Dissociation is something I'm particularly good at. I've been doing it since I was small. Every time my mom told me I was a loser, every time she blamed me for something I didn't do, I'd take a break from my battered thoughts and feelings and pretend I was somewhere—and someone—else. I compartmentalized my pain, but never dealt with it.
As I got older and more pain came my way, I got more adept at dissociating. I could lock on my smile and come off as highly sympathetic, but deep down, I was miles away.
After my divorce, I started examining this tendency with my therapist, who suggested I work out ways to ground myself in the now. She didn't want me retreating into my mind's labyrinth the moment things took a turn for the worse.
Aware that my traitorous feelings about Henry might throw me out of myself, I launch into my 5-4-3-2-1 technique.
Step one: name five things I can see. The dark, cloudy sky out the window, the jade green tufts on a couch pillow, the crinkly white paper, my unpolished fingernails, and a hole in my black sock.
Step four: name four things I can feel. The chill from the damp weather, a slight craving for more caffeine, the heaviness of hair that needs to be washed, and the cool leather of the couch cushion.
Step three: name three things I can hear. The rush of the creek, the shift of my legs on the couch, and...some strange noise downstairs. Something I can't put my finger on. Something I don't want to think about.
I breathe deeply. It's probably nothing. Maybe Quincy is picking up his food. Maybe he was hunkered in his back seat where I couldn't see him, and he realized I'd put things out for him to eat. Maybe he tried to open the door, only to find it was locked.
I force myself to go on. Step two: name two things I can smell. The scent of heavy rainfall that has somehow clawed its way through windowsills and doors.
But there's something else.
Something familiar, something sweet. A scent wafting down the hallway...or up the stairs?
Renard's cologne.
My final step is to name something I can taste, and I couldn't evade it if I tried. As a creak sounds downstairs, fresh electricity charges the house, and it has nothing to do with the storm. In the flickering light of my numerous battery candles, I taste fear.
Someone is in the house, and I need to hide.
TWENTY-ONE
Going out the back door isn't an option. Someone might be downstairs, and Quincy is—or at least was—right outside.
I try to make a call to emergency services, but unsurprisingly, my phone won't connect. I ease the kitchen knife into my hoodie pocket and ease to my feet. The last time I smelled Renard's cologne was in my room, so I veer down the opposite hallway. Whoever is in the house now might've been here before, so they'd know where I slept.
I cautiously enter one of the larger bedrooms and position myself behind the door, where I won't be expected. My stalker is probably well aware that this scenario could've come straight out of one of my books.
But once again, I'm left wondering who is behind all this.
I work my way through my suspect list, trying not to focus on the careless noises I hear drifting up the stairs. I know Henry and Quincy are close by. And since Mariah had taped a note on the door this morning, she might've stayed on this side of the creek, too.
Then again, I've seen Renard going into the woods, smelled his cologne, and spotted his jacket in this house.
Any one of them could've figured out a way in, although I'm unsure how.
On the wall facing me, a wide mirror hangs over the dresser. For one split second, I see Renard in it, staring at me. He's giving me his signature cocky smile, showing his brilliant teeth. His eyes dance over my face, and he seems amused at my terror.
I close my eyes and clench my fists. When I look again, Renard is gone. My mind must be playing tricks on me. But the scent of his cologne seems stronger. I can almost see it, like some cartoon cloud, inching along the hallway until it oozes around the doorway and hovers under my nostrils.
My phone dings, ripping through the house's eerie stillness like a cannon fire. Fearing it's given my position away, I yank it from my pocket and stare at a text from Henry.
"Can't come now. Stay inside where you are safe. I'll be there as soon as possible. Will come in basement door so don't unlock chain."
Of course there's a basement, just like there was in Jordan's book. The place where Max kept his prey. And Henry can get into the house that way, circumventing the chain lock.
My body starts shaking. It must've been Henry all along. My stalker in Connecticut could've been anyone else—Mariah, Renard, some crazy reader—but here, it's all been Henry.
He's been coming and going as he wants. He could've sprayed my ex's cologne to scare me, then placed a jacket the same color as Renard's in the sauna. It would've been easy to remove the jacket before I came downstairs, making me think I was seeing things. He could have also crept in and removed the note from the elevator while Hope and I were upstairs.
And he still lives with his mother. There's nothing wrong with that, and I've chosen to see it as a strength, but what if he has some warped motivation, like Norman Bates? What if he can't stand to live apart from her? Maybe he's angry that Micah bought the family farm. By killing the women who come to stay here, he could run Micah off, giving himself a chance to buy back the property.
The fact that he told me to stay inside, on his own familiar turf, only reinforces my line of thinking. He will do to me what he did to Jordan.
And his recent text has cleverly given away my location. With trembling fingers, I turn off the ringer on my phone so it can't happen again.
I don't want to move, but force myself to edge out behind the door. Peering down the hallway, I determine that no one is in the upstairs hallways, even though it's hard to be sure in the flickering candlelight.
Summoning my courage, I scurry into the bedroom across from me and kneel behind the door. I tune in to the cabin itself, trying to pinpoint the location of the person who's been moving around.
I hear a distinct clicking sound coming from downstairs. It takes me a second, but once I realize what it is, my blood freezes.
Someone is repeatedly opening and closing the sauna door.
It's a threat.
Henry is coming for me.
Darkness has enveloped the room, and I struggle to recall its layout. Does this one have a door giving onto the back deck? I flip on my phone light, scanning the curtained windows lining the wall until I make out a small white door. It does, thank goodness.
