No, then him paying off Mari wouldn’t make sense. Him planting fake police lights around my yard. Even an undercover detective wouldn’t do that.
I realize I’m grasping at straws. Every theory I come up with feels like a stretch, but I can’t stop myself from thinking them through.I have to make sense of this.As long as there are still straws to grasp at, I’m going to hoard them.
What have I gotten myself into?
I open up a new tab, my breath catching in my throat as I stare at the information in front of me. There it is—a phone number listed for Eric Kingston, bold and clear against the white backdrop of the web page. I pull up the contact information for Saint in my phone, my hands trembling as I compare the numbers.
I glance between the laptop screen and my phone screen, willing them not to match, praying that this is just some bizarre coincidence. But no.It’s a perfect match.
The realization hits me smack in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. My phone slips from my hand, tumbling to the floor with a dull thud, but I barely register the sound. I stand up so quickly my chairnearly topples over. I pick my phone up from the floor and slip it into my back pocket, then take two steps away from my computer, as if the glowing screen has suddenly become threatening, as if the truth staring back at me might physically hurt me. The room spins around me, my thoughts racing in frantic circles.
Why would he lie to me about who he is?
It makes no sense. Nothing about this makes sense. If he’s a screenwriter, does he have connections to people I know? Is he connected to the adaptation that I wish never happened? Is he connected to Allister McFuckity Fuckface?
How did he even know I was here? How did he know, before meeting me, to tell Mari that we were doing something related to my writing? I thought that wasmyidea,afterI met him.
I replay it all in my head, searching for clues, for signs that I missed—signs that this man wasn’t who he claimed to be. But all I’m left with is confusion, a thick fog of unanswered questions clouding my thoughts.
I turn back to the screen, my eyes scanning the information. His address is listed in Los Angeles.Los Angeles.Hours away from here, miles from the small town where he claims to live. My stomach twists into a tight knot.Why would he pretend to live here?
At this point, I don’t care about the why anymore. I don’t care about anything except getting out of here. The panic rises in my chest, thick and suffocating, and all I know is that I can’t stay here another minute. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare, one I can’t wake up from. The walls of the cabin seem to be closing in around me, the silence suffocating.
I need to leave.
Now.
Adrenaline is surging through my veins as I rush to my bedroom. I don’t even stop to think about how best to gather my stuff. I justact, my movements frantic and desperate. I yank my suitcase out from under the bed. My fingers fumble with the zipper. There’s no time to be methodical. I don’t bother folding anything. I pull open the closet, grab handfuls of clothes, and toss them into the suitcase without a second thought. Shirts, jeans, shoes—it all goes in, crumpled and chaotic.
I throw open the dresser drawers and empty them in seconds, piling more clothes on top of the mess I’ve already made. The fabric bunches together, wrinkling under the weight of my toiletries as I toss them carelessly on top. Shampoo, face wash, toothpaste—it all lands in the suitcase in a jumble.
The whole time I’m packing, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I’m crying now, the sobs quiet but uncontrollable, my shoulders shaking as the reality of the situation crashes down on me. The burden of everything I’ve done, everything I’ve let happen, feels unbearable.
How could I have been so reckless? How could I have been so blind?
I swipe angrily at my tears, but they keep coming as I struggle to think clearly. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely grip the charger as I pull it from the wall. The cord slips from my grasp, falling to the floor with a clatter, and I choke back a sob as I shove it into the suitcase. My chest feels tight, my breathing shallow, and I feel like I might fall apart completely.How could I be so careless?
The question echoes in my mind, over and over again, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I don’t have time to think about everything I’ve done in the past few weeks, the lies, the betrayal. It’s all too much. I grab my car keys off the dresser, the metal cool against my palm.
I know I’m leaving half my stuff lying around the cabin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except getting out of here. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run, to put as much distance between me and this place as possible. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I rush toward the bedroom door, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
I walk into the kitchen, my mind spinning, the panic still fresh in my veins.And then I scream.
The instinctual sound rips from my throat, but it does nothing to change the scene in front of me. Saint doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t turn around at the sound of my voice, doesn’t react at all. Instead, he’s standing at the table, his broad shoulders stiff, his back to me, staring down at my laptop screen. The very same screen that, just moments ago, revealed the truth to me about who he really is.
My heart constricts as I realize what he must be looking at.
I take a scared step back, instinctively retreating into the doorway of my bedroom, my thoughts a chaotic whirl as I try to map out any possible escape route. My eyes dart to the window. Could I make it out before he reaches me? The window isn’t that far, but it’s partially blocked by the bed. I’m not sure I could get through it fast enough. The only other way out of this cabin is through the front or back door, and for both, I’d have to pass Saint.
I can feel the terror building in my chest, making it hard to breathe. My hands are trembling as I bring them up to my mouth to stifle the cry that threatens to escape. I can’t let him hear my fear, but my body betrays me, shaking uncontrollably with each shallow breath.
Saint doesn’t move for a moment, but then he reaches out slowly, deliberately, and places his hand on the laptop. I watch, frozen, as he gently shuts it, the click reverberating in the deadly quiet of the room. It feels final, like a door slamming shut on any hope I had of getting out of here unnoticed.
He begins to turn around, his movements agonizingly slow, like he’s savoring every second before he faces me. My heartbeat continues to thunder in my ears as I take another step back, inching deeper into my bedroom. When his eyes finally land on me, they don’t meet mine right away. Instead, they fix on my suitcase. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face tightening as he processes what that suitcase means. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he shakes his head slowly, deliberately.
“You’re leaving?” he says, his voice low and controlled, but I can hear the undercurrent of something darker simmering just beneath the surface. His tone isn’t one of curiosity. It’s an accusation, filled with disbelief and something far more dire.
His gaze is pressing down on me, but I can’t look him in the eye. I try to force the words out, but they come out as a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “You aren’t a detective.”
