CHAPTER TWENTY
A storm has arrived.
Her name is Mari.
Her umbrella made it inside before she did, but now the wind has picked up her orange curls, and they’re flying in a circle above her head as we both go to push the door shut. The wind is coming directly against the front of the cabin, making the storm seem worse than it is.
It has been howling and thundering on and off for two days now, but I absolutely love this weather. Nothing puts me in a better writing mood than a good thunderstorm.
“Phew, it’s windy!” Mari shakes some of the rain off her. “This one’s a doozy,” she says, sliding out of her boots.
“No one says that anymore.” I grab a spoon out of the drawer so that I can eat the yogurt I just opened.
“Says what?” she asks, plopping down at the table.
“This one’s a doozy,” I mimic.
“Oh, shut up. I’m sixty.”
“The new thirty.”
“Then what does that make you, a toddler?” she asks.
I laugh, just as my phone vibrates with an incoming call. I stick the spoon in my mouth and pick up my phone, and I answer it as soon as I see that Saint is calling. I take the spoon out of my mouth.
“Hi,” I say, my voice cheerful.
“I’m coming over tonight,” he says, his voice instantly familiar and commanding. No question, no polite inquiry, just a statement of intent.
“When?” A rush of heat floods my cheeks.
“I get off at six.”
“Do you want me to cook something?” I can see the curiosity eating at Mari as she listens in to the one side of the conversation she can hear.
“Up to you,” he replies. I sense a subtle test in his words. As if he’s thinking, Who are we going to be tonight?
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask, hoping it’s something I can cook well.
A beat of silence, then a low chuckle. “Whatever you love to cook, Reya.” The name that used to bring me a thrill when I heard it suddenly makes me frown. It’s an affirmation of the fantasy, a subtle invitation to step deeper into our game, but I was really hoping he was just coming over as Saint tonight. But whatever gets him here.
“I’ll have something ready, Cam,” I say teasingly, forgetting that Mari is listening.
Good God, now she thinks I’m screwing three men.
“You think I can stay the night?” he asks.
“I think we can arrange that.”
“Good.” Before he ends the call, just as I’m about to say goodbye, he says, “Hey, Reya?”
My breath catches at the low whisper of his voice. “Yes, Cam?” I respond, the character name slipping from my lips automatically, an echo to his.
“I love you.” The words are soft, convincing, and even though he’s just pretending to be a character, playing the role I created for him, it feels like he’s just said it to me. A raw, illogical piece of me believes it, hungers for it.
A warm, undeniable blush spreads from my neck to my hairline. “I love you too,” I whisper back, quickly, the lie feeling more real than any truth I’ve spoken in days. The call ends abruptly, and I can’t even look Mari in the eye.
I simply set my phone down on the table and take a bite of my yogurt.
I can feel her staring.
“Someone coming over?” she asks.
I nod. “Saint.”
“Honey, you do realize you called him by the wrong name, right?
Twice.”
“It’s a nickname. You of all people should know how those work.”
“I thought Saint was his nickname. You can’t have two nicknames.”
“He can do whatever he wants.”
“You’re feisty today,” she says, snatching the yogurt from my hand.
She grabs the spoon from me, too, and then proceeds to take a bite.
I scrunch my nose. “Eww.”
“Trust me. I’ve had much worse,” she says, and takes a second bite.
“What are you going to cook for the man?”
I momentarily forgot. “Shit. I don’t know. I need to go to the grocery store.”
“I have a chicken recipe he’ll love. It’s a real doozy, Petra. A doozy.
You hear that? A fucking doozy.”
I laugh. “Send it to me.”
I think I might miss Mari after I leave too.
I pass a gas station on the drive to the grocery store. A small worn-down place with faded signs and a single pump. The kind of place you wouldn’t think twice about passing on the road, but today it catches my attention.
I’ve been wanting a local newspaper. Something to ground me in this strange, isolated town. I should probably fill up on gas before my drive back to Sacramento in a few days too.
I pull in to the gas station and park, step out of the car, and feel the sting of the return of raindrops hitting my skin. I run into the store before getting gas, the bell above the door jingling as I step into the dimly lit interior. The smell of stale coffee hits me as I take a few steps toward the counter, scanning the shelves for any sign of a local paper. I wonder if they even sell newspapers here. This town is so small, I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t.
I’ve been wanting to read about the incident that occurred the night Saint showed up at my cabin. The night that changed everything. The memory of it still lingers, like a scene from a movie that I keep replaying in my mind. I thought about adding it to my book, weaving it into the narrative to give it a sense of realness that only true experiences can provide.
I tend to change a lot of scenes during the rewrite phase, and I’m tempted to rework the scene where Cam and Reya meet. I’d like it to more accurately reflect what actually happened between me and Saint. Maybe it would add depth, something more visceral, something the readers could connect with on a deeper level.
