CHAPTER SIX
A few hours later, the sun goes down. With the doors shut, I immediately feel claustrophobic, so I prop the door open with a block of wood. But almost immediately, I feel the bugs coming in, so I spend a few minutes attaching the mosquito net to the corners of the bed.
When I’m done, I lie down and wait for my eyes to adjust, but there’s barely any light coming from outside. The cottage is still so dark I can’t even see my hand in front of my face.
So dark you can’t see the murderer hiding in the corner.That’s what Neil would say if I gave him the chance. He sent another 13 texts while I was at dinner, though thankfully they’re becoming less frequent.
Why aren’t you replying?? Tell me where you are, and I’ll get you!
That was two hours ago.
I love you and miss you. Don’t do this!
An hour ago. Then, most recently, a small novel.
I’m a better man because of you. I know that’s selfish and that it’s not just about me, but it’s true. I don’t know who I am without you. Please don’t leave me. I feel sick without you. One word and I’m by your side again. I’ll be better this time, and I’ll respect your boundaries…
It goes on. He’s clearly hurt—but also unhinged. No normal person would think it’s a good idea to contact me this much. But Neil’s never exactly beennormal.
I scroll through the texts. No one else has contacted me. Not one of our supposed friends has bothered reaching out.
I’m entirely alone—except for Bradley and Grace.
I think about the poem. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I force myself to smile. She’s obviously a melodramatic person, but I have no intention of jumping into bed with Bradley. He’s good-looking, charming, tall—but I’ve just come out of a relationship. My only goal is to keep my head down for a few months, save some money, and make some plans for the rest of my life.
I feel the diary entry I found in her attic under my pillow, and stuff it under the mattress instead. There were hundreds of loose sheets of paper in her room. Surely she won’t miss this one?
I buy her only novel for my Kindle, then return to my favorite pastime: watching videos about seabirds. I watch the double-crested cormorants on the San Juan Islands, the herons in Lake Nakuru, and the white terns in Australia. The algorithm feeds me more birds from Australia, as it always does. That’s where Mom was born. Ever since she died, I’ve wanted to visit. Eight thousand miles. Fifteen hours on the plane. More than a thousand dollars just in airfares.
As I stare at the golden beaches, I have a thought. What if I didn’t just visit Australia—what if I moved there? Thanks toMom, I can probably get residency, or even citizenship. I just need money.
Maybe by the end of the summer, I’ll have enough. I’ll be able to leave my old life behind me, once and for all.
When the battery dips below two percent, I open my contacts, scroll down to Neil, and swipe.
My hand hovers over the button for a moment. I should have done this as soon as I left, but for some pathetic reason, it felt cruel. But I need to stop being such a victim. I press ‘Block Caller,’ then open my browser and find the video about Grace is still open. I go back to the search results and scroll down until I see a news article that gives me pause.
No Clues in Caroline Churchwell Disappearance.
Why is this one of the top results for Grace Frost? As I click the link, the screen goes black. Great. It’s dead.
Caroline. That was the name of the girl in Grace’s murder scene, wasn’t it? I look to the open door and tell myself that this is a coincidence, and that the disappearance of Caroline Churchwell probably didn’t have anything to do with Grace Frost.
But I’m sure as hell charging my phone tomorrow so I can find out.
When I wake,I feel groggy, like a teenager who’s slept the morning away. I check my watch. It’s only 7 a.m. I unhook the mosquito net and grope around on the floor until I find the torch—and only then do I see what’s wrong.
The front door is shut.
I feel my claustrophobia building, so I quickly scramble out of bed and go to turn the handle, but it's stuck.
I push at the door again, trying not to panic, but it doesn’t budge. I let out a yell of frustration and fear and push again, violently, and it finally swings open. I’m breathing far too quickly, so I kneel on the wooden veranda, trying to ward off the panic attack.
Deep breaths.
I’m still alive. This cottage isn’t really my tomb.
I look up and see a key sticking out of the front door like an accusing finger. It wasn’t an accident, then. Someone came here last night, intentionally closed my door, and left the key. There’s probably a reasonable explanation, but after the poem Grace left, all I see is another warning.
