Chapter Twenty #2
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I feel my insides begin to buzz with anxiety, my mind racing as I try to make sense of what I’ve just heard.
How could that be right? I was there. I saw the police lights, I talked to the detective. This can’t be happening.
I shake my head, my voice weak as I speak. “But . . . it did happen. The road your house is on, Louie. In the middle of the night. A detective came to my door . . .” My words trail off, the confusion thickening in my mind. “Your wife even knows about it.”
Louie looks me up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly. “A detective? We don’t have detectives.”
“You from Los Angeles or something?” the clerk asks. “You a reporter?” There’s a note of suspicion in his voice now, as if he’s sizing me up, trying to figure out who I am and why I’m asking these questions.
“No,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a writer . . . fiction. Not a reporter.”
“She’s been staying in our remodel,” Louie says proudly.
My hands are shaking as I reach into my purse and pull out my phone, the weight of the confusion and fear hitting me.
My fingers tremble as I scroll quickly through my camera roll, searching for the photo I’ve been hiding.
Two nights ago, I took a selfie of me and Saint, a moment of weakness, a moment I wanted to remember.
I hid it in my phone, tucked away where no one would find it.
I hold the phone up to Louie, my hand shaking as I show him the picture of Saint. “Is this guy a police officer in this town?” I ask with an unsure tone.
Louie takes the phone from me, his brow furrowing as he stares at the picture. After a long moment, he laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. “We have two policemen who patrol this area, and both of them only wish they could look like this man.”
The blood drains from my face. This can’t be right. I feel a wave of nausea rise in my stomach, my mind spinning as I try to make sense of what Louie just said.
“No. He was at your house too. He spoke to both of you about the accident.” Did Mari fail to mention that Louie has dementia or something?
Louie is looking at me like I’m the one with dementia. “Show Bill,” he says. “He’s the closest gas station to the lake, so the man has probably been here to the store for gas.”
The weight of my confusion is pressing down on me, making it hard to focus. My heart is racing, and I can feel the sweat beginning to form on the back of my neck. I hold the phone up for Bill, the clerk, desperate for answers.
“Do you know who this is?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly as I try to keep my composure. The photograph of Saint on my screen feels like the only tangible piece of evidence I have, the only thread that ties all this together.
Bill shakes his head, his expression calm but indifferent, as if this is just another mundane conversation in a long string of them.
“Don’t know his name,” he says flatly, but then his eyes narrow slightly as he looks more closely at the screen.
“But I’ve seen him.” He grabs my phone and a pair of glasses and inspects it even more.
“Yep. Yeah. That’s a face that’s hard to forget.
Tall guy. Drives a black car. But don’t know him. ” He hands my phone back to me.
I latch on to that small morsel of information like a lifeline, my mind racing to make sense of it all. “Where did you see him?” I ask, leaning in closer. “Here?”
My grip tightens on the phone, my knuckles turning white as I wait for his response, hoping that what he says next will finally start to make sense of this twisted situation.
Bill nods slowly, his brow furrowing in thought.
“Yeah, if it’s the same guy I’m thinking of,” he says after a pause, as if he’s piecing it together himself.
“He’s come in a couple times in the past few weeks.
I reckon he’s staying in one of the rentals because I’ve never seen him before.
” His tone is casual, but the words hit me like a punch to the gut.
This doesn’t line up with the story Saint told me at all, with the way he described his life here.
“Maybe he’s new to the area?” I say, trying to rationalize all this, grasping at straws to make it fit.
“Maybe he just started working here as a detective.” My voice sounds weak, even to my own ears.
I’m trying to convince myself as much as I am Bill, but deep down, I can feel the cracks beginning to form, the doubt creeping in.
If Saint just started working here, why wouldn’t Louie or Bill know him? Why would they be so adamant that he doesn’t work around here?
Louie, who’s been standing nearby, senses the shift in my demeanor.
His eyebrows draw closer together in concern, and he steps forward.
The air between us feels heavy, thick with the weight of unanswered questions.
“Petra, I don’t know who this man is to you, but I can assure you he is not from around here.
And he definitely does not work around here.
Not as a cop. Not even as a security guard. Not even at Taco Bell.”
“We don’t have a Taco Bell,” Bill says.
“That’s why I know he don’t work there,” Louie responds.
The certainty in his tone makes my stomach turn.
Louie’s eyes are sharp, searching mine for some kind of explanation, but I have none to offer.
“Me and Bill know everything about everyone in this town,” he continues, his voice firm but not unkind.
“Unless they’re here on vacation in one of the cabins.
” His words hang in the air like a warning, a truth I’m not ready to accept.
“But I own most of those, and he’s not one of my current guests. ”
If they know everything about everyone in town, and they don’t know Saint, then where the hell did Saint come from?
I shake my head, refusing to believe what Louie’s telling me.
And that, coupled with the fact that I thought he knew Saint, but now he’s saying he doesn’t, makes me question my own sanity.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and the questions are swirling faster and faster, making it difficult to think straight. If Saint isn’t a detective, what is he?
My mind backtracks, sifting through every conversation we’ve had, every detail he’s shared about his life.
How could he have lied so convincingly?
Where did he come from?
How could I have been so blind?
I glance between Bill and Louie, my pulse racing, my hands shaking.
How do these two not know who he is? They’re acting like Saint doesn’t exist, like the man I’ve been spending my nights with is some kind of ghost. But he’s real.
I’ve kissed him. I’ve touched him. I’ve slept next to him.
He can’t just be a figment of my imagination.
The questions begin to pile up, one after the other, overwhelming me. Why was the police chase not written about in the paper? That night was real—there were flashing lights and a detective at my door. I can still see it all in my mind, clear as day.
How could something like that happen and there be no trace? How could Louie, who lives on the same road, not have heard about it? How could he not have met Saint when Mari was woken up by the same commotion?
I feel like I might be sick from all the unanswered questions, the uncertainty tightening around my throat.
Without another word, I push open the door and rush outside, back into the storm.
I can hear Louie calling after me, his voice full of concern, but I don’t turn around.
I walk straight to my car, my hands trembling as I fumble for my keys.
The sound of the car door slamming rings in my ears, but I barely register it.
My mind is too full, too chaotic to focus on anything other than making it to the cabin.
I don’t bother getting gas. I can’t think that far ahead right now.
I only have one thing on my agenda as I drive.
Mari.