CHAPTER FIVE
No.
Something isn’t right.
I sit up straight in bed, my heart hammering loud and wild in my chest as I slip the face mask off my eyes. The air in the room feels thick, the kind of suffocating quiet that follows an unexpected jolt from sleep. My mind races, trying to figure out what woke me. Was it a noise? A dream?
Whatever it was, it was disruptive enough to yank me out of a deep, blissful sleep, and now I’m wide awake, my senses heightened, my body tense with a rush of adrenaline.
It’s probably Mari, here for more wine after two days of silence since her visit.
I’m still trying to regain my bearings when I notice the lights. Red and blue flashes are cutting through the darkness of the room, splashing across the walls like some kind of warning.
They’re disorienting, casting long shadows that dance with each pulse of light, and for a moment, I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or if this is real. My bedroom is on the west side of the cabin, so I can’t see much from where I’m sitting, but the lights keep coming—urgent, rhythmic, and impossible to ignore.
There’s a window directly behind my headboard, so I twist around and pull the curtain aside to get a look at what’s happening outside. But all I can see are those flashing lights radiating from the front yard. I can’t see any vehicles from my vantage point, just the constant pulse of red and blue illuminating the trees.
My mind immediately races to worst-case scenarios—was there an accident? A break-in? Why would the police be here, in the middle of nowhere? Is it Louie?
A loud knock at the front door snaps me out of my thoughts, making me flinch. My heart jumps in my chest, the sudden noise propelling me out of bed. The pounding is relentless, echoing through the cabin like thunder. I slip on my robe with shaky hands and grab my phone, my pulse quickening with each step toward the front door.
I check the time on my phone. It’s almost five in the morning. The sun should be coming up soon.
I flip on the front porch light, the brightness flooding the small space in front of the cabin, and peer through the peephole.
The sight that greets me is unexpected. It’s a police officer, standing a couple of feet from my door. His stance is casual, but there’s an air of urgency in the way he cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder toward his patrol car.
The flashing lights from the car are so bright that they cast him in silhouette, making it difficult to discern his features. His profile is outlined by the harsh glow of red and blue, and for a second, I feel a strange disconnect, like this scene is happening to someone else and I’m just watching it unfold. My mind races with questions.
I hesitate for a moment, gripping my phone tightly, my fingers hovering over the screen. Should I call someone?
No, it’s too late. Or too early. Either way, I can handle this.
It’s probably just a misunderstanding—a wrong address, maybe. But that doesn’t stop the unease from settling deep in my stomach as I take a breath and reach for the door handle.
With one last glance through the peephole, I unlock the bottom lock first, wondering what on earth could have brought a police officer to my quiet, secluded cabin in the dead of night.
My thoughts spin out of control as I stand here, hand on the dead bolt, hesitating for a moment longer before I finally release it. Even though I unlock the door, I leave the chain latched, opening it only a few inches. A small sliver of space, just enough to see out, but not enough to let anything —or anyone—inside.
Being a writer comes with a constant sense of distrust, no matter what uniform someone might be wearing. I’ve created too many plot twists, written too many villains disguised as heroes, not to assume the worst in every situation.
My brain automatically goes to the darkest places—What if he’s in a fake police car?
For all I know, this guy could be posing as an officer, flashing fake credentials just so I’ll open the door and make myself vulnerable. Too many crime stories, too much stolen valor, too many psychological thrillers. I’ve been conditioned to be suspicious of every scenario.
But still, curiosity and concern push me to at least hear him out.
When the officer hears the door creak open, he shifts his gaze toward me, locking eyes with mine. The flashing lights from his patrol car are still making it difficult to see his features clearly, distorting his face in alternating washes of red and blue and shadows. My eyes are still heavy with sleep, making the whole situation feel surreal, like I’m caught between a dream and reality.
But even with the disorienting lights, there’s one thing I can tell for sure—this is not your stereotypical donut-and-coffee-for-breakfast kind of cop.
He’s tall, broad shouldered, and muscular, the kind of guy who looks like he spends more time in a gym than a precinct. The sight of him standing here, so authoritative and composed, makes me suddenly hyperaware of my own appearance. I’m still in my robe, underdressed and vulnerable, a detail that makes me pull the robe tighter around my body.
I have no idea why he’s here, but part of me, maybe the writer in me, can’t help but appreciate the timing. If I had to imagine what Hot Cop Cam from my book would look like, this guy would be it.
My brain catalogs the moment, storing away the image of him for later use. This is the face you need to put on Cam, I think, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite the odd circumstances.
