She accepts the cottage, even though we have rooms inside the house. She’s desperate. Why is she so desperate?
She dresses without taste, and her clothes fit her poorly, but she’s still beautiful.
I skim through the following few pages, which feature more detailed notes about our first few encounters, including the incident with Bradley’s roses and the party. I read that scene more closely. There are lengthy descriptions of the setup, including an embarrassingly imagined scene of me getting ready for the party in the cottage, which is far more accurate than I’d like.
She describes preparing the cocktails and watching me drink them under her command. Then:
She vomited like a schoolgirl, and I watched her eyes and wondered what it looked like for the light to fade, for her to fade.
I hear a sound coming from the landing and drop the notebook in fright. It splays open in the middle, and to mysurprise, it’s filled with more writing. I close it before retreating down the stairs.
I sprint down to the landing, then down to the front door. I can hear Bradley in the kitchen, but I don’t stop until I’m outside again.
As I catch my breath, I try to make sense of what I read. I thought it was a diary, but it can’t be, because it’s full. Even the scene about the party didn’t read like a diary. Key details were wrong—my dress, for one. And Grace had described scenes she couldn’t possibly know about, like me getting ready in the cottage.
Besides, when exactly did she have time to write about the party? We were up late, and she was gone the next morning.
No, they can’t be diary entries.
They’re notes towards a thriller—a thriller aboutme.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time I make it back to the cottage, I’ve repeated the phrase a dozen times, and it seems more and more ridiculous. Grace obviously isn’t writing a real-life thriller about me. That’s not a thing. She must be searching for inspiration for her new book. Didn’t Jesse call me her muse? According to Bradley, she hasn’t published anything since her debut.
Also, Bradley said she was dramatic. It must all be part of her process: To plan out scenes in the real world, observe the results, and find inspiration for her fiction.
It’s unsettling, but hardly dangerous. She’s an eccentric writer. It’s probably all just a game to her.
But then, what about Caroline? What happened to her? I need to find out, but all I’ve got is Grace’s novel. I find my Kindle and take it outside to the deck. I instruct myself to sit down and relax, but my mind can’t seem to focus. When I stop moving for a second, I remember what an idiot I’ve been.
I slept with her husband.
Why the hell did I sleep with her husband?
I stand up and scan the room, looking for something to distract me. When I glimpse my reflection in the window, I see one thing that still needs a good clean.
Me.
I undress on the steps and walk to the shower. I go through my whole routine—washing my hair, shaving my legs—until I finally feel like a presentable human again.
I hear footsteps on the veranda. Bradley. I feel it immediately, the intoxication. The memory of bad decisions.
I hear the heavy creak of the floorboards and can feel his presence behind me. Not long ago, I screamed in protest when he stood in just that spot.
“I’ll be right there,” I say.
A laugh. I hear him take a step closer.
“Chill out. You saw it all last night, didn’t you?”
Another step. I’m starting to feel annoyed. I’ve said no. He needs to take a hint.
“What did I see, Brie?”
Bradley sounds different under the noise of the water, so I turn to the deck to see what’s wrong—then let out a scream.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
