CHAPTER 5 #2
I smiled as I pulled the Jeep away from the curb, entering the highway flow with a smooth, effortless acceleration.
I liked how hungry she was for me. I truly did.
From a clinical perspective, it was the perfect confirmation of my hypothesis: her desperation had stripped her of all logic, all caution.
Her hunger was the absolute proof of her weakness, and it was going to make the final extraction of her life a whole lot sweeter.
When a victim walks into the trap with a smile on their face, the universe achieves a level of perfect, poetic harmony that makes the blood in my veins sing.
***
We drove north, leaving the concrete sprawl of the city behind as the highway began to twist and climb into the foothills of the Blue Ridge terrain.
The flat, gray horizon transformed into rolling waves of deep emerald and charcoal-green, the ancient hills rising up around the asphalt like old gods watching the passage of our small, mechanical box.
I reached forward, tapping the touchscreen on the dashboard to turn on the audio system.
A low, acoustic guitar intro filled the cabin, followed by the rich, gravelly baritone of an old country singer detailing the loss of a family farm.
It was simple, nostalgic music—the kind of songs my mother used to play on the old radio in the kitchen while she rolled out biscuit dough with a wooden pin.
It carried a heavy, heartfelt emotional depth that felt entirely clean, entirely grounding.
Amanda leaned her head back against the leather headrest, her eyes closed as she listened to the music, her fingers tapping a frantic, erratic rhythm against her bare knee.
“Joshua?” she asked after a long period of silence, her voice soft over the acoustic guitar.
“Yes, Amanda?”
“Did you... did you tell anyone about this? Your friends? Anyone at the clinic?”
I kept my eyes fixed on the winding road ahead, my hands steady on the leather-wrapped wheel at exactly ten and two.
“Of course not. Our relationship outside the office is entirely confidential, Amanda. I take my boundaries very seriously. If anyone knew I was taking a client up to my family’s private cabin, it would create an unnecessary complication for my practice.
This weekend is a sanctuary. Just for us. ”
She turned her head to look at me, a profound, heavy expression of gratitude softening the sharp lines of her face.
“Good. I didn't tell a soul either. My sister called me yesterday afternoon asking if I wanted to go to the mall, and I told her I was just going to stay home, turn off my phone, and do a deep cleaning of the house. I didn't want anyone looking for me. We’re completely off the grid.”
A deep, cold wave of absolute satisfaction washed through my chest. “No,” she had said.
No one knew. No one was tracking her phone.
No one was expecting a check-in call at sunset.
I could take her word for it—not because I trusted her character, but because her lingering terror of her husband, even with the man currently locked away doing time in prison for abusing her, was a far more powerful prison than any wall I could build.
She had isolated herself perfectly out of a desperate need to feel safe, wrapping the noose around her own neck out of a sheer desire for absolute secrecy.
“Excellent,” I said softly, reaching across the center console to lay my massive hand over her small knee. I gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “That’s exactly how it should be. Total isolation allows for total honesty.”
We continued to climb for another hour, the country music providing a beautiful, melancholic soundtrack to our journey.
The oak and maple trees of the lower valleys gave way to dense, towering walls of old-growth white pines, their dark green needles filtering the sunlight into long, dusty beams of amber that swept across the hood of the Jeep like fingers of gold.
The air through the climate vents began to smell different—sharper, crisper, laced with the clean, resinous tang of pine sap and damp mountain earth.
Finally, I turned the Jeep off the state highway onto a narrow, unpaved gravel road that split the tree line like a scar. The tires crunched loudly on the stones, the suspension absorbing the deep ruts as we wound deeper into the private heart of the hills.
“We’re here,” I announced, steering the vehicle around one final, sharp bend of the ridge.
The forest suddenly opened up, revealing a massive, pristine basin of water that looked like a sheet of blue glass dropped into the center of the mountains.
The lake was completely still, its surface reflecting the dark pine trees and the pale blue sky with a mirrored precision that made my breath catch in my throat.
Nestled on a small knoll overlooking the eastern shore was the cabin—a beautiful, rustic structure built out of heavy, hand-hewn cedar logs and native river stone.
