Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We finish just before dusk. The guest house glows under the soft-yellow string lights. Everything looks perfect, ready for the rentals to arrive bright and early tomorrow morning. It’s wild how it transformed in such a short time.
Wild how I have too.
It should feel satisfying, I think. I should feel proud. Relieved to be done. But the silence hangs thick between us, heavy with all the things we haven’t said.
He steps back, admiring the place with his arms folded across his chest. Clicking his tongue, he muses, “I don’t know. I still think I liked ours better.”
I cast him a wary glance.
His mouth upturns. “Then again, maybe that was just because I love the bride so much.” His eyes slide over me, searching. He wipes his hands on the seat of his jeans. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk before dinner. Get some air.”
I want to say no. I’m tired. My feet ache. I want to push further about the necklace and demand he tell me what we’re going to do about it. But his smile is too gentle to refuse. The kind of smile that makes disagreeing feel unreasonable. The kind of smile he’s mastered.
We cut across the small lawn in front of the guest house, into the woods. The light fades under the shade of the trees, making everything feel more closed off and cold. In the distance, frogs croak and crickets chirp, reminding me we’re not as alone as I feel right now.
He reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, though I haven’t told him I’m okay even once recently.
Still, I find myself lying by way of avoiding yet again. “Just tired.”
His grip tightens warmly on my hand. “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t keep you up tonight?” A wink.
I groan and swat his arm. But even as we slip into that easy air we’ve always had between us, I can feel him watching me.
We walk farther in silence. The woods open here and there into small clearings, the evening light spilling through in pools of purple and gray.
He tries to distract me, talking about Marlie and how happy she seems. How relieved his parents are. How much he likes Warren. I nod when I should, listening for the most part, but try as I might to focus, my mind keeps slipping somewhere else.
We’re still walking when he tugs my arm, trying to pull me off the main path. “What are you doing? We should get back. They’ll be waiting on us for dinner.” We’re probably already late.
“We’ll go this way,” he says.
But it’s not the way back to the house. It can’t be. I glance over my shoulder, trying to orient myself. “But…the house is this way.”
He juts his head to the left. “This way’s prettier.”
“And longer. I’d rather go this way.”
He hesitates, and I can see the fight behind his eyes, but eventually, he just nods and releases the tension in his arm. “Okay. Sure. You’re right.”
But less than ten minutes later, I see something half hidden in the trees—a structure I’ve never seen before, slumped to the side and gray with rot.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He’s looking anywhere but at the building, though that feels like a generous word for it.
He glances at it, clearly faking confusion. “What? Oh, that? Um, that’s the old gardener’s shed, I think. Dad keeps his old tools out here, junk mostly.”
My chest tightens. “Is this why you wanted to go the other way?”
He laughs softly, defensively, then clears his throat. “I’d honestly forgotten it was here, so no.”
Up close, the earth seems ready to swallow the shed. It’s covered in ivy and moss, the window on one side opaque with dust and grime. “So…this was the gardener’s shed? As in Pat’s shed? He used it?”
He swallows, casting a look at the sky. “Yep.”
“And it’s used for what now? Just tools?”
“I guess so. Someone should’ve torn it down years ago, after—after we stopped having a gardener full-time. The landscaping company brings its own tools when it comes.” He kicks at its door. “It’s seen better days, huh?”
I can’t stop looking at it, thinking of him. This old man I’ve created a picture of in my mind, even if I have no idea what he looks like. Looked like.
Somehow, this makes it all more real. Him. Her. The door moves a little in the wind, creaking, and it sends a shock down my ribs.
“Can I look inside?”
He tilts his head, still smiling. “Why would you want to?”
“I don’t know. I just do.”
His laugh is soft and forced. His hand flexes in mine. He lowers his voice, like he’s telling a ghost story. “You think she’s in there or something?”
“Stop. I didn’t say that.” My response is too quick. Too sharp.
“You didn’t have to, my love. I know how your brain works lately.” His tone is still light, playful even. “My brothers tease you with one story, and suddenly the woods are full of lost little girls.”
“Please,” I say, softer than I planned. “Just…humor me.”
He studies me for a while, then exhales, smiling like he’s giving in to a child. “Fine. You win. Let’s have a look around, Detective.”
He pulls the door open. It groans with a dull, tired sound.
Inside, the air is stale, thick with the scent of old wood and gasoline.
Tools hang from hooks, their handles dark with age, blades rusted—shears, a rake, a shovel, a saw.
There’s a broken stool in the corner and a lawnmower in the back. Several boxes sit in another corner.
Dust shifts, disturbed by our presence, in the thin beam of light coming in from the window.
Simon gestures toward the clutter. “See? Nothing but rust and splinters to be found. Like I said.”
Still, I step inside, my eyes scanning the messy space. Some part of me feels let down. Once again, my hunch was wrong. Once again, I look stupid and na?ve. Very un-Morninglike.
I run my finger along the workbench, coating my fingers in a film of dust. I don’t know what to say.
Thank you? I’m sorry?
“Come on,” he says gently, saving me from deciding. “Let’s go back before Mom sends a search party.” He offers his hand, the picture of patience. I take it, even if I don’t deserve to. His skin is warm against mine, the shape of his palm familiar.
As we step outside, the door creaks shut behind us. He doesn’t look back, but I can’t help myself. I look, just once.
The light catches the window, and for a second, I think I see movement—something shifting behind the glass. A face. A shadow. But just as soon as I blink, it’s gone. Imagined.
Simon squeezes my hand, drawing my attention. “See? Told you. Empty.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Empty,” I echo.
But as we walk away, I still can’t shake the haunting feeling creeping over my skin, as real as the dust still lingering on my fingertips.