I let out a slow breath. Since the motion sensor light is off, that means Quincy can't be lurking around outside. As I'd hoped, he's wisely stayed put in his car. I can't be the only kid who made a mental note that vehicles are second only to buildings for safety in lightning storms.
Without wasting a moment, I move to the door and slide the chain open. I manage to finagle the lumpy bag through the crack and onto the pavement outside, triggering the porch light. After firmly closing the door, I head to the inside light and flip the switch several times, signaling so that Quincy will pick up his food.
But he doesn't appear. Maybe the lightning obscured my blinking, but he should've at least noticed the porch light. I flip the switch harder, over and over, hoping to see his interior car lights activate as he opens the door.
There's no movement. I try to make sense of this. Maybe he went to the gazebo after all and found a dry spot to hunker down before darkness fell?
I try to squelch the thought that he could be trying to break into the house another way, but my stomach gives a rebellious lurch. This is a huge cabin. There could be unlocked windows in any of the tons of rooms. If Quincy tried every one...but who would be so dedicated, in this awful storm?
A crazed stalker, that's who.
But Mariah's my stalker. She trespassed and left me a note—more than one, probably—that she basically wants to be me. Plus, she's always seemed unstable.
Overwhelmed by the uncertainty of it all, I check the chain lock before turning off the light and heading upstairs. I'm not waiting around for Quincy to show, even though the food is liable to get soaked, regardless of its protective bag.
There's no way I can wind down for bed in this state. I check for messages from Henry, but none have come through. I'm only too aware that I have no Wi-Fi and that my cellular data is spotty, but I try texting Henry nonetheless.
"Quincy brought books over and got stuck this side of the creek. He's in his car. Not sure how to get him out of here." My words are brief, but I'm hoping Henry will pick up what I'm putting down, as Gwen says. I won't have any peace of mind until I get Quincy out of here.
I stare at the phone, willing him to send a response text, but none arrives. I'm hoping I'd still be able to call emergency services if the need should arise, but, given the state of my cell service, I'm not one hundred percent sure.
Feeling ridiculously isolated even though Henry is just a flooded creek away, I force myself to find something completely distracting to do. There's no way I could watch TV with all the lightning, so I decide to read Jordan's book. Maybe I can finally dig down to the meaning of the title. Who visits whom, and why?
The cabin is well-stocked with battery-operated candles, so I place a grouping of those on the side table to avoid using electricity. Once I've set the knife on the table and settled into the corner of the couch, light glints off a cushion. I realize it's the framed photo.
In my haste to feed the cat and take shelter from the storm, I'd forgotten all about it. A prickly awareness intrudes into my thoughts. I make a slow reach for the photo, allowing myself a long moment to stare at the two boys on the beach.
Now I realize why it seems so familiar. Jordan mentioned a vanishing photo of two boys in her book.
Maybe Jordan's art had indeed imitated life. The photo I'm looking at is exactly what she described.
Driven by curiosity, I flip the frame over and work it off, hoping someone took the time to write the boys' names on the back. Jordan could've been inspired by this very photo. Maybe she'd brought it with her and tucked it away in a drawer. The police might not have known it was hers when they investigated her death. Henry, too, could have assumed it was Micah's when he cleaned the place.
Sure enough, two names have been scrawled along the top in spotty ink. Given the precipitous slant of the letters, I can hardly make out the writing, but the first name seems to be Christopher.
My gaze slides to the second word, and I struggle to make it out. The first letter is either an unattached cursive A or an H.
It's only when I determine it's an H that I realize what I'm looking at. The second name is Henry.
I can't work through the implications fast enough.
Henry was caretaker when Jordan visited. She'd accused him of going through her bathroom things.
What if he'd given this photo to Jordan while she was here? I grab her manuscript, flipping wildly to find my place. I need to keep reading so I can understand.
But I can't ignore the question that's starting to burn in my brain: where is Henry this very moment? I shift sideways, peering into the darkened hallway.
"He's at home with his mother," I answer. "He's not in this house."
Saying it aloud doesn't make it true, but I have to continue.
"He can't get past the chain lock. And he can't get across that bridge now."
Unless he came over before the flooding started...maybe walked over so I wouldn't hear the four-wheeler.
I shiver. Surely I'd pick up on it if someone else were in the cabin right now. With my painfully receptive hearing, I would notice.
A languorous roll of thunder rumbles across the lead-colored sky, reminding me there's been a ceaseless racket that could've easily covered the small movements I'd normally pick up on. I press my back into the couch cushion, wishing I could derive solace from its pressure.
I'm tired of feeling like a fish in a barrel, just waiting for the final blow to be struck. Ever since my Highly Invested Reader sent that letter, I've been unable to live my life. Most likely, that was the intended effect, so it logically follows that my stalker would be someone with an axe to grind, like Mariah or even Renard.
Yet here sits Henry's childhood photo, clearly linking him with Jordan.
And Jordan's death wasn't an accident—I'm convinced of that. While the police determined that the sauna door had locked due to a flaw in the mechanism, I couldn't believe it. Jordan was likely murdered, but I have no idea how or why. She said as much in the scrawled note in her book.
I resolutely stare at the page in front of me. Though I can't possibly determine who my stalker is, I might read something in Jordan's book that would motivate the police to open a fresh inquiry into her death. My time in hiding won't be wasted, outside of the few chapters I've managed to write, and maybe I can bring some posthumous justice to the young writer who died here.
As the storm falls strangely silent, I turn my attentions to Aquarius, who's driven to Max's house at gunpoint. He forces her inside, then leads her into the basement.
Which is where she discovers she's not the first person he's kidnapped.
As Max shoves Aquarius into a small closet, another woman cries out from an enclosed space nearby.
I hunch closer, cradling the manuscript as if it's a hot potato. Was Jordan covertly trying to share a secret? Maybe to expose some kind of psychopath she'd run into, someone who'd stalked women before?
Surely she wouldn't be hinting that Henry was one and the same with Max.