Amanda let out a loud, breathless gasp, her hands pressing against the passenger window as I brought the Jeep to a halt in the grass driveway. “Oh my God, Joshua... it’s beautiful. It’s like something out of a magazine. It’s so quiet out here.”
“It’s paradise,” I agreed, cutting the engine.
The sudden silence that followed the mechanical rumble was immense, almost physical in its weight.
We stepped out of the Jeep simultaneously, the mountain air hitting my lungs like a shot of pure oxygen.
It was crisp, cold, and entirely devoid of the chemical, oily rot of the city air I had been breathing for months.
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, letting the scent of the pines and the clean lake water wash over my senses, resetting the baseline of my mind until I felt completely focused, completely locked in.
I walked to the rear of the Jeep, opening the tailgate to pull out our duffel bags. Amanda had already walked to the edge of the grass knoll, her arms stretched out wide as she took in the surroundings, her sundress billowing around her shins in the mountain breeze.
“I can't believe this is yours,” she called out over her shoulder, her voice rich with an uncharacteristic happiness. “It’s so peaceful, Joshua. I feel like I can finally breathe for the first time in years.”
“That’s the purpose of the hills, Amanda,” I said, walking up behind her with a bag in each hand, my massive shadow falling over her shoulders. “It strips away the noise until only the truth remains. Let’s get you inside.”
I carried the heavy duffel bags up the three stone steps of the front porch, my boots making a solid, hollow thump against the weathered cedar planks.
I reached down, shifting both bags to my left hand, and reached beneath the heavy, woven coir welcome mat at the base of the door.
My fingers instantly brushed against a cold, hard object—a heavy brass skeleton key wrapped in a small piece of oiled paper.
The caretaker had followed my instructions precisely. I had paid him a generous cash bonus three days ago to come up from the valley, scrub the interior until it was clinically clean, and leave the key under the mat.
I inserted the key into the heavy iron lock, turning it until a loud, mechanical clack signaled the release of the bolt. I pushed the door open, stepping into the cool, shadowed interior of the cabin.
The air inside was perfect. It smelled of old wood, beeswax polish, and the faint, clean trace of lavender soap—entirely devoid of the stagnant, dusty musk that usually accompanies an empty mountain property.
The caretaker had earned his money. The wide-plank pine floors had been buffed until they gleamed like amber, and the massive stone fireplace in the center of the living room was clear of any ash or soot.
I walked over to the oversized leather sofa, dropping our duffel bags onto the cushions with a heavy whump.
“Get yourself settled, Amanda,” I said, turning back to face her as she stepped through the threshold, her sandals clicking softly on the floor. “Make yourself at home. This place belongs to you this weekend.”
She stepped into the center of the room, her eyes wide as she took in the rustic décor—the heavy log beams overhead, the thick wool rugs, the large windows that looked out over the blue expanse of the lake.
But as her gaze traveled up toward the stone chimney above the mantelpiece, she let out a small, sudden gasp, her body flinching backward by a full step.
“Oh!” she breathed, her hand flying to her throat. “That... that scared me for a second.”
Framed directly against the gray river stones was a massive, mounted reindeer head.
Its taxidermy work was ancient but immaculate, the dark, glassy eyes staring down into the room with a cold, eternal neutrality, its heavy, multi-pointed antlers stretching upward toward the rafters like a crown of thorns.
But it wasn't the deer that held my attention. It was what sat directly beneath it.
Resting on two polished brass pegs just above the walnut mantelpiece was an old, beautiful double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun. The steel barrels had been blued until they carried a deep, oily midnight-sheen, and the walnut stock was dark, worn smooth by decades of oil from human hands.
It was my mother’s favorite gun.
A sudden, sharp wave of intense nostalgia hit my chest, making my throat tighten with a familiar, burning ache.
I remembered the exact weight of that iron in my hands when I was twelve years old.
I remembered standing in the freezing dawn behind the old ridge, the smell of cordite and wet wool filling my nose while Mom stood right behind me, her smaller, rough hands gripping my shoulders to steady my frame against the recoil.
“Hold it tight against your pocket, Joshua,” her voice echoed out of the past, as clear as if she were standing next to the sofa. “Don't you dare flinch from the kick, son. A gun knows when you’re scared of it. Focus on the eye. Just the eye.”