The officer holds up his badge, the metal catching the porch light for a moment. I squint, my eyes landing on his name and then on the glint of a wedding ring on his left hand. Of course he’s married. Not that it matters, but it’s another detail my overactive mind clings to as I add to the list another similarity between this guy and my character.
I feel like I just found my muse.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he says in a scratchy deep baritone that seems to vibrate through me. “I’m Officer Nathaniel Saint.”
I stare at the badge, reading his name again, even though it’s already etched in my memory. My heart is still racing, but now it feels like a different kind of racing, equal parts nerves and something else I can’t quite name. I bring my hand up to my throat, pressing it against my skin as if I can physically calm my own heart down.
As Officer Saint lowers his badge, putting it back into his pocket, I realize this isn’t some dream or figment of my imagination.
This is real.
There is a police officer standing at my door in the middle of the night, and that can only mean one thing: Something bad has happened.
Panic surges through me as my thoughts immediately jump to my family. Did something happen to someone I care about? The cold rush of dread washes over me, making it hard to breathe as a thousand horrible scenarios flash through my mind.
As if sensing my unease, Officer Saint softens his voice, his tone smoothing over like he’s trying to reassure me. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he says, his voice gentler now, more calming. “I’m just here to inform you that there was an incident that occurred on this road tonight. I just have a couple of questions if you don’t mind. Protocol.”
I let out a shaky breath of relief, my tension easing a little at the words.
Everyone is safe. No one I love is hurt.
I nod, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me, and unlatch the chain lock on the door. The officer isn’t here to deliver bad news, just to ask some questions. I can handle that. But then my mind wanders to Louie and his wife, Mari.
“Are the neighbors okay?” I ask as I open the door wider. I’m met with a cool breeze that makes me even more acutely aware of how underdressed I am. The night air wraps around me, and I instinctively cross an arm over my chest, feeling exposed. I gesture toward the kitchen, inviting him inside.
“They’re fine. Just left their place.”
I sigh in relief, but am still confused. “Come in,” I say, my voice quieter now, as if the weight of the situation is starting to sink in.
As Officer Saint steps inside, I notice just how tall he is. He’s at least five inches taller than me, maybe more. He takes up more space than his body requires, his presence commanding but not overbearing. I close the door behind him, still feeling a little disoriented, but thankful the night’s chill is now shut out.
“What kind of incident?” I ask, my voice steadier now, though my mind is still buzzing with unanswered questions. I motion toward the kitchen table, but he declines my offer. “What happened?”
“This shouldn’t take long,” he says, remaining near the door.
This is not exactly how I pictured my night going, but then again, I guess that’s the nature of plot twists. And now that I know everyone is safe, I welcome this intrusion. It’s the most dopamine I’ve had in years.
I stand a few feet from him, keeping a cautious distance between us, unsure if it’s from instinct or the strange, almost surreal feeling of having a police officer standing in my cabin. He remains close to the doorway. He seems aware of the tension, the delicate balance of not wanting to overstep while still delivering whatever news he’s here to share.
I can’t help but wonder how old he is. I’m thirty-four, and I look every bit of it, give or take a couple of years. But with him, it’s hard to tell. My eyes are still trying to adjust to being awake, to the lights outside, making his face shift in and out of focus. He could be younger than me, late twenties, maybe, but then again, he could be older.
There’s something experienced in his expression that makes me think he’s older than me, though. A lack of gentleness in his eyes that suggests someone who has been exposed to too much of the world’s harshness. That could be years of experience at a job like this and not at all an indicator of his age.
But then again, it could be a hardened, trained expression, something he’s perfected in his line of work. A calm demeanor and reassuring looks aren’t requirements for a job like his. Police officers probably learn to mask their own emotions when delivering difficult news, which is why most of them seem so serious.
The officer’s eyes scan the room for a moment, briefly taking in the surroundings of my cabin, before they land back on me.
There’s a slight pause, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “Do you know a man by the name of Don William Puttman?” he asks, his tone professional but cautious, like he’s testing to see if the name means anything to me.
I shake my head, frowning slightly. The name doesn’t ring a bell.
“No,” I say, and he seems to relax a little when I give him my answer.
There’s a visible shift in his posture, like a weight has been lifted. He leans against the doorframe, his hands resting at his sides in a more casual stance.
As I watch him, I can’t help but take a few mental notes. He’s perfect for Cam. It’s like the universe knew I needed inspiration and dropped this officer on my front porch at the perfect moment.
His posture, his voice, even the way his uniform hugs his frame—all of it is exactly what I’ve been searching to find the words for. I haven’t felt like writing character descriptions with the creative fog hanging over me, but seeing him standing here, in the flesh, is sparking something. I feel a
strange, urgent need to get this interaction over with so I can go straight to my laptop and start typing.
