“We don’t have a Taco Bell,” Bill says.
“That’s why I know he don’t work there,” Louie responds.
The certainty in his tone makes my stomach turn. Louie’s eyes are sharp, searching mine for some kind of explanation, but I have none to offer. “Me and Bill know everything about everyone in this town,” he continues, his voice firm but not unkind. “Unless they’re here on vacation in one of the cabins.” His words hang in the air like a warning, a truth I’m not ready to accept. “But I own most of those, and he’s not one of my current guests.”
If they know everything about everyone in town, and they don’t know Saint, then where the hell did Saint come from?
I shake my head, refusing to believe what Louie’s telling me. And that, coupled with the fact that I thought he knew Saint, but now he’s saying he doesn’t, makes me question my own sanity. My heart is pounding in my chest, and the questions are swirling faster and faster, making it difficult to think straight. If Saint isn’t a detective, what is he?
My mind backtracks, sifting through every conversation we’ve had, every detail he’s shared about his life.
How could he have lied so convincingly?
Where did he come from?
How could I have been so blind?
I glance between Bill and Louie, my pulse racing, my hands shaking. How do these two not know who he is? They’re acting like Saint doesn’t exist, like the man I’ve been spending my nights with is some kind of ghost. But he’s real. I’ve kissed him. I’ve touched him. I’ve slept next to him. He can’t just be a figment of my imagination.
The questions begin to pile up, one after the other, overwhelming me. Why was the police chase not written about in the paper? That night was real—there were flashing lights and a detective at my door. I can still see it all in my mind, clear as day.
How could something like that happen and there be no trace? How could Louie, who lives on the same road, not have heard about it? How could he not have met Saint when Mari was woken up by the same commotion?
I feel like I might be sick from all the unanswered questions, the uncertainty tightening around my throat.
Without another word, I push open the door and rush outside, back into the storm. I can hear Louie calling after me, his voice full of concern, but I don’t turn around. I walk straight to my car, my hands trembling as I fumble for my keys. The sound of the car door slamming rings in my ears, but I barely register it. My mind is too full, too chaotic to focus on anything other than making it to the cabin.
I don’t bother getting gas. I can’t think that far ahead right now.
I only have one thing on my agenda as I drive.
Mari.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Mari!”
I’m yelling her name as soon as I slam my car door. I run toward her cabin, hoping she can clear up all the confusion swirling inside me.
I bang on the door. “Mari, open the door!”
“One second!” I can hear her rustling around inside her house. The floorboards creak as she makes her way to the door. When she finally opens it, I’m met with a look of shock.
“Petra?” she whispers. “You look like a drowned rat. Come inside, honey.” She steps aside, but I don’t enter her house. I don’t trust her, or Louie, or Saint, or even myself right now.
“Saint,” I say, breathless.
She raises a brow. “Did you burn his dinner?” she asks.
“No. No, I just need to know I’m not going crazy.” I wave a hand toward the road. “That night ... when the man ... in the road ...”
“When he killed himself?” Her response is blunt. Almost harsh. But it brings me a huge sigh of relief that at least she knows what I’m talking about.
“Yes! It happened, right?”
“Of course it happened.” She tilts her head, a look of concern spreading across her face. “Are you okay?”
“No. I don’t know.” I begin pacing her patio. “I was at the gas station, and Louie didn’t know what I was talking about and it’s not in the paper and they said he wasn’t a detective and—”
