* * *
Sarah packs her bag that night to the soundtrack of the house. She imagines Sweetside Manor is telling her where its occupants are: Elijah’s spry gait skipping down the stairs, probably heading to his studio, and Caleb’s deliberate pace receding down the hall into his room.
She leaves the knife at the top of her backpack, just in case.
After she brushes her teeth, she switches off the light and climbs under the covers, floundering in the king-sized bed. She’s not used to having so much space. A space in her bed means Ben’s not home yet. Outside the darkened window, the wind whines, lonely and restless. She knows how it feels.
She only has to tiptoe down the hall and knock on Caleb’s door. Just to see what would happen. After all, tomorrow, she’ll never see him again.
But she doesn’t, because she’s learned from experience what happens when you get too close to charming men.
Her eyelids flutter closed, and the feeling she’s not alone in the room settles on her breastbone like a sandbag.Someone’s been sleeping in my bed. She tries to reach for the bedside lamp but can’t lift her arms. There’s someone in the room, a figure menacing in shadows as black and twisted as Elijah’s painted trees. The ghost of Jacob Vass, of Ben, of men who would fit in the other half of the king-sized bed. As if she only exists in order for angry men to fill the space beside her.
Sarah opens her mouth to scream, but her tongue is a swollen slab of meat. The sound chokes in her throat, and she gags on the scent of stale tobacco. All she can hear is the howl of the wind and her strangled grunting as her voice batters her ribcage like a trapped bird.
The weight on her body lifts, and the scream finally tears from her lungs.
Sarah jolts upright, gasping for air. She’s alone.Alone, alone, alone, the wind sings.
Footsteps skid down the hallway. A fist rattles the doorknob, thumps the door. “Sarah?” Caleb calls out.
“I’m okay.” She scrambles out of bed, dashes to the door, and unlocks it. Caleb bursts in. He’s not wearing a mask. His face is almost painful to look at, its planes cast in dramatic relief by the dim light.
His chest rises and falls as deeply as hers, straining against his shirt. “I’m okay,” she repeats.
He touches her shoulder as if to reassure himself she’s fine, his fingers warm and solid. Not like the apparition she thought she saw.
She wets dry lips. He’s standing closer than the requisite six feet. “It was just a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you up,” she says.
His eyes dart behind her. “Don’t be sorry. This room would give me nightmares, too. I’m glad you’re safe.” He squeezes her shoulder and drops his arm.
She smiles weakly. “I guess I was wrong. People can hear you scream out here after all.”
Caleb tosses his head back and laughs, and Sarah’s breath hitches. Say good night, she tells herself.She knows how this ends otherwise.“Thank you for coming to my rescue. Good night.”
“Good night, Sarah,” he says softly, and turns around and strides back down the hall.
She could follow him. But she doesn’t. She closes the door, remembering to lock it. This time, when she falls asleep, she dreams of nothing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He’s not coming.
Sarah sits in the parlor on the florid orange and brown sofa, her jeans squeaking against the vinyl slipcover, one leg crossed over the other and jiggling impatiently. She’s been waiting an hour and Graham isn’t coming.
It would be just like him to let her stew in the mess she’s made, to punish her for leaving Ben. A perverse way of getting back at his ex-wife. Something she said must have hit a nerve and dredged up the pain of losing Angie. All because she didn’ttalkto Ben. She bets Graham has never tried to reason with a compulsive liar.
Sarah’s socks slide on the plastic floor runners as she switches legs. So many artifacts of death in the parlor. Desiccated plants and animals, living things plucked in their prime by long-dead hands. A bouquet of dried grass springs from a vase on the low coffee table. The antlers perch on a side table, the pointed prongs curved and polished like driftwood, reminding her of Elijah’s pale fingers. Framed pressed flowers line the wood panel walls, and the stag’s head sneers, judging her, telling her she doesn’t belong.
Elijah prowls back and forth by the front window like a cat, occasionally peeking between the curtains. “I’m sorry to keep you from your painting,” Sarah says, although she’s not sorry. She’s glad to have his company.
“There’s always the chance to paint. Rarely the chance to meet someone new.”
“You should go to art school. Then you can do both.”
His face falls. “I wanted to go to OCAD after high school, but Caleb said he needed me to help run the motel.”
She bites her lip in sympathy. “I’m sorry. You could take online classes?”
