I take a breath, steeling myself. “That last night that we were here, in this cottage, we were playing cards.” Elliott nods. “You and Reese were in the kitchen together for a while. I only remember because it took so long for you to come back that I took your turn for you.”
“So?” he asks. “Is there a question there, Court, or is it just an observation?”
I swallow with effort, my throat so tight it hurts. “I guess I was just wondering what you two were talking about in the kitchen for so long.”
Elliott harrumphs. “Fuck, Courtney. This again?” Though he doesn’t exactly meanthisbecause I haven’t asked about this before; he means, in general, more questions. “I don’t know,” he says, flinging his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Who’s better, Taylor Swift or Billie Eilish? If cats are better than dogs, global fucking warming... That was days ago. How would I remember what we were talking about? Did Reese ever haveany conversations of substance anyway? She had no respect for anyone and didn’t care about anything but herself.”
I flinch, feeling the color drain from my face. It’s not just the fact that he’s speaking of her in the past tense like she’s dead. It’s the cruelty in his words. Is he only misplacing his anger at me, or did something happen between them that night that I don’t know?
I take a step back, my eyes wide.
Elliott asks roughly, “Are we going in or not?”
I nod, unable to find the words to speak. I watch as he forces the flat metal key into the groove, turns the knob and throws open the door to the cottage.
I’m not prepared for what we find. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this isn’t it.
Nolan and Emily’s cottage hasn’t been cleaned. It’s exactly as it was the last time I was here, except for the bodies, which are gone.
The blood is not gone. It’s still there. Standing just inside the open door, I see all the way onto the screened-in porch where the bloodstain remains on the walls, dried-up beads of it like teardrops. The bed on the porch has been moved. Even from the front door, I can see that it’s been pushed roughly out of the way, I imagine to make room for the coroner’s gurney to fit, so that Emily’s body could be lifted from the floor. There’s blood on the stairs too, dripping down the wall.
The smell is not gone. It’s something pungent and metallic, like rust. The windows are closed, trapping it in the cottage with Elliott and me.
Elliott gags on the smell, pressing a hand to his mouth and nose to keep it at bay.
I don’t ask him if he’s okay. I take one look at the inside of the place, and I leave.
Reese
The next night, I wake up. I open my eyes to find Daniel standing outside again, a murky figure watching me sleep. I don’t move. I hold perfectly still. My breaths are shallow, not enough oxygen filling my lungs, so they’re on fire. I try not to blink, wondering if he can see that my eyes are open, if they glow.
But then I realize something is wrong.
He knows I’m awake. He comes closer, and as he does, the floorboards creak, the soles of his shoes putting weight on the wood.
Because he’s inside.
He’s on the screened-in porch with me.
I scream, pulling back to the far side of the bed as Daniel sprints across the room, putting a knee on the edge of the bed so that it sinks with his weight. In a breath, he leans over me, clamping down on my mouth with one hand.
In the other hand, a knife.
The blade, in the moonlight, is long and sharp. I become motionless.
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, as Daniel leans over me and says, “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” I struggle to breathe under the weight of his hand. “Look at me, Reese,” he says. “Lookat me.” I open my eyes, see him suspended above me, his face close, his eyes hollow and black. “Are you going to be quiet now?” he asks, and I nod, gasping as he moves his hand. In the darkness, he sits down on the edge of the bed, his breaths quick and shallow like mine, visible through his shirt.
He touches my hair. He runs his tacky fingers the length of it so that it tugs at the scalp. I sob and he asks, “What’s wrong, Reese? Why are you crying?”
“You’re hurting me,” I moan.
He lets go of my hair. He lies down, stretching out beside me in bed, pressing in so close I feel his heartbeat on my arm.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
