I put up a hand and nod to cut him off. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know how it ends.
I swallow hard, my mind still struggling to catch up with this new reality. The quiet of the cabin, the stillness of the night—it feels wrong now, tainted somehow. I’ve always searched for solitude, for peace, but tonight it feels like a place where something dark has taken root. Something I won’t be able to shake.
The officer, sensing my distress, gives me a moment to process. “We’ll be out of your way soon,” he says gently. “Just wanted to make sure you were aware of what was going on and to see if you had any information that could help us. Any ties to the victim that we should be aware of before we notify next of kin.”
I shake my head again, feeling numb. “No. I don’t ...didn’t... know him.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “If you need anything, just let one of us know. We’ll be close by.”
I nod, barely registering the words.
Tomorrow, I’ll write about this. I’ll try to make sense of it through my characters, through their emotions. But tonight, all I can do is stand here, trying to comprehend the fact that someone came so close to me, so close to this quiet, safe place, and made the decision to end their life.
“I may need a statement,” he says, his voice steady, professional, but with an underlying gentleness that doesn’t quite match the somber situation he just explained. “But we don’t have to get that tonight. I can send an officer by tomorrow if you don’t mind. It’s protocol. We’re asking both homeowners on this road for information.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s fine. I’ll be here all day. I’m not a ... I’m just here for a visit. I don’t own this place.” I have no idea why I’m explaining that I’m not the homeowner like it’s going to help me get out of a murder I didn’t commit.
“Well. Enjoy your stay. Despite ... this.” He dips his head in a slight nod, preparing to turn and leave, but then he pauses. He hesitates for just a second, and I see something flicker in his eyes before he turns fully back to me. “Are you here alone?”
I hate that question. It’s such an innocent inquiry on the surface, but there could be more to it. There’s no good way to answer it. Sure, he’s a cop, and maybe I should feel safe answering him honestly, but he’s also a man. A complete stranger, standing at my door in the middle of the night.
My thoughts tumble over each other as I attempt to figure out how to respond. A lie about a husband in the bedroom seems smart in theory, but with a police investigation happening just feet from my cabin, lying to a cop doesn’t seem like the brightest idea. Yet admitting that I’m alone feels like inviting vulnerability, like putting a target on my back.
I must look torn, because the sudden understanding in his expression becomes evident. Before I can answer, he speaks up again, his tone softening, as if he senses my unease.
“Not that I’m assuming you can’t take care of yourself,” he adds quickly. “But ... just be cautious. If you have conversations with people in town, make sure to give the impression you aren’t out here alone. Wear a wedding ring when you’re out and about if you can.”
As he’s opening the door, his words hit me in a way I didn’t expect. This town, this quiet little place where I’ve repeatedly come for solitudeand peace, has always felt like a sanctuary. A place where I could escape, recharge, and write without interruption or fear. But the way he’s talking now makes it seem like there’s more beneath the surface. It’s unsettling, like I’ve been missing something all this time.
“Should I be worried?” I ask, my voice quieter than before. “Is this a bad area?”
He’s now standing in the open doorway. He glances out into the yard, his gaze momentarily drawn to the flashing lights still illuminating the trees. Then he looks back at me, his eyes steady but unreadable. “No area is perfect,” he says after a beat, the words careful and diplomatic. He tips his hat again, signaling the conversation is over. “You should always be cautious. Sorry to interrupt your night. Someone will be in touch tomorrow.”
He turns to leave, heading across the porch that leads to the stairs, but something inside me panics. I don’t know why, but I feel a sudden urge to stop him, to keep him here just a little longer. Maybe it’s the shock of everything—the dead body so close to my home, the strange advice he just gave me about pretending not to be alone. Or maybe it’s just the raw fear settling into my bones.
Either way, before I can stop myself, I call out, “Wait.”
He pauses on the bottom step, turning around to face me again. There’s a look of concern in his eyes now, like he knows why I stopped him, even if I can’t quite put it into words myself. I stand there, gripping the doorframe, feeling small and unsure, like a child asking for reassurance after a bad dream.
I don’t know why I called after him. I just feel ... scared. This man shows up to tell me a guy killed himself, and now he’s leaving, and I’m supposed to just ... go back to sleep?
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed I look so scared, and embarrassed I asked him to wait. I wave a hand, letting him know I’ve changed my mind. “It’s just a lot to take in.”
He takes a slow step back toward me, his expression softening as he speaks. “There’s not much else I can do here,” he says gently. “I’m needed back at the scene. But I’ll make sure there are extra eyes on your place tonight. You’ll be fine.”
His words are meant to reassure, but the cold gust of wind that sweeps over me makes it hard to believe. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, trying to hide the chill that has settled deep in my stomach. I’ve always felt safe on my writing retreats, but after the last several minutes, that sense of security has been chipped away.
“Okay,” I whisper with a nod, but my voice is unconvincing, barely more than a breath. The officer can see right through my concern, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s reconsidering leaving me here alone.
He ascends the last steps and comes back to me, pulling something out of his pocket as he approaches. It’s a business card. He hands it to me, and I look down at the bold print on the top:Detective Nathaniel Saint. Beneath his name are an email address and two phone numbers.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he says gently. “The top number is my cell. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me.”
I clutch the card in my fist, a small comfort in the midst of this surreal situation. “Thank you,” I murmur, my fingers curling around the card as if it holds some kind of protection.
“How long are you here for?” he asks, his eyes searching mine with genuine curiosity. “I’ll make sure an officer drives by a couple of times a night for the duration of your stay.”
“A few weeks,” I reply, feeling a little embarrassed for some reason. There’s something in the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure out why a woman my age would be holed up alone in a cabin for so long. “I’m a writer,” I explain quickly, hoping that will suffice. “I stay in this area a couple of times a year, usually in the month leading up to a deadline.”