“There was a police pursuit that ended on this road,” he explains, motioning toward the road outside, where the lights are still flashing in the distance. “We’ve secured the scene, but we’re going to have officers nearby —possibly on your property—for the next hour or so. I just wanted to come by and let you know there’s nothing to be concerned about.”
I nod, trying to process what he’s saying.
A police pursuit? On this road?
The rural isolation of the cabin makes it seem impossible that something so dramatic could happen here, in the middle of nowhere.
Before I can ask more questions, he continues, “And of course, to see if there’s a reason the victim was heading in this direction. It is a dead-end road. But since you don’t know him—”
“Victim?” I interrupt, the word catching in my throat.
The officer nods, his face darkening a little as he glances away, clearly not thrilled about delivering this part of the news. “Yes, ma’am. He, uh . . .”
There’s a discomfort to him that’s unsettling. “It was self-inflicted.”
Oh.
I feel my stomach drop, and I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, a subconscious effort to ward off the sudden chill that seems to have swept through the room. I blow out a slow, shaky breath, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s just said. Self-inflicted. Someone came this close to my cabin—this close to me—and ended their life.
“Someone just . . . killed themselves? Near here?” I whisper, the words sounding hollow as they leave my lips. I don’t know why I repeat them out loud. Maybe saying them helps me believe it, or maybe I’m hoping there’s some mistake, that he’ll correct me and assure me it’s not as bad as it sounds.
But the look on his face tells me otherwise.
He nods again, his expression softening with sympathy. “He’d been to prison before and recently broke parole . . . I’m sure he knew he had warrants and if he got caught, he’d have to go back, so he . . .”
I put up a hand and nod to cut him off. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know how it ends.
I swallow hard, my mind still struggling to catch up with this new reality. The quiet of the cabin, the stillness of the night—it feels wrong now,
tainted somehow. I’ve always searched for solitude, for peace, but tonight it feels like a place where something dark has taken root. Something I won’t be able to shake.
The officer, sensing my distress, gives me a moment to process. “We’ll be out of your way soon,” he says gently. “Just wanted to make sure you were aware of what was going on and to see if you had any information that could help us. Any ties to the victim that we should be aware of before we notify next of kin.”
I shake my head again, feeling numb. “No. I don’t . . . didn’t . . . know him.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “If you need anything, just
let one of us know. We’ll be close by.”
I nod, barely registering the words.
Tomorrow, I’ll write about this. I’ll try to make sense of it through my characters, through their emotions. But tonight, all I can do is stand here, trying to comprehend the fact that someone came so close to me, so close to this quiet, safe place, and made the decision to end their life.
“I may need a statement,” he says, his voice steady, professional, but with an underlying gentleness that doesn’t quite match the somber situation he just explained. “But we don’t have to get that tonight. I can send an officer by tomorrow if you don’t mind. It’s protocol. We’re asking both homeowners on this road for information.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s fine. I’ll be here all day. I’m not a . . .
I’m just here for a visit. I don’t own this place.” I have no idea why I’m explaining that I’m not the homeowner like it’s going to help me get out of a murder I didn’t commit.
“Well. Enjoy your stay. Despite . . . this.” He dips his head in a slight nod, preparing to turn and leave, but then he pauses. He hesitates for just a second, and I see something flicker in his eyes before he turns fully back to me. “Are you here alone?”
I hate that question. It’s such an innocent inquiry on the surface, but there could be more to it. There’s no good way to answer it. Sure, he’s a cop, and maybe I should feel safe answering him honestly, but he’s also a man. A complete stranger, standing at my door in the middle of the night.
My thoughts tumble over each other as I attempt to figure out how to respond. A lie about a husband in the bedroom seems smart in theory, but with a police investigation happening just feet from my cabin, lying to a
cop doesn’t seem like the brightest idea. Yet admitting that I’m alone feels like inviting vulnerability, like putting a target on my back.
I must look torn, because the sudden understanding in his expression becomes evident. Before I can answer, he speaks up again, his tone softening, as if he senses my unease.
“Not that I’m assuming you can’t take care of yourself,” he adds quickly. “But . . . just be cautious. If you have conversations with people in town, make sure to give the impression you aren’t out here alone. Wear a wedding ring when you’re out and about if you can.”
As he’s opening the door, his words hit me in a way I didn’t expect.
This town, this quiet little place where I’ve repeatedly come for solitude and peace, has always felt like a sanctuary. A place where I could escape, recharge, and write without interruption or fear. But the way he’s talking now makes it seem like there’s more beneath the surface. It’s unsettling, like I’ve been missing something all this time.
“Should I be worried?” I ask, my voice quieter than before. “Is this a bad area?”
