With the motion light triggered, I punch in the code I've now memorized and open the door. I glance at the sauna as I step inside, but don't let it get under my skin. This isn't some kind of lair where women are killed. It's simply a writer's retreat gifted to me by my publisher, in hopes that a change of scenery would help me complete the final book in my Lipstick and Lies series.
And that's what I've been dutifully working on this whole time.
I ignore the pointless chain lock and boldly take the elevator, anxious to clean my sore heel. After plugging my phone in, I head to the bathroom and pour half a tubful of warm water. Once I've tugged off the sock and the material around the wound, I ease my foot into the tub. Dried blood discolors the water, and I scold myself for going outside in my sock feet. Of course that wasn't smart. All the research in the world isn't worth running around shoeless in the woods.
Going outside in a blazing storm was also risky, but now I knew what it felt like. I wouldn't have gotten this opportunity in Greenwich, in my small yard.
I take care drying my foot, then retrieve an antibiotic ointment from my bathroom tote and slather it on the cut. The bleeding has stopped and it's starting to look better, so I use a wide bandage to cover it.
I shouldn't need stitches, which is a good thing. After all, how would I explain this to a doctor? I fell off my deck into a shrub, pretending that someone was after me?
Because the whole chase scenario was pretend. Imaginary.
Maybe Renard had seen something coming in me, some break with reality, and that was why he'd wanted out of our marriage. Though he had pushed me to it, treating me like trash, as Emily had said.
I'm filled with sudden nostalgia for my cousin and her husband. If only she could've come here with me. She gives me the unconditional love my mom can't find it in her heart to give, and she's always in my corner. Emily is the best kind of friend, and one I can't wait to get back to.
I let out a long sigh, making a conscious effort to relax my muscles, starting from my weary feet and working my way up. I'm too exhausted to get a shower, but I wet a washcloth and clean up before heading to my room for fresh clothes.
Once I've changed into pajamas, I head toward my blanket nest and arrange my weighted blanket so it will evenly cover my body when I curl up under it.
As I'm fluffing my pillows, my gaze travels to the nightstand and hitches on the framed photo of the two boys. Someone has placed it where I'll be sure to see it.
And next to the photo is a dark blue bottle with a clear top. It's Renard's cologne.
TWENTY-FIVE
Ismile. I've really set this thing up well. I can't remember where I found the photo of the boys to work into my book, but I must've snagged Renard's cologne before he moved out. A memento, I suppose. A reminder that our marriage had been real.
Continuing my sleep preparations, I turn on my salt lamp and look at my phone. A text finally came in from Henry, sent an hour ago.
"Are you okay? Is Quincy still there? I can try to find a way over if you need me."
I've gotten him all worked up over nothing, just my silly storyline. I don't know how to explain that Quincy was never here. I certainly don't need him risking life and limb to check on me for no reason. I'm safe in this cabin, and I always have been.
"I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about. Things are okay here." I text back. After hitting send, I wait to see if cell service has resumed after the storm. An orange exclamation point pops up, telling me my message has failed to send.
So much for that. I just don't care anymore. I can't even explain what happened tonight to myself, much less rehash it with Henry. I can only hope he doesn't do anything stupid and try to ford the flooded creek.
I need sleep more than anything, so that's exactly what I plan to do.
I rub lavender oil on my wrists to cut the still-lingering smell of cologne. In the morning, I need to trash the bottle. I've been too sentimental, collecting things to remind me of Renard. I'm sure my therapist would tell me it's unhealthy.
Shutting off the overhead light, I pull the weighted blanket over me and close my eyes. When my mind refuses to stop circling around my cooked-up adventures of the night, I pop a melatonin and hope for sleep.
In the middle of a fuzzy dream, something wakes me. I uncurl my body and open my bleary eyes. In the dim peach light of the salt lamp, I try to see into the dark hallway. Listening for some noise that might've interrupted my much-needed slumber, I turn to glance at the deck door.
And then I see him.
Micah is crouching right next to my blankets. The damp smell of his wet clothing drifts toward me, even as water drips on the floor. This time, he didn't even bother to put his mask on.
Before I can scramble to my feet, his hand shoots out and grabs my arm. "I'm sure it shook you up to hear that Renard is dead. But you didn't have to go and try to kill me."
I squeeze my eyes shut. "This is just a dream," I say aloud.
He gives a loud cackle. "Hardly. I knew you had a powerful mind, but this...this is beyond the pale, Alexandra. You have to acknowledge what happened on that snowy night. You have to accept that you killed your husband. Only then can you move forward."
Flashbacks of Renard's final night dance freely through my mind. The way he chased me down on the icy sidewalk. His desperate grappling attempts for the espresso maker and his threats to get rid of it, simply because he knew it meant something to me. His final selfish command for me not to make any sudden moves.
Mustering up more confidence than I feel, I say, "He was my ex-husband. And I didn't kill him. I don't care what you say. I know the truth."
"The truth." He chuckles, tossing his wet hair so droplets splatter my face. My arm is still in his warm, tight clasp. "The truth is that you might as well have shoved Renard onto the pavement and hit him with that coffee machine. You hated him that much."
I try to yank my arm away, but he tightens his grip. "I never hated him."
"Admit it," he demands. "Hate is a powerful motivator."
Am I really sitting here, having a conversation with my editor about my past? I force myself to stare directly at Micah's face. It's not blurred, like it would be in a dream. And his claw-like grip feels real enough.
He relaxes his grasp and sinks onto his knees. "You're confused, aren't you? I don't want to make this hard on you, Alexandra."
"Stop calling me that," I command.
His gaze softens. "You're frightened. I understand. You saw what happened to Mariah and it scared you. You must have stumbled onto Quincy, as well. He was such a weakling."
Disgust fills me. "They're not real. Neither are you," I say. "Get out of my head."
"Oh, but I belong in your head. I'm part of you."
