Regretting that I can't possibly leave this room to retrieve my shoes, I pad toward the door in my sock feet. I don't want to throw myself into the black wetness outside, but if I'm forced to, I will. I flip the deadbolt, preparing for a quick escape.
With the saccharine scent of cologne still hovering in the air, I listen. Where is he?
If he comes my way, I'll run outside, but then what? Does the small back deck even have stairs, or is it entirely enclosed? I didn't really pay attention.
Even if I do make it to the ground below, where will I run to? Quincy's car? Sure, he might jump in to help me, but if he can't drive us across the creek, we'll just be sitting ducks, and I'm guessing Henry won't attack without a weapon of some kind.
Thinking of Henry this way—as the villain in this story—seems all wrong. Everything in me screams out against it. The man brought me food, stood up for me with the sheriff, and acted protective of me at every turn. And he'd had every chance to harm me—like when we were alone in the woods. Maybe his valiant act was part of his cat-and-mouse game?
I hate not knowing who to trust. Over the years, I've taught myself not to fall for what people say, but to notice what they do and how they treat me. Have I set the wrong standard for myself? Why wasn't I gifted the same kind of gut instinct neurotypicals seem to be born with, the one I've given Natasha Summers in spades? My fictional heroine can sniff out evil, so why can't her creator?
Footsteps thud on the stairs, uninhibited by any need for disguise. He has the upper hand, and he knows it. I might have a knife in my hoodie pocket, but I'm no match for his size.
As steps pound down the opposite hallway, I decide I have to take this chance. If I don't get outside now, I won't be able to later.
Besides, I can't smell anything but Renard's cologne, and I can't take it anymore.
I crack the wooden door and ease onto the deck. Silently closing the door behind me, I hope I've bought some time before Henry realizes I've bolted.
Water soaks through the bottom of my socks, but I can't stop to worry about it. I flip on my phone light and run it along the deck railing. My heart sinks as I realize it's entirely enclosed—a little Juliet balcony, not an open deck with stairs.
I flip the light to the ground below, trying to judge the distance if I have to jump. There's a low-lying hedge just under the balcony, but I can only guess that its branches would poke or even stab me if I fell directly onto it.
It seems better to ease over the railing and let myself down slowly. One thing I have going for me is that I'm relatively limber. Also, I'm highly motivated, because someone has walked into the bedroom—I can hear them through the cabin wall.
I grip the damp railing and flip myself over it, letting my feet dangle beneath me. The darkness hides everything below, so I pretend the drop won't be as steep as it looked. Maybe I won't even have to go through with it.
But the door clicks open, and moonlight hits the form of the person who steps out. It's a man, and he's wearing a black ski mask, which removes all doubt that he has nefarious intent. He glances to the left, and before he can spot me, I let go and plunge into the bushes below.
TWENTY-TWO
Asmall, poky branch rips into my foot as I land with a tremendous thud. Steps thump overhead, and the man shines his light directly on me. He says nothing.
Even though the wind has been knocked out of me and I can feel the gash in my heel, I have to get up and move. This man wants me dead, I'm sure of it.
But where should I run?
As a fresh round of thunder sounds, I thrash around, trying to extricate myself from the grasping twigs. Once I'm clear of the hedge, I form a hasty plan. Since the flooding has blocked off the creek and bridge, there's only one direction I can go in—toward the woods. And I need to get under tree cover as soon as possible, where the man's roving flashlight can't light me up as a target.
Darting behind fruit trees, I enter the forest, trying to feel my way to the cleared path. I can't turn my flashlight on again and risk him spotting me.
While it would be smarter to avoid using the pathway, it's still the fastest way to move through the darkness. I can always veer away from it if he gets close.
I can't hear him behind me, but I make a wild scramble through the underbrush until it lets out on an opening that must be the path. Lightning cracks overhead, giving me a sudden visual of the trajectory I need to follow. I stumble forward, unsure how much distance I've put between me and the cabin.
The middle of my heel throbs. I'm probably losing blood through the deep cut, but at least I'm able to limp along at a relatively quick pace. The rain has mercifully softened the leaves, so my movements are quiet.
I pull out my phone. On the off-chance I've come within range of a cell tower, I could call for help. But I have no bars, and my screen is far too bright. I don't have time to fool with toning it down. I turn my phone face-out toward the path, only to see that I've wound toward the old chicken coop.
Thunder booms and lightning races along behind it, pressuring me to get out of the elements. There's no phone light trailing behind me, so I wonder if Henry has looped around the front of the cabin, assuming I'd go that way.
If he has, Quincy might become an obstacle in his path.
Another lightning bolt streaks up ahead, and a split-second later, a branch cracks off and drops to the ground. I'm running the risk of getting electrocuted out in the open, and I can't run much farther on my heel. I need shelter, and fast, so I flip on my phone light and dart in the direction of the coop.
But once I've nearly reached the door, my phone dies. Of course I didn't charge it. I'm a notorious non-charger.
Shoving my useless device into my back pocket, I push the door open, recalling only too late that it had previously stood ajar. Someone must've been in the woods after Henry and I were—or even in this coop. Maybe Henry himself had come here, to stew in his bitterness that they no longer had chickens or a farm to keep them on.
I hesitate on the doorstep, picturing Renard walking into the woods that day we went to search for him. Could I be wrong in thinking the masked man is Henry? Could Renard be the one who's stalking me? It seems overly dramatic for him to don a ski cap and hunt me down in a violent storm, but maybe he's turned maudlin in our months apart.
If it is Renard, it would actually be a relief. I could probably talk him down from whatever rage he's feeling, since I've been nothing but generous to him.
Buoyed by the slim possibility that it's merely a ticked-off ex chasing me down as opposed to a deranged murderer, I step onto a creaky floorboard. The space feels tight and reeks of mildew, but on top of that, it's heavy with the stench of a rotting dead animal. The dilapidated building probably has a regular parade of wildlife running through it. At least the animal I'm smelling is dead, not watching me in the darkness.
I feel for a wall and gingerly pick my way forward, hoping no rusty tools have been discarded on the floor. Rain blows through cracks along the doorframe, chilling me. I need to find something to wrap my heel with, since I can still feel it bleeding. Luckily, I haven't lost enough blood to make me pass out.
When thunder booms, I stop, anticipating that lightning might illuminate the building. Maybe there's a chicken feed bag or some kind of material lying around, so I won't have to tear up my sweatshirt for a bandage.
Lightning flashes, drawing my attention to an oversized lump lying just in front of me. It looks like a person taking a nap.
Only no one could nap in a storm like this. I sink into a crouch, willing myself to stay calm, even in the face of the hideous revelation that there's a dead body in this building.
The coop door flies open, and in the thin moonlight, I can make out a man's build. Given the thickness around his head, he's the one wearing a ski mask.
There is no hiding for me now.
