His reply carries an undercurrent of concern. "Take care, Alex."
It always gives me a little thrill to hear him say my name, but I don't have time to sit with the pleasantries. I get down to the business at hand—that of keeping me alive—and call Henry.
FOURTEEN
Henry shows up about five minutes after I call. I don't know what his day job is or what hours he even works. How would a former Army sniper choose to stay busy, I wonder?
As he climbs off his four-wheeler, I realize what a compliment it was for him to tell me how realistic my weapons scenes are. He should know.
When Henry's reserved gaze meets mine, I recall Micah's remark that his caretaker can come off as brusque. I haven't seen that side of Henry—just his tendency to fall silent rather than filling gaps with mindless chatter. I find his direct approach refreshing.
"I'm sorry to bother you," I say. "Were you at home?"
"Yes, I am. Most days, I do construction work here and there—my schedule is pretty flexible. If Mother's in a bad way, like today, I stick close by."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that she's not doing well."
"She has severe COPD, so she's having one of her regular emphysema flare-ups. I gave her a breathing treatment, and now Cleo's come over to give her a sponge bath once she feels up to it. I hope to squeeze in a little drywalling later this afternoon."
"I'll try not to take up too much of your time." I gesture toward the back of the cabin. "I didn't get to explain much on the phone, but I'm pretty sure I saw my ex-husband walking in these woods. I'd appreciate it if you'd check on things for me." I lead him around the side of the house.
Henry's boots clomp along behind me, but he doesn't say anything. I rush to fill in the silence.
"I know this must sound paranoid, after asking you over so many times already." A tinge of desperation creeps into my voice. "I swear I'm seeing these things."
With one long stride, he moves directly to my side. Glancing down at me, he says, "I've already said I believe you. Stalking isn't something you should ignore. Tell me what this ex looks like."
The serious way he asks for Renard's description tells me he's gearing up for a clash. I'm beginning to gather that even though Henry is a man of few words, the few he chooses are loaded with meaning.
After describing my ex, I show him where I noticed the cat on the woodpile. Again, he cautions me not to feed it, but I'm not making any promises. It might be foolish for me to make the cat dependent on me for sustenance, given that I won't be staying here, but if an animal is clearly hungry and I don't feed it, what kind of a monster am I?
He strides toward the middle of the treeline, peering around. "Where did you see him?"
I try to picture where Renard was in relation to the apple trees, then point Henry in that direction. Instead of asking me to stay back, as I expect, Henry motions for me to accompany him.
"You should get a feel for these woods," he says. "Just in case."
He doesn't elaborate, but I get his meaning. Just in case I have to stay here longer. Just in case they can't catch my stalker.
I trudge along behind him, and the trees seem to close ranks around me. "It's so quiet," I say. "Where are all the birds?"
"Smells like rain." He holds a branch aside so I can walk through a narrow space between trees. "They're probably holing up at the moment."
A tiny creek rolls along beside us, and I hear a rush of water in the distance. "What's that?"
"Little waterfall," he says, as if it's nothing out of the ordinary.
We pass a red, broken-down shack with a sagging roof and a rotting door that stands ajar. "What's that place?" I ask.
"Old chicken coop. My kinfolk used to have a barn where the house sits, and they kept some chickens and pigs, too." He shakes his head. "I kind of miss having fresh eggs. There's a difference in taste."
I have no idea what that difference is, but I nod as if I've eaten many a farm-fresh egg.
"The farm was our life for years," he continues. Our walk seems to have loosened his tongue. "When Dad died, Mother didn't want to sell. She still despises Micah for swooping in to buy the property, but the truth was, we couldn't afford to keep it going. I had to put it up for sale."
I could only imagine what a difficult decision that was for him. I want to ask about his dad, or if he has any siblings, but he seems lost in thought.
As we approach a rocky section of the creek bed, the waterfall comes into view. It's on the small side, lined with flat rocks on top. The fall tumbles into a wide, mottled green pool.
"Used to swim here as a kid. It's deep enough to dive into." Henry jerks a thumb toward a side ledge, where a rope has been knotted over a tree limb. "It's cold as ice in the middle, but it warms up in the shallower part, under the waterfall."
The idyllic cove would be a welcome retreat in the heat of summer. Maybe that's why Micah didn't have a pool installed along with his numerous amenities.
"I'm sure you could use it," he adds. "I'm honestly not sure if Micah even knows it exists. He stays mostly in the cabin when he comes in, editing. It's a shame he doesn't get out on the property."
Tilly might not be the only one who resents Micah. It sounds like Henry views him as a city boy, unequipped for the realities of life in West Virginia. Does he think of me in the same way?
Light raindrops sprinkle my head. "Renard must be long gone by now," I say. "We can head back, if you want."
He nods. "The woods peter out a ways past the waterfall, and they form the border of Micah's land. The nearest neighbor's field backs up to the woods—his house is a couple thousand meters past the crooked oak at the treeline."
I'm guessing he's so specific about the distance due to his sniper training. That's actually quite a trek. Did the orange cat hike all the way across fields and woods to drop in on my back yard? Hopefully, it's managed to make its way back to its owner, whoever that is.
Looking thoughtful, Henry adds, "Trust me, no one could creep onto Old Man Cochran's land without him noticing. He watches things like a hawk. I honestly don't know where your ex could've parked to get over here. I would've seen him driving past my house, since I had a clear view out the front window all morning."
Before I can think up a way Renard could've crept into the back yard, the rain grows heavier. Tugging my hoodie over my wet hair, I follow Henry as he takes a barely noticeable path back toward the house. Long-discarded autumn leaves form a slippery carpet beneath our feet, and I have to grab for tree trunks to keep from sliding in several spots.
Once we get to the back door, I punch in the code and walk inside. Henry wordlessly steps in after me. Running his wide hand through his chunky, rain-tightened curls, he says, "I don't know what to tell you. I can't figure out what's going on."
