Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
I spend the night at a rest stop just outside the city, listening to the trucks coming and going around me. As with the mall, there’s a sign saying it’s illegal to stay the night, but I have no choice. I can’t waste my gas driving around the city, and at least it’s busy here.
In the morning, I loiter inside the service station reading the free newspaper until it’s time to leave.
I clean myself with wet wipes in the restroom and change into fresh clothes.
My hair is greasy, and no amount of makeup can conceal the fact that I haven’t slept for two nights.
But at least I don’t look or smell like a homeless person.
As I get into the car, I plug in my phone and see the notifications.
36 missed calls.
15 voice mails.
87 text messages.
All from Neil. He must be frantic. When I left, I didn’t bother making an excuse.
I just waited for him to go to work, then packed everything I could into my tiny car.
This might sound courageous, but it wasn’t.
I was reckless. I should have made plans.
I should have found a job and a place to stay before I left.
I should have moved some of his money into a private account.
It’s too late now. I delete all the messages, check the route to Pine Ridge, and begin my drive.
The app said I’d be at Pine Ridge by twelve, but it’s already twelve-thirty, and I have no idea where I am. My GPS has stopped working, and the gas gauge has been flashing 'empty' for 15 minutes. Somewhere in the maze of single-lane roads out here in the woods, I’ve taken a wrong turn.
When the phone rings, I assume it’s Bradley and answer without checking.
“I’m sorry I’m late—”
“Late for what?”
It’s Neil. The panic is immediate and intense. I look up at the pines crowding the road, aggressive, claustrophobic. I should stop driving, but I don’t know if I’ll have enough gas to start the engine again.
“Where are you?”
“I’m leaving you.” My voice is already shaking. “I’m not coming back.”
“I thought you were missing. I called the police.” He lets this hang in the air for a moment. “I want you back.”
“Uncall them.”
“Come home.” A pickup appears out of nowhere, and I swerve into the verge, missing it by a few inches at best. “Where are you?”
“I have to go.”
“Baby.” His voice is breaking. Here it comes, right on time. Every time he’s about to lose a fight, he starts crying. I’m ashamed at how often it works. “I love you. I want to marry you.”
“You’re insane.”
“What’s insane about it? We lived together for three years, and we had one fight…”
“It wasn’t just one fight. We’ve been having this same fight for years.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“It’s not a goddamn exaggeration! You won’t let me have a say in my own life!
Nothing is mine! And you just talk at me like a lawyer until I give up.
” The road swerves sharply to the left, then to the right, then to the left again.
On the final turn, my wheels slide out from under me, and I almost fishtail the car.
“I’m not giving up this time. Stop calling me. ”
“Don’t throw it away.”
“Throw what away?” I glance at the gas. It won’t be long until my Mazda sputters to a stop.
“Our life together. Our home. We could have the perfect life! I don’t accept it.”
“That’s not the life I want! It’s my choice! That’s not up to you.” To my surprise, I feel tears running down my cheeks. I’m so tired. If I blink long enough, I’ll fall asleep and send the car flying off the edge of the road, into the forest of pines. “Please leave me alone.”
“Why is it up to you? That’s not fair.”
I see another fork in the road, and take a right, just as my engine goes silent. I pull off the road and take a breath. Dammit.
“I have to go. Don’t call me again.”
“I can’t promise that, Brie. We’re forever. All those promises we made. I meant them all.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray that when I open them again, the world will be different. That all my problems will be gone. That Neil will let me go.
It doesn’t work.
“Let me go,” I whisper. “Please.”
“I’m not giving up on you.”
“I’m going now.”
“I love—”
I hang up before he can finish his sentence. I wish, not for the first time, that I were a strong person. A strong person would have left Neil a long time ago. A strong person would know how to fight back.
But I’ve never been a strong person. Neil is the only one who has ever said he loves me. Not even my mother spoke like that, even though I nursed her through a terminal illness for half a decade.
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 pine trees 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 hear the 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.”
“Assistant Professor 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?”
“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 with her.
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 for this?
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.
I’m finally free.