At this point, I’m almost positive Saint will finish the book, considering he read half the rough draft. It gives me even more reason to insert real stuff that’s happened between us into the pages.
I’ve never written something knowing the person who inspired it would read it. But then again, I’ve never written something inspired by an actual person before.
I finally find a rack with the newspapers near the register. There’s only one choice of newspaper on the stand, other than USA TODAY, and it looks like, from the dates listed at the top of it, they only put out one paper every month. Makes sense with this town being so small.
I flip through it, scanning the headlines, but I can’t find anything about the police chase that ended in a suicide.
I check the dates on the paper again and recalculate the date I first showed up here. This paper came out a few days after I showed up, so it should be here, but I don’t find it while flipping through it again a second time. Maybe they didn’t write about it at all, in order to keep up the facade of this town being a safe space for the few tourists.
The thought leaves me unsettled. Surely something like that would make the news in a town this small. Or maybe I skimmed over it, too distracted to focus. I flip through the pages again, my eyes scanning for any mention of the incident.
I glance over the rack again, wondering if the newest edition has come out yet.
I take the newspaper to the counter and hand it to the clerk. He’s a bald man who looks to be in his fifties, his face weathered from years of standing here. He barely glances up as I place the paper on the counter, his eyes still fixed on the register as he punches in the price.
“Is this the most recent one?”
“Yep.”
“Do you have any copies of last month’s paper?” I ask him.
“Nope.”
A man of few words. “What day does the new paper come out?” I ask, hoping maybe there will be more information in the next edition.
He shrugs, his expression bored, as if the question is too mundane to warrant much thought. “Lennie delivers them, so there’s no telling. He might bring them Saturday night or he may wait until Monday.” He says that like I should know who Lennie is, like Lennie is some kind of legend who transcends this town. “Why? You gonna be in the paper or something?” His eyes finally flick up to meet mine, a glint of curiosity in them now.
“No. Just looking for more information on the police chase from a few weeks ago.” I try to keep my voice casual, but there’s an edge to it, a hint of anxiety I can’t quite hide.
The man punches some more buttons on the cash register, his fingers moving slowly over the keys. “That’ll be one dollar and twenty-five cents,” he says, not looking up. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, he adds, “What police chase?”
I hand him five quarters, dropping them into his outstretched palm. “I can’t remember the guy’s name. It was a police chase that ended in a suicide on one of the roads a couple of miles away.” My voice is quieter now, the words feeling strange in my mouth.
“What road?” His tone shifts, a trace of disbelief creeping into his voice.
“Hunter Trail,” I reply, the name of the road sounding foreign to my ears now, like it belongs to someone else’s life.
The man chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest. “If there was a police chase and a suicide on Hunter Trail, I woulda heard about it,” he says, shaking his head like it’s the most absurd thing I could have said.
The door to the store chimes, and we both turn to see another customer entering. It’s Louie. I’m relieved to see him. He’ll be able to help.
“Hey, there, Petra!” Louie says with genuine joy. “How’s the writing going?”
The clerk, sensing an opportunity to share the strange conversation we’ve just had, speaks up before I can respond. “Louie, you heard of any police chase or suicide in the last couple weeks? Specifically on your road?”
I pause, my breath catching in my throat as I wait for Louie’s response.
He looks from me to the clerk, a puzzled expression on his face, before he laughs, shaking his head. “Not around here,” he says with a chuckle. “We haven’t had a self-inflicted death since 2014. Been even longer than that since we had a police chase.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I feel my insides begin to buzz with anxiety, my mind racing as I try to make sense of what I’ve just heard.
How could that be right? I was there. I saw the police lights, I talked to the detective. This can’t be happening.
I shake my head, my voice weak as I speak. “But . . . it did happen.
The road your house is on, Louie. In the middle of the night. A detective came to my door . . .” My words trail off, the confusion thickening in my mind. “Your wife even knows about it.”
Louie looks me up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly. “A detective? We don’t have detectives.”
“You from Los Angeles or something?” the clerk asks. “You a reporter?” There’s a note of suspicion in his voice now, as if he’s sizing me up, trying to figure out who I am and why I’m asking these questions.
“No,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a writer . . . fiction.
Not a reporter.”
“She’s been staying in our remodel,” Louie says proudly.
My hands are shaking as I reach into my purse and pull out my phone, the weight of the confusion and fear hitting me. My fingers tremble as I scroll quickly through my camera roll, searching for the photo I’ve been hiding. Two nights ago, I took a selfie of me and Saint, a moment of weakness, a moment I wanted to remember. I hid it in my phone, tucked away where no one would find it.
I hold the phone up to Louie, my hand shaking as I show him the picture of Saint. “Is this guy a police officer in this town?” I ask with an unsure tone.
Louie takes the phone from me, his brow furrowing as he stares at the picture. After a long moment, he laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. “We have two policemen who patrol this area, and both of them only wish they could look like this man.”
