I'm suddenly aware of Micah's intense eyes boring into mine. "You're waking up, aren't you? Your therapist told us we couldn't say the words: 'Renard is dead.' We couldn't let you know, or your break from reality might break you." The flashlight beam plays on his face, showing that his eyes are glistening.
"But isn't it better to be awake?" he continues. "Fully awake, and able to comprehend what actually happened? You killed your husband. And I want you to know that I understand. Mariah isn't the only person I've killed."
I struggle to focus, what with the snow falling around me. Or is it water? "You killed Jordan?" I ask.
He gives me a fatherly smile. "Of course. I thought she was the same as you, but I realized too late I'd misjudged her. She was weak, and not a fighter for justice. I thought she'd killed her pedophile brother, but she swore she didn't have a hand in his fatal drunk driving crash."
After taking a deep breath, he says, "Yet now I see her death was part of the greater picture, a thread woven into my tapestry of recompense. I had to pretend to be a stalker to get you to my cabin." He smiles. "See, I've been here the whole time, in my hidden basement room, waiting for you. And now your eyes have been opened to Renard's death, just as I'd hoped. You can start to understand that your purpose, like mine, is to right wrongs; to bring justice into the world with your own hands. It's what you've always written about, isn't it?"
He bends down, placing his slim hand on mine, and the sweet scent of Renard's cologne wafts toward me. Ever since I've been here, he's been leading me down the garden path, making me think Renard was after me. But I keep my hand still, because I don't want to anger him.
"I've read between the lines of your books," he says. "I know you, Alexandra. You have the spirit of an avenging Fury, although you have the softness of a confused child. I want to take you to the next level, show you what you are capable of. I was young when I discovered my ability to deal with evil." His hand tightens around mine. "I was one of those boys in the photo—I just wrote Henry's name on the back to confuse you. The other boy mocked my family for being poor, so I thought I'd teach him a lesson. I held him down until he slipped into the ocean...it was an accident. But then I started to see that it was so much more. The universe was offering me the power to rid the world of hateful people." His eyes narrow. "People like your Renard."
Something about his words pierces through the snowy fog of my mind. When lightning gives an abrupt flash, I'm offered a glimpse of the rope swing dangling by Micah's side. He's unaware of it, fixated on convincing me I'm a stone-cold killer.
Maybe I am.
I plunge forward, grasping the knotted end of the rope before he can anticipate my intention. Using all my strength, I pull the thick knots toward me. The rope strains against the back of his calves, pulling him off balance. He slams backward onto the rock, his flashlight clattering to the ground and his gun skidding along the ledge. It falls into the swimming hole below.
But I'm not done yet. I give the tightened rope a firm yank, letting it drag him toward the edge of the rock. Though he scrambles to roll over and dig his nails into the smooth, wet surface, he doesn't have a chance.
I hear a splash as my stalker drops into the shallow water below.
I grab the rolling flashlight and scramble toward the hill, making a break toward the cabin even though I can hear Micah flailing around. I'm unsure if I've incapacitated him, but I can't wait around to find out. Thankfully, the storm finally seems to have spent itself, and the sky has cleared up. Thin moonbeams drape the tops of the trees and flicker into the woods.
It seems to take forever for me to reach the chicken coop. I give it a passing glance, regretting that I fell for Micah's setup that Mariah was my stalker. Chances are, when she banged on my door that night, she'd come to warn me. Somehow, she'd discovered Micah's twisted motivations toward me and tracked me down to let me know.
And then there was Jordan. What had he done to her, simply because he'd discovered she wasn't the murderer he hoped she was?
I had bought my reclusive editor's supportive act. He'd pretended to be in Hawaii, but all the while, he was staying in the cabin. He probably crept out of the basement each night to watch me as I slept, spraying Renard's cologne around to confuse me. I cringe, thinking of such a malevolent force in my bedroom.
He was the one who'd placed the jacket in the sauna, and he must've been the person I saw walking into the woods. He could've left the notes for me, including the final note that was supposedly from Mariah.
