. I was surprised and slightly horrified when it actually worked.
But the traps they're setting on the show today involve designing a cubby with sticks, placing meat where the predator can get to it, then disguising a metal claw trap in the snow beneath. It hardly seems a useful skill for my day-to-day existence, but it's utterly engrossing to watch.
An unfamiliar electronic chime rings out, startling me. It seems to be coming from downstairs, so I grab a shorter knife from the kitchen, sliding it into my back jeans pocket before creeping down the steps. So what if I feel in survival mode after watching my show? I have no idea what that chime means. If a washer or dryer is dinging, I certainly haven't used it.
The motion sensor light has flicked on, and in its circle of light, I can see a woman standing at the back door. She's wearing a tan trench coat with the hood up, and she's focused on something on the ground. The moment I flip on the interior light, she jerks her head upward and peers inside.
As she does so, her hood flops off, and dark hair spills around her face. Her long, horse-shaped face.
Mariah Cloud is standing outside my door, and I have no idea what to do.
TWELVE
