Is that why I let him control me? He was never violent—just persistent. He chipped away at the sharp edges of my life until I didn’t recognize myself anymore. He made me stop talking to my old friends. He accused me of sleeping with every man I was ever alone with. He pestered me out of my minimum wage jobs, so that nothing in our life was really mine.
Now, four years later, I don’t have any friends or money of my own. I don’t have any real dreams or ambitions. Until I left, I was sleepwalking into the life he chose for me. If I didn’t leave now, we’d be married with kids before I knew it, and then it would be over.
My phone rings again, and I burst into tears. It’s like a bomb, ticking away. I switch it off and try to regain my composure. Neil said he wouldn’t give up on me, which in some circumstances might sound romantic. But to me, it sounds like a threat.
I step out onto the dirt road and stretch. I’m technically not far from the city, but the woods feel like another planet. The pinetrees above me are swaying noisily in the wind. I look into the forest and wonder how long I’d be able to survive.
In a children’s story, I might place my ear against their trunks to hear what they’re saying.
But I already know what they would whisper in my ear.
You’re screwed, you’re screwed.
I resign myself to waving down the next vehicle when I spot something man-made across the road, about fifty feet behind me. Distracted by Neil, I must have driven right past it. I walk over and see that it’s a homemade sign nailed to the trunk of a tree, right next to a concealed driveway.
Pine Ridge Homestead.
“Thank Christ almighty,” I whisper, my mom’s favorite phrase—one of many that I find myself repeating these days. I go back to the car, grab my pack, and start walking down the dark driveway. It’s narrow and overgrown, and it’s hard to see how anyone could come down here by accident.
After a hundred feet, a small trail forks off into the woods. Another fifty feet and the driveway bends to reveal a clearing, in the center of which is an enormous wooden house with a spectacular line of red roses in front. Beyond it, in the distance, I see a bright blue river. On my right, there’s an open garage with a red SUV and a black Mercedes.
I smile to myself. Pine Ridge is the last place Neil will find me. He hates camping, and the woods outside the city have always given him the creeps. I would ask,What are you scared of? Bears? Wolves?
And he would say,No, the people. They’re all cooked by conspiracy theories and have enough guns to invade Canada.
You’re being small-minded, I would reply.Anyway, how many guns does it really take to invade Canada?
The steps to the front door creak under my weight. I knock, but there’s no sign of life, so I knock again. After a third time, I try the handle, and the door yawns open. I step into a large, wood-paneled room. In the middle, two couches face each other like boxers squaring off, with books piled up messily beside them.
There are paintings all over the far wall, a mix of ships and scenes from antiquity. On my right are enormous floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and random objects, including a fishing line, an old baseball cap, and a pen in a glass box. In the other corner of the room is a waist-high replica of a Greek vase.
I hearthe sound of footsteps, and a few seconds later, a small woman in a stunning black dress appears from the hallway. She’s thin, almost frail, with dark brown bangs framing a pale face with strikingly prominent cheekbones. I recognize her immediately, but I’m not sure from where.
“You must be Brie.” I feel myself being assessed.
“Like the cheese.” I step towards her, expecting to hug or at least shake hands. But when she stays frozen, I bail awkwardly. “Sorry, I was expecting Bradley.”
“Well, you’ve got me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Yes, you did. That’s the problem. Words don’t mean anything anymore.” This seems like a long bow to draw, but I’m not about to get into a philosophical argument on my first day. “My name is Grace. My husband and I own this property. I believe you spoke with him on the phone?”
“Professor Little? Yes, he interviewed me yesterday.”
“AssistantProfessor Little. That’s a sticking point. But just call him Bradley. You’re not one of his students.” She squints at me. “You’re not, are you?”
“Oh, no,” I say with a laugh. “I was a biology major. Zoology.”
“Animals?”
“Birds.”
“You seem older.” Her questions are rapid, like it’s an interrogation, and she’s waiting for me to slip up.
“I went to school a bit later.”
“Too busy with parties? Boys?”
