The coffee is bitter the way Dane makes it—strong enough to strip paint off walls. I've given up trying to get him to use a proper ratio of grounds to water. The man approaches coffee the same way he approaches everything else—with excessive force and no regard for subtlety.
I curl into the armchair by the fireplace, mug warming my hands, and stare at the television. The morning news drones on—weather, traffic, local politics. Then a segment that makes my blood run cold.
My face fills the screen. It's my hospital ID photo, the one they took three years ago when I renewed my credentials. The caption reads,LOCAL NURSE MISSING—FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.
The anchor's voice is grave, concerned. "Twenty-eight-year-old Sloane Grady was last seen Friday night at a Manhattan nightclub with friends. When she failed to report for her shift at Mount Sinai Hospital on Monday morning and didn't return calls from family and friends, concerned colleagues contactedpolice. Authorities are asking anyone with information to come forward."
They cut to footage of my apartment building with yellow crime scene tape across the door and detectives going in and out. My neighbor's elderly face looks grim during an interview, crying, saying I was such a sweet girl who always helped her carry groceries.
"We have Erin Walker, a friend and colleague of Miss Grady's, joining us now." The camera switches to show Erin—my best friend and the only person I ask to cover my shifts when I miss work. "Ms. Walker, when did you last see Sloane?"
"Friday night. We went out for drinks after our shift, about six of us from the hospital. Sloane was tired, said she'd had a rough week, but she came anyway." Erin's voice cracks. "We were at this club in Chelsea. She went to get another round from the bar, and when she came back she seemed off—dizzy and confused. I thought maybe she'd had too much to drink, but now…" She breaks down, unable to continue, and my heart physically aches.
Watching my best friend break down like this is killing me. I want to call her and let her know I'm okay, but I've tried. There's no cell reception up here.
The anchor's face reappears as he continues speaking. "Police are investigating the possibility that Miss Grady's drink was tampered with at the club. Security footage from that night has been seized, and investigators are asking anyone who was at the location to contact them immediately. This is being treated as a potential abduction case."
The segment ends and they move on to sports scores.
I set down my coffee with shaking hands. My friends think I'm dead. My family—God, my parents must be losing their minds. And I'm sitting here in the Adirondacks drinking terrible coffee while a killer keeps me prisoner under the guise of protection.
I need to call home and tell them I'm alive and they should stop looking for me in the city and start looking…
Where? Here?
With Dane?
And then what?
The police will show up, arrest him for kidnapping, and I get sent home while whoever drugged me and dumped me here plans their next move? Dane's right that involving law enforcement won't help. But watching Erin sob on national television is tearing me apart.
I'm pouring a second cup of coffee when someone knocks on the door.
I freeze.
In the week I've been here, not a single person has come to the cabin. We're miles from town, miles from anyone, and I don't know who knows this place exists except for me and Dane, maybe the mailman.
There's another knock, more insistent this time, and I feel my body tense.
Dane wouldn’t knock on his own door. And knowing what we're up against, it doesn’t give me a whole lot of confidence that this is just some harmless visitor.
I set down the mug and approach the door slowly, wishing I had access to the gun Dane keeps in his waistband. But he took that too, leaving me defenseless and isolated.
"Who is it?" I call through the door.
"Mail carrier. Got a package that needs a signature."
Mail carrier? God, I'm such an idiot. I got myself all worked up for nothing. I crack the door open and see a man in his forties standing on the porch—light brown hair under a postal service cap, with blue eyes, a medium build, and a sturdy postal uniform. He's holding a clipboard and a medium-sized box.
"Package for Dane Strouse," he says, offering the clipboard. "Just need a signature."
Dane Strouse isn't his real name—I figured that out days ago when I pressed him about his past. But it's the name on all his mail, his property records, everything that makes him exist in this town. It makes me wonder what his real last name is, but given how he responds when I call him Dane, I figure that's either his given name or a nickname he's gone by for a while. He flows with it too easily for it to be an alias.
I sign the form, take the package, and close the door before he can ask questions. The box is light, wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address. Just Dane's name printed in block letters and the post office address.
I carry it to the table and set it down, then return to my coffee. Whatever it is can wait until he comes back.
The door opens twenty minutes later and Dane enters carrying his rifle in one hand, breathing hard. His jacket is unzippeddespite the cold, and there's blood on his hands. Fresh blood, dark red and slick.
