“No, I was looking after my mom. She was sick. For years. I looked after her.”
“Oh, yes?” She raises a single eyebrow and seems amused by this detail. “And here I was, losing hope for the next generation.”
I give a nervous laugh. I’m fidgeting with my hands like I’m standing in front of the school principal.
“Give me one second.”
She turns on her heels and walks off. I take out my phone and run an image search for ‘Grace’ and ‘author’, and she fills the screen. I click the video tab and see that she’s all over TikTok. Now I know where I’ve seen her before—Neil was obsessed with her first book, and maybe even a little obsessed withher. I used to see her face on the back cover of the paperback sitting on his nightstand.
I accidentally touch one of the videos, and it starts playing at full volume.
“Who is Grace Frost? Brilliant, rude. Talented, mean-spirited. Plagued by writer’s block, she hasn’t released a novel since her debut five years ago. They say she’s a recluse…”
“Do they?” I quickly switch off the phone as Grace appears in the doorway. She frowns at the phone in disapproval. “They should mind their own business. Follow me, please.”
I’m blushing as she pads past me and opens the front door. Without looking back, she descends the stairs and moves down the driveway.
“I like the roses,” I say, jogging to catch up.
“They’re from Bradley’s mother. I hate them, but she’s dead. Apparently, that means they hold sentimental value.”
When we’re about to go around the bend, I turn and look back at the house. From the attic window, I see a bearded face staring at me. That must be Bradley. So he is home, after all. I give him a wave, and he disappears from view.
We continue walking until we reach the trailhead. The trees meet overhead like the ceiling of a chapel, and it gets noticeably darker. Overgrown branches extend across the path, and I quickly learn to let Grace get a few feet ahead so they don’t whip back into my face.
We soon arrive at a small, dark cottage surrounded by knee-high grass. Its paint is peeling as if it's been lashed by a whip. Small sections of the cladding have been replaced with plain boards, presumably because they are rotting away. The windows are covered with wooden exterior shutters.
Compared to the enormity of the main homestead, this place feels strangely neglected and out of place.
“This is your accommodation.” She goes to the front door and pushes it open. It’s dark inside, and I soon realize that all the windows are still covered by shutters, not just those at the front, with only one door in and out. “We have running water from a tank, but don’t waste it. As I’m sure Bradley mentioned, there’s no electricity.”
I nod, though I’m not sure that he did. I can’t remember much from that conversation.
“The toilet’s there.” She points to a wooden outhouse in the trees. “Shower around the back.”
An outhouse. Great. I follow her inside, but it doesn’t get any better. The entire cottage is a single room, with a double bed against the far wall and a mosquito net hanging from a ceiling hook. There’s a small kitchenette with a card table near the door. In the rest of the space, a dusty-looking couch and an armchair covered by a torn patchwork quilt. One of the windows on the door is cracked, as if hit by a stone or a fist.
“Bradley will be over later with supplies. I’ll leave you to get settled.”
“Was that him in the house?”
“In the house? No, there’s no one else there. Bradley is at work in the city. He’ll be home late.”
Before I can ask any questions, Grace moves to the door. I sidestep to let her pass, and she shuts the door behind her.
It’s immediately pitch black. The shutters don’t let in any light, and I feel like I’m trapped in a tomb. I ignore the shiver of terror at the base of my spine and go back outside.
Don’t be a wuss, I tell myself.It’s easily fixed.
But I’m wrong. As I pull at the shutters, I find that they’ve been nailed shut. The same is true around the other sides of the house. The nails look old, too, as if the shutters haven’t been opened in years.
I hear Neil’s voice in my head.
You traded me forthis?
Yes, I reply,I damn well did.
It might look like a crime scene and feel like a tomb, but at least it’s mine.
