“God. What do you want, Mom?”
Her voice stalls my heart. “E-excuse me?”
“Why are you blowing up my phone?”
“Where are you? I was about to call the police. I’ve been all over town looking for you. Everyone is looking for you.” My voice is breathy and scared. I can’t feel my fingers or toes.
“What the heck? I’m fine.”
“I asked where you are. The storm’s almost here. It’s not safe for you to be driving.”
“You can’t just disappear like this,” Lewis chimes in, leaning over my shoulder to see the phone screen.
“I’m out. I went out.”
“Not an answer. You need to tell us where you are. You can’t just take my car without asking.”
“I didn’t take it. I borrowed it. I’ll bring it back when you two stop fighting.”
We exchange a look of confusion. I’m not sure I heard her right. “But…we weren’t fighting,” I tell her.
“All you ever do is fight anymore. Over the house, over me. It’s miserable. I’m sick of it.”
“Honey, what are you talking about? No one was arguing tonight. We made dinner. We were planning to eat together. You need to come home so we can talk about this.” It feels so out of left field. I have no idea where any of this is coming from.
Did Lewis say something to cause this after all? Did something happen while I was taking my bath? Or maybe while they were out today? Did he tell her I’m always picking fights? Did he complain about me enough to make Taylor leave?
I side-eye my ex-husband, wondering why I ever thought I could trust him again after all of this. He comes back around for one day, and Taylor disappears. I’m not naïve enough to think that’s a coincidence.
“I’m not coming home,” she says firmly. “Not tonight.”
“Taylor, Bug, listen?—”
But she doesn’t listen. Not to either one of us.
Instead, she hangs up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EMMA WILDE - 1733
I have learned that knocks arriving after nightfall seldom bring kindness. That is why, when I hear a rap at my door this night, my heart stumbles and falls like a newborn foal.
It is neither friendly nor patient, the kind of knock that might come from the neighbors or a passing traveler in need of bread or warmth. No, this feels different down to my bones.
I set the mortar down on the table with cautious hands. My palms are stained green from the rue I’ve been grinding this evening, and the distinct, spicy scent of rosemary still clings to my dress.
I wipe my hands on my apron, the skin itchy and inflamed from handling nettle earlier.
The knock comes again before I reach the door—angry and demanding.
Carefully, I open it and stare into a familiar face. “John.” My voice is as stiff as an unused muscle, dripping with politeness and kindness I do not feel. I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head as I correct myself—out of fear only, not manners. I hate the way the fear tastes, the way the smell fills my nostrils, seeping out of my skin. “Mr. Reardon. What can I do for you this evening?”
The man stands tall in the doorway, so tall he has to crouch down slightly. He holds a hat in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his trousers. Behind him, clouds gather in the sky, gray and filled with warning.
A warning is no longer needed. The storm has arrived.
His face is flushed, and I suspect it’s more from drink than anger, but I could be mistaken. He’s out of breath and reeks of sweat. There’s no question he walked here from the village, likely with his thoughts festering like a rotting wound.
