It's a predictable question after such an ordeal, but he asks it like he knows how I'm feeling. Inside, I'm a ball of tightly-wound nerves.
I force a slow nod. "I'm fine. I'll be okay now that they've checked things out. You're welcome to come in and get some coffee, but I'd better get back to writing."
His glances toward the sky, then points upward. "See that black cloud bank? I've only seen that a few times in my life, and it always brings severe storms and buckets of rain." He glances toward the creek, which is peacefully burbling along. "If we get too much rain too fast, the creek's liable to flood. You'll need to watch out for that."
"Okay. Well, I'm not planning on going anywhere today. Will you be home?"
"Cleo will be heading out soon after sitting with Mother last night. So, yes, I'll be around."
It's impressive that he's so dedicated to his fractious mother. I could use some of his compassion when dealing with my own mom, even though her nastiness doesn't come from dementia. She seems to have been born with it.
Henry is probably ready to get back to caring for his mother, so I decide to spare him further niceties. In a nudge to get him to move, I ask, "Did you want to come in for coffee?"
"No, I'd better get back." He extends his hand, letting it hover over my arm for a millisecond. Then, as if scalded by the very thought of touching me, he lets it drop discreetly to his side.
I pretend I didn't see his almost-contact. "Thanks for being there for me last night," I say.
"Of course." He strides toward his four-wheeler. "Take care," he says awkwardly, then drives off.
NINETEEN
Late in the afternoon, after I've managed to write a couple of chapters, I realize I've completely skipped lunch. Once I've eaten a quick sandwich, I head outside to get some fresh air.
With the black clouds still looming above, I walk to the creek bank, settling my gaze on a swirling area where water rushes over an oversized flat rock. For countless years, the creek has worn that rock down, rushing over its surface and forcing its jagged edges to smooth.
It reminds me of my unhealthy relationships with my mom and Renard. Pieces have been chipped off me—qualities I didn't want to lose, like innocence and trust—and, like Humpty Dumpty, I can't see a way to put myself back together again. I don't feel whole, and I'm not sure if I ever was in the first place.
Thunder rumbles over the closest mountain ridge, as if the very skies have heard me calling. I can smell the rain coming—that misty scent of water hitting dry ground.
Turning, I take a long look at the cabin. Even though the house is tastefully designed and boasts natural tones from roof to siding, it looms against the woods like some kind of misshapen, misplaced eyesore. It hasn't been a haven for me, although the people here have been welcoming enough. Henry, in particular, has grown on me, but I can't let myself get attached. When I get close to people, I give them the power to wound or even leave me. I refuse to invite that pain into my life again.
Feeling loath to head inside, I stroll toward the gazebo. Maybe I can get a little space, surrounded by nature, to think through the next scene in my book. I need to be far more productive for the remainder of my day, since Robin has booked me a ticket to leave tomorrow. She was so thrilled to hear that my stalker problems had been resolved, telling me she knew it was a direct result of her fervent prayers. There's a sweetness about her that's touching.
I don't think I'm procrastinating, exactly—more like trying to find a way around the mental roadblock of having a real-life stalker. It makes sense that Mariah would pull something like this, knowing it would derail me. She can't bear to see me succeed, and her note said as much. At least I can comfortably enjoy the yard surrounding the cabin, now that the police have checked things out.
I sit in a hard-backed chair and close my eyes, reveling in the woodland sounds. My hearing is tuned differently, so I can make out small noises that no one else can. I can often hear someone breathing in another room, or make out book pages being turned in the library. My therapist calls it hyperacusis, and it's not abnormal for autistics to experience it. Most of the time, I try to block it out, but sometimes, those small sounds take over my airwaves.
Right now, above the ambient sounds of birds chirping, wind pushing on the leaves, and cars on the distant roadway, I hear something else. It's a faint crackling that's coming from behind the house. I leave the gazebo to check on it, walking through the grassy yard to peer around the corner.
The orange cat marches across the leaves, straight toward the empty tuna can. In all the hubbub this morning, I forgot to replace it.
I jog into the house and up to the kitchen, where I hurriedly open another can of tuna. Before I can dash downstairs, something on the couch catches my eye.
It's a framed photo. How did that get there?
I inch closer, tuna can outstretched as if it'll ward off danger. There are two children in the photo—small boys, it looks like. They're standing in front of the ocean, big grins on their faces.
The boy on the left is tan, with dark hair, and the boy on the right has blond hair that glistens in the sunlight. Given their knee-length neon swim shorts and bright green kickboards, the photo must've been taken in the eighties.
Something about it seems familiar, but why? I can't place it.
How did the photo wind up on the couch, anyway? Did the police officer pick it up in his house sweep, then forget he'd left it sitting out?
The urgency of the cat's hunger weighs on me, so I turn from the photo to deliver the tuna can. I use the deck stairs, which are the quickest way to get to the woodpile.
The kitty stands near the empty tuna can, which has been knocked sideways on the ground. Every ounce of food has been licked out.
Fixing its golden eyes on me, the cat meows loudly. Given its need for nourishment, I'm guessing I might be able to get a little closer this time.
I edge toward it, keeping my eyes to the ground so I'll seem less intimidating. Placing the fresh tuna on the woodchips, I allow myself to take a side glance.
The fluffy feline has moved closer. As it steps toward the can, its feathery tail flicks against my leg. I don't know cat language, but it seems to be telling me it's okay to pet it.
As it dives into the food, I lightly rest my hand on its back. When it doesn't startle, I run my fingers down its long fur. To my surprise, it leaves off its gobbling and shoves its head under my palm. A loud purring rumbles beneath its stomach.
I crouch down beside the cat. It presses against my knees, dipping its back and curling its tail as if begging to be petted. "You're a friendly baby, aren't you?" I ask, warming to its unabashed friendliness.
There's a sudden boom of thunder, and lightning slashes the darkened sky. In the same moment, a sheet of rain lets loose, instantly drenching us. The wet cat darts toward the top of the woodpile, where I assume it'll be protected, so I race for the deck.
On my way up the slippery wooden stairs, I glance at the driveway, then blink rain from my eyes to make sure I'm not seeing things.
A car sits parked out front—a black sedan.
I pound into the house, locking the sliding door behind me. Without slowing, I run into the bathroom, yanking a thick towel off the shelf. I wrap it around my dripping clothing and traipse into the living room.
I wish I'd only imagined the car, but when I look out the front window, I see it sitting there, parked next to my own rental. I pull back so I'm out of view, checking my phone to see if Henry's alerted me to any visitors. But there are no calls or texts.
Maybe he missed the car's approach. Maybe the storm drowned out the noise of the approaching vehicle.
