And the thought of spending the night here with this flimsy blanket haunts me. Hypothermia is not the way I want to leave this world.
I blow out a long breath.
I need it.
And I can get it. I should get it. My guest isn’t arriving until eight at the earliest. There’s no car in the driveway. No activity on the doorbell camera.
The doorbell camera.
I yank the app open quickly. The live view loads in a heartbeat.
Front porch: empty. Driveway: empty. Pathway lights flickering on their timer. The trees swaying gently.
No car. No truck. No guest.
Which means…
“I can run up,” I whisper giving myself permission to go. “Grab the sleeping bag. Be out before he even gets there.”
My heart kicks hard at the thought of being at the cabin when a stranger arrives, but I squash that down. I don’t have to see him. I’ll be in and out. Four minutes max including driving back down the driveway. Grab the sleeping bag, maybe toss an extra pair of socks in my duffel, and go.
I put the car in drive before I can talk myself out of it.
The mountain road is darker now, the pine trees towering like tall shadows on either side. My headlights cut through the gloom in a narrow cone. The deeper I go, the colder the air feels, as if winter is waiting at the top just for me.
As I turn down the road toward my cabin, that familiar ache hits low in my chest. The porch lights glow warm and welcoming in the distance, and for half a second it looks like a real home. My home.
And then I remember I don’t get to sleep there tonight.
I swallow hard.
I pull into the driveway, headlights sweeping over the steps, the wreath on the door, the little porch railing I painted last spring.
The driveway is empty—just like the camera showed.
Good.
I park as close to the door as I can, jump out, and hurry up the steps, cold air slicing at my face. My breath fogs as I fumble my keys out of my pocket and let myself inside.
The warmth hits immediately, even with the thermostat set low. The wood smells familiar. Safe. Like belonging.
I shove the feeling away before it can get a foothold.
“Sleeping bag, sleeping bag,” I mutter, hurrying down the hall.
I yank open the closet, reach up, and snag the thick roll of insulated fabric. It’s heavier than I remember. I drag it down, wrestling it into my arms.
My car is still running. Good. Faster getaway.
I hurry back into the living room?—
Then I hear it.
A low rumble.
Deep. Mechanical. Distinct.
My blood chills.
