Gently he grasped my forearm. “We should go.”
Later, I would kick myself for giving in to the flight impulse that consumed me in those woods, but in the moment, I was so gripped by otherworldly terror that getting back to the cabana suddenly became the only thing that mattered to me. We hurried along the path—never running, but walking very quickly.When we reached the opening, I turned and stared back into the recesses of the forest, but all I saw were lush green ferns and creeping lianas.
“Dorian,” I said, never taking my eyes from the woods, “what the hell is in there?”
“I told you.” He touched me gently on the shoulder. “Bears. Coyotes. It’s not safe.”
I pulled away. “I know what I saw in there. It was a grave. Now give me an explanation or I’m going to alert the authorities.”
He rolled his eyes. “Do what you want, but there is no grave. Call the police. Call the FBI. There is no grave in those woods. Isabelle Casimir did not die.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“You’re shaking. Let’s get you inside. Make you some tea.”
Frustrated, I started walking toward the cabana, my mind racing. Something was wrong. Something was deeply wrong, and I needed some space to think. As I walked, Dorian followed along behind me with the practiced repentance of a reluctant boyfriend. When I reached my door, though, I had a sudden thought.
“That young woman from the village, Sabine Étienne?” I said. “Did she ever come up here?”
He looked at me blankly. “Sabine Étienne?”
“The one who was mauled by the bear.”
Recognition flashed in his eyes. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Why?” I balked. “Because it’s possible that Isabelle’s disappearance and Sabine’s death might be connected. You said as much yourself, remember?”
He looked away and I observed what I thought was a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“What is it you’re so afraid of?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, but his face contorted into a pained expression. “I’m not afraid.”
“I realized what those bottles in my basement were. People use them as protective magic. They’re supposed to deflect spiritual attacks. Why would Dr. Casimir think she was under spiritual attack? Is there something I should know about her?”
“I can’t speak for Isabelle, but I can tell you that belief in witchcraft and belief in science are not mutually exclusive.”
“I’m pretty sure they are. And I think we should all be a lot more concerned about what might have happened to Casimir, especially after what happened to Sabine Étienne.”
Annoyed now, he put a hand on his hip. “You’re being ridiculous. And I’m not sure what you would like me to do here. Do you want me to find the bottles and hang them back up in your basement?”
“Of course not. I just want people to stay out of my space.”
“That can be arranged,” he said rather too abruptly. And then he started toward the main house.
When I headed back into the cabana, I was so annoyed, I had to keep myself from kicking something. I hadn’t imagined the grave, and it wasn’t ridiculous to think that Isabelle and Sabine might be connected.
Huffing to myself, I put the kettle on for tea and grabbed my laptop. Maybe Sabine Étienne’s death was worth revisiting. Of course the details were horrific, but there was more to it than that. There was something mysterious about it. I could sense it.
When the water boiled, I made myself a cup of tea and sat down on the couch, laptop on my knees. The heady scent of raspberry and mint lifted my spirits as I read over my notes on Sabine. Once again, I shivered when I read those haunting words:They breed them up there.
I stared at the screen, biting my lip. Was I deluding myself, seeing connections that didn’t exist, or was there a potential link between Isabelle and Sabine? They say there are no coincidences, but in this case, I wasn’t sure if the bigger coincidence would be if the two cases were connected or if theyweren’t.
Determined, I tracked down the phone number for the pub where Sabine had worked. An older man answered, and after trying to get past my terrible French, he put me on with her brother, Guillaume, who was working that day. He slipped nervously between English and French. I spoke to him only briefly, but he seemed anxious and was quick to suggest that we talk in private. Something seemed a little off about him, so when he asked to meet in person, every bone in my body told me to come up with an alternative.
“What about Zoom?” I suggested. “That might be easier.”
He grunted his assent, and I gave him my email so he could send me a link.
