Saint’s eyes dart back to mine just as Mari reaches him. “Hello, there, Officer. Lovely to see you again.” Mari’s eyes move toward Shephard. “And who are you?” she asks, reaching out a hand as she ascends the steps. “I’m Mari.”
“Shephard. I’m Petra’s husband.”
Mari stops in her tracks. She looks at me. Then at Saint. Then back at Shephard. Then back at me. “Oh. How fun.”
Kill me now.
“I’ll be heading out,” Saint says, bringing me my first sigh of relief since Shephard showed up today. He tips his hat toward me, a slow, deliberate gesture, his eyes never leaving mine, drilling into me, holding me captive. “You two have a lovely night.” There’s something about the way he says it, that subtle curve of his mouth, like he’s amused by all this, by my terror, by Shephard’s cluelessness.
Then he turns and gives Mari a tip of his hat, his movements fluid and unhurried, and walks back toward his car, each step measured, like he knows exactly the impact he’s having, exactly how deeply he’s burrowing under my skin. He gets inside the black vehicle, a silent, predatory glide. The air in my lungs feels thin, inadequate, but I exhale as much of it as I can afford to let out.
“And who are these two?” Mari asks, gesturing toward the doorway, where the girls are now standing.
“Andi and Chloe,” I say, my words clipped. “Mari, do you think you could come by another time? We were about to sit down to dinner.”
She blinks several times. Too many times. “I sure can. Just wanted to introduce myself to your company.” She looks toward Shephard. “If you need anything, please let me know. We’re just at the end of the road.”
“Sure will,” Shephard says.
As soon as Mari turns, I walk back inside the cabin, my hands shaking so violently I have to press them against my sides to control them as I close the door behind us. The latch clicks with an exaggeratedfinality. My legs feel weak, like they might give out at any second, so I go straight for the wine rack, my trembling hands grabbing the bottle with a desperate urgency.
I pour myself a glass, the red liquid sloshing slightly over the rim. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of pure panic, searing regret, and the gnawing, terrifying realization that this situation is spiraling out of control faster than I can possibly manage, faster than I can even comprehend.
Shephard returns to the stove, shaking his head with a bewildered smile, a picture of blissful ignorance. “That was weird,” he says, his voice light, tinged with amusement, like he’s already dismissed the strange encounter, already moved past it and tucked it away into the “odd occurrences” file of his mind. He lights the flame under the pan again and stirs the pot on the stove, the garlic scent suddenly overwhelming, his back to me as he talks, his shoulders relaxed. “Wonder why they’re getting so strict around here all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. My voice is tight, my throat constricted, dry and scratchy, but I force the response out, trying to sound as casual, as unbothered, as possible.
Shephard walks over to me, and his arms wrap around me in a warm, familiar embrace. He pulls me close, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, the scent of him, clean, comforting,safe, momentarily grounding me, even though my insides are still rattled, a chaotic tempest.
“I guess it’s a good thing with you being out here all alone,” he says, his voice soft, full of concern and love, a protective rumble in his chest. He’s trying to reassure me, to make me feel safe, to be my anchor, but his words only make the panic claw deeper into my chest, a cold, sharp blade twisting. The irony is a bitter laugh caught in my throat.Alone.I have been far from alone.
I force a tight smile, the muscles in my face aching with the effort, nodding against him. “Yeah. It’s ... comforting,” I say, the words coming out hollow, empty, devoid of any genuine emotion. I say that in mymost convincing voice, the one I use for book signings and interviews, but every syllable feels like a blatant, painful lie. There’s nothing comforting about any of this. Not Saint showing up unannounced, not the chilling way he looked at me, not his deliberate lie, and certainly not the looming, terrifying threat of everything I’ve built, everything I cherish, crumbling down around me like a house of cards in a hurricane.
It’s disturbing. Profoundly, deeply disturbing.
Chapter Fourteen
The rest of the night has been much less disturbing. It’s passed by without incident, actually. I held my panic attack at bay and sat through dinner, feigning normalcy. Mari hasn’t shown back up, and neither has Saint. So far.
Each bite of Shephard’s perfectly seasoned chicken felt like ash in my mouth. I smiled, I nodded, I asked the girls about their week at school, all while feeling like I’d just earned the World’s Worst Wife and Mother of the Century award. I can feel it, a tarnished invisible medal hanging heavy around my neck.
The acute tension that clung to me earlier in the day has settled now into something deeper, something heavier. There’s no easy way to release it. We move through the motions of a normal evening with the clatter of dishes as Shephard cleans up, the familiar shouts of the girls from the guest room, but nothing feels normal. It’s all a flimsy stage set, and I’m a terrible actress tonight. I try to lose myself in the routine of bedtime, helping the girls brush their teeth, the minty scent a fleeting comfort, tucking them into their brightly colored duvets, kissing their foreheads as they drift off. The familiar comforts of motherhood should ease my mind, should anchor me, but they don’t. They only amplify the piercing guilt.
The girls are out by nine, asleep together in the spare bedroom. I stand by their door for a moment, watching their peaceful, unsuspecting faces, my heart heavy with a guilt so profound it threatens to swallow me whole. How can I possibly reconcile myself to the fact that I’ve so irrevocably betrayed the life I built with Shephard, the life I treasure as their mother, to the dark, illicit secret now pulsing beneath my skin? The guilt gnaws at me, twisting my stomach into tight, painful knots, a persistent, physical reminder. But I push it down, deep down, as far as I can, burying it under layers of denial, and head into the living room.
I text Nora as I make my way toward the couch.Shephard and the girls just showed up unannounced.I hit send.
Immediately, she responds withNoooooo. Asshole!
I sit next to Shephard on the couch and chuckle at her response. She knows what it’s like being a writer and in the groove, only to be interrupted countless times by people who don’t get it. It’s why I have to write somewhere away from home—because home is a constant revolving door. If it’s not one kid, it’s the other, or Shephard, or my sister, or my mother, or a UPS driver. Although, the UPS driver is usually my fault. I tend to online shop when I get emotional about work.
I geta lotof packages delivered.
Shephard doesn’t look up from whatever he’s doing when I sink into the couch. We don’t feel the discomfort when the girls are in the room, but when it’s just the two of us, there’s a distance between us that wasn’t there before, or perhaps was always there, only now it’s become a yawning chasm. Since I stopped being able to write and the money issues began, we argue more than we compliment. He’s lived a cush life until now.
Now, he’s just stressed. All the time. When I started making better money, he took a lower-paying position to ease his stress, but he’s regretting it now. He hasn’t said it, but he implies it with little jabs here and there. I just ignore it. Sure, I wish I had a husband who understood theemotional trauma I’ve been through, but I guess both spouses end up feeling the fallout of financial burdens, so I understand that he’s under stress too.
He’s beside me physically, the familiar warmth of his leg brushing mine through the denim of his jeans, but mentally, emotionally, we’re worlds apart, orbiting different planets. His laptop is propped on his knees, the screen casting a pale glow on his face, his fingers tapping away on the keys as he catches up on work, bills, something mundane and responsible.
