Chapter Nine
It snows again the next morning, because of course it does. Sarah lingers in bed long after the windows brighten, staring at the flurry of white. She can’t see the woods from where she lies, but the trees creak as gloomily as Sweetside Manor’s floorboards.
She needs to leave.
She needs to leave before they find Ben’s body, before they find her.
Before she reveals any more of herself to Caleb.
She came too close yesterday, when she’d practically begged him to help her get out of Sweetside.
It was the wrong move. Now he knows how desperate she is.
It’s always safer when they think she’s a nice girl who won’t cause trouble.
The flurries fade into drifting flakes, and she thinks about getting up. Maybe she can hitch a ride north. Maybe she can walk there in Elijah’s borrowed boots. Sling on her backpack and disappear.
And then she wonders if the other small towns she might pass through will be just as welcoming to anyone who looks like her.
Caleb and Elijah are her best chance for survival. For now.
Sarah’s heart skips a beat as the house sings Caleb’s theme song: the strong tread up the stairs, followed by a confident knock. She struggles to sit up. “Come in,” she says.
The door opens, admitting the soothing scent of coffee and aftershave. Caleb says, “You should’ve—”
“Locked the door. Yes. Whatever.” She picks at an imaginary wrinkle in the quilt.
“It’s for your own safety. You know what the people of Sweetside are capable of.”
His overprotectiveness seems so pointless. A locked door won’t keep out a rifle shot. “You don’t need to helicopter over me like you do with Elijah.”
“You don’t know anything about Elijah. Or me, for that matter.”
Her chin snaps up at the sudden sharpness of his words.
She doesn’t want to look at him, but can’t help it.
She savors his straight nose, the inviting divot in his upper lip, the square jawbone that dominates his face.
The shadows under his eyes bring out the vivid blue of his irises. She’s glad he didn’t sleep well either.
“No,” she says quietly. “No, I guess I don’t.”
Caleb deposits the breakfast tray on the vanity. “I’m going out to clear the snow. Do not leave the room.” His face softens, the dark brows drawing together. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve been through so much already.”
When she answers tersely with a nod, he lumbers away and closes the door behind him. She frowns. Something about him is off this morning. The way he’d come in and left didn’t sound right.
He wasn’t wearing his keys.
Sarah launches herself out of bed and quietly opens the door. She creeps down the hall to the top of the stairs and catches a glimpse of Caleb’s broad back disappearing through the front door.
She bolts to his room, her pulse counting the seconds before he returns to the house.
The door is ajar, and this time, she has no scruples about entering.
The bed is neatly made, the copy of Of Mice and Men sitting on the bedside table.
A flannel shirt and a pair of jeans hang over a chair.
She checks the belt loops and pockets but finds nothing.
The top of the dresser is bare except for a handful of change.
Where else would he drop his keys after coming home for the night?
She yanks the bedside table drawer open but finds only batteries and random cables. “Damn it,” she mutters.
“Are you looking for his keys?”
She jumps, her pulse fluttering like paper. Elijah leans against the doorframe. “Are you looking for the keys to the truck?” he asks again. “He doesn’t keep them in his room.”
Sarah laughs nervously and shuts the drawer. “No, you caught me being nosy. He doesn’t talk much about himself.”
“He hides them from me, too.”
She can’t lie to that sad, guileless face. Maybe Elijah can help. “I need to get out of Sweetside. Where does he keep them? He didn’t have them on his belt this morning.”
“I don’t know. I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Downstairs? How long does it take to shovel the driveway?”
“The snowblower’s quick, but he’ll probably clear the motel parking lot too.”
“Great.” Sarah hurries down the stairs and circles the ground floor.
She runs her fingers across the spines of the books in the dining room china hutch.
Jams her hands between the sofa cushions in the den.
Checks every corner of the kitchen’s stained laminate counters.
She even searches the parlor in case the carabiner is hiding under a crocheted doily.
“I don’t think you’ll find them,” Elijah says, trailing at her heels. “I never have.”
“Why would he want to hide them from you?”
“He doesn’t want me to leave. It’s for my own good.”
Her mouth flattens. “That’s what they always say.”
“No, he’s right. I’m not like other people.”
Ben had told her she wasn’t like anyone else either, when they’d first started dating.
“I don’t like to upset him,” he says, his mouth drooping.
He’s like a bird who’s never flown outside his cage.
This life is all he knows. It’s safe—to some extent.
Predictable. Sarah knows how he feels. “You know what it’s like, right?
What you said about your ex. You know. Walking on eggshells all the time, making a show of being harmless, so you don’t make him mad. Does it work? For you?”
“I—” Does it? She was nice to Isaac and Jerry, and someone still spray-painted the C-word on her motel room door. “I don’t know.”
He tips his head to the side. “That’s the garage closing. Caleb’s done. Go. Don’t forget to lock your door.”
Sarah dashes back up the stairs. She shuts the door, locks it. Leaning against the wall, she shuts her eyes, gulping for air. She’s no good to anyone, especially herself, if she succumbs to panic. Panic is what got her into this mess in the first place.
“Elijah!” Caleb calls out. “I’m going into town. Can you take care of Sarah’s lunch?”
“Sure thing, I’ll see you later,” Elijah yells back, and Sarah knows it’s for her benefit.
She doesn’t slink back downstairs, though.
There’s no point, since Caleb has taken the truck.
She takes her time getting dressed, leaving the pajamas crumpled on the unmade bed, and starts in on breakfast. The blueberry muffin Caleb left feels chalky in her mouth.
She washes it down with cold coffee without tasting it, thoughts churning.
She’ll find a way to leave. She got out of a bad situation once, she can do it again. She rescues her wrinkled pajamas, folds them up, and stuffs them into the backpack. Ben’s death showed her she can be resourceful and act quickly. She only needs to be ready when the opportunity strikes.
The doorbell rings.
She hadn’t heard a car pulling up; she’d been in the bathroom brushing her teeth. The doorbell rings again. Multiple chimes announce the caller’s impatience. She holds her breath, feeling like a kid pretending no one’s home while her parents are out.
Sarah creeps to the front windows but doesn’t recognize the sedan parked in the driveway.
The porch roof hides whoever’s at the door.
Graham could’ve finally traded in his old SUV.
Or maybe Isaac sent someone to check up on her.
Or maybe it’s Old Man Doherty and Jerry the tow truck driver and everyone else they could rustle up, bearing torches and pitchforks to drive the interloper out of town.
The doorbell rings a third time, the caller pressing it for a full ten seconds. They won’t take no for an answer. The house comes alive as Elijah begins to move through it. Sarah tiptoes to the bedroom door and listens, breath thickening with dread.
A few minutes later, Elijah calls out, “Sarah! You have a visitor!”
Sarah sags against the door, relieved. It’s Graham. Who else would be so annoyingly insistent? He’s managed to come back for her without attracting notice from the townspeople. She unlocks the door and hurries down the hallway.
When she’s halfway down the stairs, Elijah steps away from the man standing in the foyer.
The man raises his masked face. Sarah clings to the railing, her knees buckling beneath her.
He’s alive.
“Hello, Sarah,” Ben says.