If I wanted to trap you here, I could.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“No!”
The water is so cold it hurts. I squeal against my will as I try to wash the soap from my body.
“Hell! No!”
After less than a minute, I turn off the shower and step onto the tall grass of the backyard. It’s a strange, liberating feeling to be naked outside. The Littles’ property extends deep into the forest, so there’s no chance of being seen.
I get changed outside, then listen to the remains of the dawn chorus. I can make out the song sparrow and the dark-eyed junco. There might even be a northern flicker, a type of woodpecker.
I try to stay focused on the sounds of nature, but the door—coupled with that headline about Caroline Churchwell, whoever she is—still has me freaked out. It’s not that serious, of course. Bradley or Grace must have wanted to drop off the key, but didn’t want to disturb me, so they put it in the lock.
And I’m sure there’s a good explanation for why that article showed up when I searched Grace Frost’s name.
But then why am I so freaked out? It must be the emotional exhaustion of the last few days. I left my boyfriend of fouryears, slept in my car, and moved into someone else’s home. Not to mention Grace’s office, the creepy paintings, the threatening poem.
I need a coffee. Keeping the door propped open, I go to the kitchenette and find a small gas burner, the kind used for camping, along with a range of small pots in a cupboard under the sink. There’s also a cardboard box of basic supplies, including salt, sugar, and—bingo—an unopened packet of instant coffee.
While waiting for the water to boil, I stare out the door. This place is extremely rundown and frankly terrifying at night, but it’s also beautiful. And most important of all, it’s hundreds of miles away from Neil and my old life.
Old life. I turn the phrase over like a geologist inspecting a fossil. What does that phrase even mean? That we can move away from our past lives like hermit crabs discarding their shells? Is it really that easy?
When the water boils, I pour it into a mug and add the instant coffee. I pick up my phone to distract my brain while I drink, but then I remember it’s dead. I sit for a moment outside, but I can’t shake the anxiety building in the pit of my stomach.
Screw this. I take a final swig of coffee, then gather my charger and walk down the trail to the main house.
I have research to do.
When I getto the house, I knock loudly on the door. It’s a weekday, so Bradley will be at work. Grace is probably sitting at her desk in the attic, fleshing out the plot to her next murder.
I knock again. Bradley was right. It is a strange thing to do for a living—to spend your days thinking about death and suffering,to linger for years in the minds of sociopaths. What kind of person wants to do that all day?
After a third knock, I open the door. I pad softly through the living room to the hallway, then pause at the sound of Grace’s voice. She’s talking on the phone, and I feel too cowardly to interrupt.
“He’s not going anywhere,” she says, then moves further away. It sounds like she’s pacing around the dining room. “We have to be careful. Not today. Let the anticipation build.”
After a few seconds, she laughs. Unlike the laughter I heard at dinner, this sounds genuine. “I want it, too.”
She moves out of earshot, and I can’t hear anything for a few seconds. I’m about to call out when I hear her speak again.
“Don’t be crass.”
I freeze. She’s suddenly close—at the entrance to the dining room. If she takes a step and angles her head, she’ll see me, a startled deer in the hallway. “You know how much. But not on the phone. Only when we’re together.”
She moves out of earshot again, and I quickly retrace my steps. I open the door, then slam it loudly, before walking back to the hallway.
“Hello?” I call out—and almost jump in fright. Grace is standing in the hallway, phone in her right hand. To my surprise, it’s not a cellphone, but an old cordless landline, the kind we had in our house when I was a kid.
Did she see me walking back to the door? If she did, she’d immediately know I was snooping on her phone call. And what would happen then? What would the author of a murder mystery do to me? What would the owner of an actual human skull have planned?
“Brie-like-the-cheese,” Grace says, smiling. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you wanting breakfast? I’m afraid Bradley might have established a precedent with our dinner last night. Wedo expect privacy in the house. The groceries are coming later today, so you should be fully self-sufficient soon.”
“I was actually hoping,” I say, then hold up my phone. “There’s no power in the cottage, and I need a charge.”
She frowns in disgust, as if I were holding a dildo or a dead cat. “Ah, yes. I forgot you had that. What are you doing with it?”
