Before I can argue, he gives me a perfunctory kiss and walks to his car. As I watch him leave, I feel my hands shake. I recite all the reasons why this is OK, why he’ll be back soon, why everything will return to normal. But I don’t believe any of them.
This is it.
This is the end.
Bradley will get arrested for murder. They’ll find out I knew, and we’ll both go to jail. I’ll be an accomplice to murder—is thatwhat it’s called? How bad is that? How many years will I be locked away? Five? Ten?
Either way, our lives will be over.
I go into the kitchen and prep dinner to keep myself busy. I’m tired of feeling anxious and scared all the time. It’s been non-stop since I moved to Pine Ridge.
“I’m glad you’re dead,” I say out loud, as if her ghost were following me through the house. I feel that familiar, confusing rush of emotions—the happiness of my future with Bradley, and the overwhelming guilt of her death. “It was you or me.”
I’m chopping carrots, taking deep, deliberate breaths to ward off a panic attack, when I hear a noise outside. It’s an engine. Someone’s coming down the driveway, and it’s not Bradley’s quiet EV.
Is it the police? I rush to the front of the house and see an ancient red pickup idling in front of the barn. It sits there for a moment before the engine cuts off. Not the police, and not Jesse, either.
The door slams, and a tall brunette woman in blue jeans and a baggy grey shirt strides around to the back of the pickup.
I screw up my courage and go to the front door. It looks like she might be an off-brand delivery driver.
“Hello?” I call out from the veranda. “Can I help you?”
“Grace Little? Is she here?” The woman looks around, as if Grace might emerge from the forest like a curious doe.
“She’s not here right now,” I say.
“Ah. I was wondering why she didn’t return my calls. That’s OK. Is now a good time to look at the cottage?
“What?” I walk down the steps towards the woman.
“I’m here to take a look at the windows in the cottage. Grace said they needed work.”
I finally have the presence of mind to read the insignia on the woman’s shirt. Madeleine Smyth, Woodlands Window and Door. “Come, I’ll show you where it is.”
I lead Madeleine down the path to the cottage, disoriented at the thought that Grace had been planning to make my lifebetter. It doesn’t make sense—unless she thought I wasn’t going to be hanging around.
“Jesus H Christ, was someone living here?” Madeleine asks as the cottage comes into view.
“That would be me.”
I feel a chill run through me as I step into the cottage. It’s been a week, and the spiders have already started to reclaim their place. I couldn’t imagine spending another night here.
“This is cozy.”
“That’s one word for it.” I open the back door and prop it open with a nearby rock.
“Can I take some measurements?”
She walks past me, and I don’t answer her—because I can’t talk anymore. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.
No. It can’t be.
The rock I’ve used to prop up the door is bright white, and as I take a closer look, I see a splash of maroon on one side.
I’d know it anywhere.
It’s the rock that Bradley used to kill Grace.