The blood drains from my face. This can’t be right. I feel a wave of nausea rise in my stomach, my mind spinning as I try to make sense of what Louie just said.
“No. He was at your house too. He spoke to both of you about the accident.” Did Mari fail to mention that Louie has dementia or something?
Louie is looking at me like I’m the one with dementia. “Show Bill,” he says. “He’s the closest gas station to the lake, so the man has probably been here to the store for gas.”
The weight of my confusion is pressing down on me, making it hard to focus. My heart is racing, and I can feel the sweat beginning to form on the back of my neck. I hold the phone up for Bill, the clerk, desperate for answers.
“Do you know who this is?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly as I try to keep my composure. The photograph of Saint on my screen feels like the only tangible piece of evidence I have, the only thread that ties all this together.
Bill shakes his head, his expression calm but indifferent, as if this is just another mundane conversation in a long string of them. “Don’t know his name,” he says flatly, but then his eyes narrow slightly as he looks more closely at the screen. “But I’ve seen him.” He grabs my phone and a pair of glasses and inspects it even more. “Yep. Yeah. That’s a face that’s hard to forget. Tall guy. Drives a black car. But don’t know him.” He hands my phone back to me.
I latch on to that small morsel of information like a lifeline, my mind racing to make sense of it all. “Where did you see him?” I ask, leaning in closer. “Here?”
My grip tightens on the phone, my knuckles turning white as I wait for his response, hoping that what he says next will finally start to make sense of this twisted situation.
Bill nods slowly, his brow furrowing in thought. “Yeah, if it’s the same guy I’m thinking of,” he says after a pause, as if he’s piecing it together himself. “He’s come in a couple times in the past few weeks. I reckon he’s staying in one of the rentals because I’ve never seen him before.” His tone is casual, but the words hit me like a punch to the gut.
This doesn’t line up with the story Saint told me at all, with the way he described his life here.
“Maybe he’s new to the area?” I say, trying to rationalize all this, grasping at straws to make it fit. “Maybe he just started working here as a detective.” My voice sounds weak, even to my own ears. I’m trying to convince myself as much as I am Bill, but deep down, I can feel the cracks beginning to form, the doubt creeping in.
If Saint just started working here, why wouldn’t Louie or Bill know him? Why would they be so adamant that he doesn’t work around here?
Louie, who’s been standing nearby, senses the shift in my demeanor.
His eyebrows draw closer together in concern, and he steps forward. The air between us feels heavy, thick with the weight of unanswered questions.
“Petra, I don’t know who this man is to you, but I can assure you he is not from around here. And he definitely does not work around here. Not as a cop. Not even as a security guard. Not even at Taco Bell.”
“We don’t have a Taco Bell,” Bill says.
“That’s why I know he don’t work there,” Louie responds.
The certainty in his tone makes my stomach turn. Louie’s eyes are sharp, searching mine for some kind of explanation, but I have none to offer. “Me and Bill know everything about everyone in this town,” he continues, his voice firm but not unkind. “Unless they’re here on vacation in one of the cabins.” His words hang in the air like a warning, a truth I’m not ready to accept. “But I own most of those, and he’s not one of my current guests.”
If they know everything about everyone in town, and they don’t know Saint, then where the hell did Saint come from?
I shake my head, refusing to believe what Louie’s telling me. And that, coupled with the fact that I thought he knew Saint, but now he’s saying he doesn’t, makes me question my own sanity. My heart is pounding in my chest, and the questions are swirling faster and faster, making it difficult to think straight. If Saint isn’t a detective, what is he?
My mind backtracks, sifting through every conversation we’ve had, every detail he’s shared about his life.
How could he have lied so convincingly?
Where did he come from?
How could I have been so blind?
I glance between Bill and Louie, my pulse racing, my hands shaking.
How do these two not know who he is? They’re acting like Saint doesn’t exist, like the man I’ve been spending my nights with is some kind of ghost.
But he’s real. I’ve kissed him. I’ve touched him. I’ve slept next to him. He can’t just be a figment of my imagination.
The questions begin to pile up, one after the other, overwhelming me.
Why was the police chase not written about in the paper? That night was real—there were flashing lights and a detective at my door. I can still see it all in my mind, clear as day.
How could something like that happen and there be no trace? How could Louie, who lives on the same road, not have heard about it? How could he not have met Saint when Mari was woken up by the same commotion?
I feel like I might be sick from all the unanswered questions, the uncertainty tightening around my throat.
Without another word, I push open the door and rush outside, back into the storm. I can hear Louie calling after me, his voice full of concern, but I don’t turn around. I walk straight to my car, my hands trembling as I fumble for my keys. The sound of the car door slamming rings in my ears, but I barely register it. My mind is too full, too chaotic to focus on anything other than making it to the cabin.
I don’t bother getting gas. I can’t think that far ahead right now.
I only have one thing on my agenda as I drive.
Mari.