When I'd first come to Thorvald Media, Micah had asked if I had any bad relationships in the writing industry, so he'd be aware of where to tread lightly. I told him about Mariah, explaining that it would be best if I kept my distance from her. He was so understanding, telling me it wasn't my fault she'd taken my critique badly. Then he'd used that information as a weapon, making me suspect my stalker was a woman who only wanted to help me.
He also knew about my strained relations with Renard. I kept him updated throughout the divorce proceedings, because he said he needed to know the kinds of external pressures I was dealing with.
But he was leading a double life, storing up my problems to use against me. Luring me—and who knows how many others—into his cabin to...what? Craft us into killers in his image?
A rogue branch scrapes against my face. I shove it away, refocusing the dimming flashlight beam on the path. There's an opening in the trees some distance ahead, so I must be nearing the cabin.
How many people has Micah killed? The boy in the ocean, Jordan, Mariah...but have there been others?
In retrospect, I can see that Jordan was pointing her readers to Micah all along. Max even shares the same initial. He, too, is a brooding, wealthy man with a mysterious house where bad things happen. And Jordan had even mentioned the basement rooms.
The fictional Aquarius must be the "visitor" Jordan was referring to in her title, so it follows that Aquarius represents Jordan herself. She had come to visit this place.
And the visitor winds up dead.
Now I'm the visitor at the cabin who is slated for death. But Micah has given me an advantage. Now I know, beyond a doubt, that Henry is trustworthy. If I can get to him, he'll make sure I'm safe.
My bad foot lands on a rock, and it presses against the cut on my heel. I fall to the ground, unable to keep walking in these thin, wet socks. The woodshed and the cabin are finally in view, but I'll have to hop the rest of the way in.
Do I even want to go into the cabin? Will it become a death trap for me?
I turn the flashlight behind me, listening for movement, but there is none. Cautiously, I peel the sock off my injured foot, groaning as it comes unstuck from the wound. It's still bleeding, but the flow has largely stanched, so I take off my sweatshirt and rip off the hood. I use that to pad my heel, then manage to stretch the sock over it.
Hesitant to return to Micah's house, I limp around the cabin instead, toward Quincy's car. Maybe he has some cell coverage.
But when I shine the light in his car window, I don't see him. I try his driver's side door, but it's locked, and so are all the others.
I go to the gazebo next, since I'd suggested he could stay there in the storm. As my light plays around the back of the enclosure, it catches on the green bag atop the fireplace mantle. The water bottle and food container sit next to it, apparently untouched. Quincy's been here.
Ignoring the nervous clench of my stomach, I tell myself he must've fallen asleep. But as I turn the light to the low bookshelf on the right, my spirits sink. Quincy is lying on the floor, his arms splayed out at an odd angle. His eyes are closed, and his jaw is sideways. He's obviously been hit with something hard, and there's no life left in him.
My brain makes a hard pivot.
This isn't real. Quincy isn't real, and neither is Micah or Mariah. This is all just part of the book I'm writing—an all-new series idea. What a twist, that the editor is the murderer!
Things are starting to make sense. I'll walk out of the gazebo and Quincy will disappear, back into my imagination. Where did I come up with that name, Quincy? It's a bit retro. Wasn't it an old TV show?
I should go inside and write everything down—from the unremitting storm to the crazy chicken coop scenario to the waterfall showdown. I give a sudden chuckle, realizing I've basically written myself into the story as the heroine who has to save herself. The whole book concept is an analogy for how I had to separate myself from Renard's toxic behaviors and emotional abuse.
Something pushes against my line of thinking, something about Renard, but I slam it down, hard. I don't want to think about Renard anymore. I want to strip my wet clothes off, drink some coffee, and type up this story. It feels so personal, I'm sure my readers will gobble it up.
Letting the gazebo door slam behind me, I limp toward the back door of the house. I'm aware that the creek water is raging, but I ignore it. I'm probably imagining that, too. Didn't my mom say my daydreaming would make my life extremely difficult someday?
