“Probably better you did,” she says over her shoulder. “I haven’t seen him look at a woman like that in years. Might be our best defense under the circumstances.”
I don’t want to admit that the idea sends a misguided thrill shooting through me. He’s an attractive man, the first I’ve met in a long while with a demeanor that actually appeals to me, not just mentally but on some intuitive level. But after Henry, I can’t imagine sharing my life with a man, letting someone in again, trusting him. I know the world isn’t populated with men like Henry, that there are good, decent men out there who make wonderful husbands and partners, loving fathers and respectable colleagues. I just don’t think I have anything left for one of them. I don’t think love is an experience I get to have.
I clear my throat. “Are we going to talk about what those circumstances are?” I ask quietly, stepping over a large rock.
Myrtle grunts, and my frustration grows. But before I can complain, she stops. “Here we are.”
I look around. We are off the path, standing among a mix of balsam firs and red spruce trees. Ferns tickle my calves, and the ground is uneven. Before us rises a low hill. Through the branches, I can make out patches of stars. Not far off, I hear the trickle of water. “And where is that exactly?”
Myrtle stoops, brushing at leaves and needles and pine cones on the hill. Her fingers latch on to something and give it a hard shake. Forest fodder goes flying, and she tosses a sheet of camo netting aside and then a tarp. I hear a hollow sound, the clang of metal. She grips something in the hill and pulls it upward and back. I realize it’s a door.
“Tarp helps to hide the entrance and keeps it waterproof,” she tells me. She drops a foot into the hole and starts down.
I stand in the dark, in shock.
A second later, she pokes her head back out. “Well, come on. I want to get some sleep tonight.”
Stepping in, I realize there’s a steep, ladderlike staircase that leads down into the hole. I take each step carefully, but Myrtle lights an LED lantern once she’s inside. She dims the light, but it’s enough to make my descent easier. I arrive inside a small room, large enough for a cot bed at one end, a worktable and storage shelving at the other.
“What is this place?” I ask her, turning around.
“This,” Myrtle tells me, “is my hideaway. It’s important in our line of work. A little place like this can mean the difference between a long and happy life under the radar and burning at the stake.”
Our line of work…I am prickly with unspoken meaning. She’s not exactly referring to hospitality. “Did you make this yourself?” I ask her, amazed. The walls and floor look like poured concrete. It’s solid and comfortable, a feat I can’t imagine a single person, let alone a single woman, accomplishing.
“I had help,” she says, dropping the backpack on the worktable. “Sadly, he didn’t make it.”
I spin to face her, even more on edge. “What do you mean by that?”
She starts unpacking the jars onto some shelves near the table. Her eyes slide to mine. “Exactly what I said. He died just after the completion, which was great for me and too bad for him.”
I suck in air, not believing my ears. She says it so cavalierly that it makes my hair stand on edge.
“Don’t look so offended,” she says wryly. “He had it coming.”
I practically choke on my own breath.
Myrtle pauses and turns to me, setting a hand on her hip. “You feeling sorry for him?”
I don’t know how to respond.
“Well, don’t,” she says. “His name was Stan. Had a little girl back in the nineties whose room he liked to creep into every night from the age of seven onward. A child that age shouldn’t know certain things, like the taste of her daddy’s sweat. He was a sick man who ruined a life that wasn’t his to destroy. I did the world a favor. But I got my money’s worth out of him first. If you ask me, he went down easy. He deserved a lot worse than I gave him.”
My fingers curl into fists at my side and then straighten again. “H-how did you know that? About his daughter?”
“I got my ways,” she says darkly, giving me an appraising look. “I imagine you do, too.” Once she’s put the jars away, she turns to me. “Let’s get something straight. No one knows about this place, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“No one?” I repeat.
“Well, except Bart,” she concedes.
“The dog?”
“He’s impossible to hide things from,” she tells me. “But he’s not talking anytime soon, so I figure he can be in the club—a kind of honorary member.”
“There’s a club?”
She smiles. “Figure of speech.”