He’s now standing in the open doorway. He glances out into the yard, his gaze momentarily drawn to the flashing lights still illuminating the trees. Then he looks back at me, his eyes steady but unreadable. “No area is perfect,” he says after a beat, the words careful and diplomatic. He tips his hat again, signaling the conversation is over. “You should always be cautious. Sorry to interrupt your night. Someone will be in touch tomorrow.”
He turns to leave, heading across the porch that leads to the stairs, but something inside me panics. I don’t know why, but I feel a sudden urge to stop him, to keep him here just a little longer. Maybe it’s the shock of everything—the dead body so close to my home, the strange advice he just gave me about pretending not to be alone. Or maybe it’s just the raw fear settling into my bones.
Either way, before I can stop myself, I call out, “Wait.”
He pauses on the bottom step, turning around to face me again. There’s a look of concern in his eyes now, like he knows why I stopped him, even if I can’t quite put it into words myself. I stand there, gripping the doorframe, feeling small and unsure, like a child asking for reassurance after a bad dream.
I don’t know why I called after him. I just feel . . . scared. This man shows up to tell me a guy killed himself, and now he’s leaving, and I’m supposed to just . . . go back to sleep?
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed I look so scared, and embarrassed I asked him to wait. I wave a hand, letting him know I’ve changed my mind.
“It’s just a lot to take in.”
He takes a slow step back toward me, his expression softening as he speaks. “There’s not much else I can do here,” he says gently. “I’m needed back at the scene. But I’ll make sure there are extra eyes on your place tonight. You’ll be fine.”
His words are meant to reassure, but the cold gust of wind that sweeps over me makes it hard to believe. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, trying to hide the chill that has settled deep in my stomach. I’ve always felt safe on my writing retreats, but after the last several minutes, that sense of security has been chipped away.
“Okay,” I whisper with a nod, but my voice is unconvincing, barely more than a breath. The officer can see right through my concern, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s reconsidering leaving me here alone.
He ascends the last steps and comes back to me, pulling something out of his pocket as he approaches. It’s a business card. He hands it to me, and I look down at the bold print on the top: DETECTIVE NATHANIEL SAINT.
Beneath his name are an email address and two phone numbers.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he says gently. “The top number is my cell. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me.”
I clutch the card in my fist, a small comfort in the midst of this surreal situation. “Thank you,” I murmur, my fingers curling around the card as if it holds some kind of protection.
“How long are you here for?” he asks, his eyes searching mine with genuine curiosity. “I’ll make sure an officer drives by a couple of times a night for the duration of your stay.”
“A few weeks,” I reply, feeling a little embarrassed for some reason.
There’s something in the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure out why a woman my age would be holed up alone in a cabin for so long. “I’m a writer,” I explain quickly, hoping that will suffice. “I stay in this area a couple of times a year, usually in the month leading up to a deadline.”
His eyebrow lifts, a hint of surprise and admiration in his expression.
“A writer,” he repeats, as if testing the word. “What kind of books do you
write?”
“Mostly romantic suspense,” I say, feeling oddly self-conscious as I admit it. “And the occasional short story, but . . .” My voice drifts. “Sorry, I hate talking about my job. It’s awkward.”
He gives me a small smile, his lip twitching slightly. “What’s your name?”
For a second, I have the wild urge to tell him my name is Reya—the name of the character I’ve been writing about. The urge is so strong that I almost blurt it out, but I catch myself just in time. I can’t lie to a cop.
Instead, I give him my real name. Begrudgingly.
“Petra Rose.”
He smiles a little wider, but not from familiarity. He nods as if he’s committing it to memory. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Petra Rose.”
I watch him as he walks down the length of my driveway, his figure eventually swallowed up by the blinding patrol lights. He folds himself into a midnight-black car, only visible because of the lights.
Once he reverses and rejoins the activity down the road, I close the door and lock it behind me. I lean against it for a moment, my heart still racing, and glance down at the business card in my hand. Nathaniel Saint.
Even his name sounds like it belongs in one of my books.
He could definitely be Cam.
Despite the time and the strange events of the night, I feel a sudden burst of inspiration. I walk straight to my laptop, the unexpectedness of the events pushing me forward. The details of Detective Nathaniel Saint swirl in my mind, and I can’t resist the urge to write them down.
I recall everything about him—his voice, his presence, the way he made me feel both uneasy and comforted at the same time.
The words pour out of me like they haven’t in a long, long time.
Somehow, the fear, the uncertainty, and the strange energy of the night have all worked together to crack open the creative block I’ve been struggling with.
Nathaniel Saint has become Cam, and with every word I type, the
story starts to flow again.
I cannot believe tonight just happened.
