Dirty dishes sit in the kitchen sink and on the table. On them, a half-eaten bagel, cereal floating in spoiled milk and a crust of bread, which the ants have found.
I press a hand to my nose to hold back the smell. I make my way further inside the home, into an adjoining family room, which is unexceptional except that the TV is on though it’s on mute. On the screen, Steve Harvey hosts an episode ofFamily Feud, his mouth moving though no sound comes out.
I’ve lost track of what day it is. What time. I wonder how long that TV has been on and if it’s been on for days. I spin in a slow, lazy half circle. Behind me sits a narrow hallway, which is dim, windowless, the already-inadequate light that comes in from the small, slatted, louvered windows barely able to reach that far.
I make my way toward the hall. I reach for a light switch at the entryway, but either the ceiling lightbulbs have burnt out or the fuse is blown because, when I flip the switch, the hall stays dark.
I stand there, wondering what’s down the hall, wondering what happens beyond the ninety-degree turn where I can’t see. I try to summon the courage to move forward, to look. My breathing is shallow, my mouth dry, my body heavy. I fall back a step first, thinking about leaving, but then I start to move forward rather than away by instinct, treading across the thick carpeting, my body moving as if separate from my brain.
Elliott doesn’t even know where I am. He thinks I’m at the store, picking up groceries.
If something were to happen to me, he wouldn’t know.
If I never came back to the cottage, he wouldn’t know where to look.
He’s like a cat you let outside to roam.
You think it’s dead—that a car or a coyote got it.
Then one day, he just reappears as if no one was ever looking for him.
I come to a bathroom first. Small, boxy, the smell of urine strong. I leave the light off; I don’t bother with the switch. Standing in the open door, there is just enough light for me to see that the toilet has been left open and unflushed. There’s a rumpled towel on the floor and the shower curtain is flung open, bottles of shampoo and body wash lying on their sides, open, spilling out.
I round the corner. Just beyond the bathroom is a bedroom. The bed is unmade, a stained white sheet untucked and falling off. There is a blanket on the floor and a flat, rumpled pillow at the head of the bed. Dresser drawers are open, clothes wilting from the drawers. On top of the dresser is a small amassment of expensive-looking jewelry completely unbefitting for this house and this room. A pendant necklace, drop earrings, a woman’s wedding band, loot he has yet to pawn, I can only assume. A side table light has been left on, the glow of it faint but visible. I try to imagine the last time Daniel was here, thinking that it was dark from the light left on, and wondering if it was nighttime, sometime after dark, or early morning before the sun came up. I imagine him waking up, snatching clothes from the dresser drawers, leaving in a hurry with the light and the TV still on, the back door open.
Why was he in such a rush?
I turn around. Fleecy pink fabric catches my eye, peeking out from beneath a wrinkled, pleated bed skirt, the color out of place in the insipid room. I bend down and grab for it, pulling it out from under the bed, knowing right away what it is, the recognition coming as a punch to the gut. My diaphragm spasms. The pink is Reese’s fleece sweatshirt. It’s a cropped thing with a wide neck that she cut herself to show more skin, much to Emily’s dismay; it’s meant to be off-the-shoulder, and I can picture Reese wearing it, her sunburned shoulder and bare midriff exposed, the pink of her skin rivaling the pink of the shirt.
I take it by the shoulders, my hands starting to shake as I unfurl the shirt for a better look. There is blood on the sleeve. Reese’s sweatshirt, Reese’s blood.
Just then, something outside startles me. A sound, though I don’t so much hear it as I feel it—a low-frequency vibration in my chest—and I bolt suddenly upright. The sound is something subtle. It’s insidious, a predator lying in wait to ambush its prey. It makes me wonder—as I turn without hesitation, taking the sweatshirt with me and scurrying down the hall to get back in my car and leave—if I heard it or not.
But as I rush down the hall, the sound comes again, far more evident this time. Far closer.
I only make it as far as the family room.
In my peripheral vision, I see the shadow of a man’s head pass by the windows, and I know that I won’t have time to get to the sliding glass door, to run outside and back to my car. My legs founder, feeling tingly, gelatinous, the blood rushing to them. I let go of the sweatshirt by mistake, watching it plunge to the floor as I crouch down by instinct, searching the house instead for a place to hide.
But I’m too slow. It’s too late.
There is nowhere to go before the front door swings violently open and I find myself staring down the dark barrel of a gun.
Reese
Sometime later, I try again to leave the cottage, hoping it’s not too late, that Daniel is still waiting for me by the lake and that he’s not mad.
I get back out of bed. I stand on the porch, trying to see through the glass and into the darkness of the living room. I give my eyes time to adjust and when they do, I see that Emily hasn’t left the sofa.
Still, I reach for the door handle. I curl my hand around the knob again, opening it more slowly this time. I hold my breath as I do. I hold every part of me completely still. Only my arm moves, pushing on the door, my eyes on Emily, watching for signs of life. I hear her breathe. A vibration like a gentle snore comes from the back of her throat, and I think that she’s asleep.
I lift my foot. I take one hesitant step forward and then another. And then the next. All the while I don’t breathe. I move across the room. Ten feet from the door, Emily inhales all of a sudden and I freeze, becoming paralyzed. My lungs are on fire. She rolls over on the sofa, mumbles something in her sleep. It’s incoherent, which is how I know, or how I think I know, that she’s asleep. I take another step toward the door. Once there, I have to turn the dead bolt. I don’t flick it. I fold my fingers around it and move the dead bolt, as slow as fuck. I lift my fingers. I reach for the door handle, wrap my hand around it. Iopen the door, step out. I pull the door closed, leaving it unlocked, and then I wait on the deck, not moving but breathing slow, controlled breaths, counting to one hundred in my head. Only then do I drag myself across the deck and down the stairs, into the dirt. I stand just beyond the deck railing, watching the cottage, wondering what would happen if I never came back.
I head into the woods. It takes a while to get to the lake, but when I do, I don’t see Daniel where he usually is, on the pier. I feel a heaviness in my whole body because I’m too late and he left.
I stand there, staring out over the lake, wondering if he was angry when he left, if he went home or if he went looking for me.
I turn to go back to the cottage alone. Only then do I hear the sound of rocks skipping on the water further down the beach. I spin around again, my eyes following the sound, and I just barely make Daniel out as he stands facing the water. As I watch, his dark silhouette grips a rock, swinging back before releasing it. The rock disappears over the blackness of the lake.
