1. Chapter One
Time is a funny thing. The worst moment of my life is so fresh in my memory, but twenty-six years is an entire lifetime to be away from her. I was eight years old when she vanished. Long enough to remember her, but not long enough to hang on to the details.
There’s a sign outside the entrance to the long, overgrown driveway that leads to the cabin. It reads, NO TRE3PA33ING with inverted S's. Below the sign is a little alien ship attacking Earth, although I'm not sure how ominous any would-be trespassers think it is.
I turn my Jeep off of the main logging road and drive down the gravel entrance, which snakes around giant pine trees and wildflowers. Weeds grow amongst the rocks, cracking them apart and taking their place. After the last set of evergreens, the vegetation grows thin and the driveway opens up into a clearing in front of the cabin. The old place sits on a hill overlooking a small pond that ripples in the early summer breeze.
My hands shake involuntarily as I pull the Jeep next to the cedar log cabin. The old beams of sunlight stream through the branches of the pines and oaks, creating an oasis of light in a patchwork of darkness. I place the vehicle in park and shut off the engine. So many years. I slide my trembling hands under my thighs in an attempt to steady them and lean against the headrest before closing my eyes.
I thought I'd never come back here again, let alone find the place, but somehow my heart knew the way. The police tape around the weather-warped porch has faded to a warm, soft yellow color reminiscent of a baby chick.
This is where I last saw Mom.
She went out to catch breakfast at the little bluegill-stocked pond on our property. She hadn't returned by the time I woke up, so I went to look for her. The fish was good that time of year, and she wanted to fry up a batch of fresh fish cakes for dinner that night. Her fishing pole and tackle box sat next to her chair, but she wasn’t there. They never found my mom, and with no dad around, they sent me to foster care.
Now I'm back at the place where my entire world fell apart.
But there’s a bud of hope blooming in my chest when I open my eyes and turn my gaze to the small brown package, still untouched, sitting on my front passenger seat.
Whenever I’m traveling the world, my best friend Hannah receives mail for me and lets me know what bills I have. When she got this package, she forwarded it to the concierge at the Minneapolis airport so I could fly back from the Amazon and see if this leads me to more clues at the cabin.
When I relax my hands and slow my breathing, I reach for the box and place the parcel on my lap. After taking a few deep breaths—like my former therapist taught me—I use the Jeep key to pierce the packing tape Hannah placed around it. I pull out the white slip of paper and worry my lip while reading the scrawling print.
Lana,
I'm sorry I didn't send this to you sooner. This was in your mother's things, and Annabelle would want you to have it now .
Love,
D
The handwriting is unfamiliar. I set the mysterious letter on my seat and unfold the cream-colored tissue paper at the bottom of the box. Nestled within it is the key that Hannah told me about. The new key in my hand is strange; its handle a deep, dark metal with a pattern of blue and red gemstones embedded in the surface, too many to count. It almost seems to vibrate with energy, ricocheting through my limbs.
Not an ordinary key, indeed.
I turn it over in my hand and trace the intricate details with my finger. Tilting my head back against the headrest, I vaguely remember my mom having a similar key, but this isn’t hers.
I remember little about hers, other than its weight and the pearly sheen that glimmered in the light. When I had friends over, we’d spark our imaginations, dreaming up stories of how her key could open any door in any house. Mom wasn’t too keen on my fascination with it and would insist I be gentle with it.
Now, I have a similar key of my own, but who sent it? An array of small, vibrant blue and red gems adorns the entire handle. There are far too many to count, and I have a strange suspicion these might not be ordinary gems.
Palming the key in my hand, I grab my backpack from the floor of the passenger seat and toss the letter, box, and tissue paper inside. Stepping out of the Jeep, my gaze lands on the aged humble abode I spent every summer in during my youth. After twenty-six years of neglect, the wood is weathering, and a pang of guilt hits my stomach that I haven't been back to look after the place.
I grip the police tape and ball it up before shoving it into my jacket pocket, cursing as thunder cracks in the distance. I look up. The sky is blue, but along the horizon, storm clouds threaten to drop a lot of rain.
I cup my hand over my eyes as I peer into the glass on the wooden door. Inside the cabin everything is just as it was when I left it; in the kitchen is an oak table where my mom and I would roll out dough for biscuits. One of the legs is a little shorter than the others and makes a wobbling sound when you rest your elbows on it. Part of me thought Mom did that on purpose so I wouldn’t.
Standing back from the door again, I eye the keyhole, slightly larger than a dime. The door is a dark green, with a large brass knob in the center. I've come too far not to try it.
I position the key against the hole, not sure if it will fit. The key feels warm and tingles in my hand. What is happening?
A black barrel sprouts from the bottom of the keyhole and darts around like an insect. It starts to spin faster and faster, like a drill bit, the sound of metal sliding against metal. Just as quickly as it began, it stops, exhaling a puff of smoke and leaving a hole large enough for me to fit my pinky finger through. I glance around the property in disbelief, wondering how someone pulled such an elaborate prank on me. And why ?
At first, the key doesn't look like it will fit. I push on it anyway, and the bit shrinks and slides into the keyhole perfectly. I turn the key, and it rotates smoothly in my hand as the door unlocks. I push the door open, and it creaks with almost thirty years of disuse.
No ordinary key, indeed, I think again before placing it in my jacket pocket.
With my hand on the doorknob, I step over the threshold and close the rustic, wooden door behind me as I take in my familiar surroundings. It’s like stepping into a time capsule: the worn pine floorboards, the fieldstone fireplace with lopsided cinder blocks for hearthstones, and the red and purple oval rug made from old t-shirts draped in front of it. On particularly chilly nights, I'd fall asleep on the rug while playing with my dolls. By morning, my mom had scooped me up and placed me in bed.
I glance over at the kitchen. The old oak table that had been covered in so much spilled food and craft projects as a child is still here, and the cabinet with glass doors is still above it. Inside there are all my old school photos, ribbons, and medals .
I step over to my rocking chair and stare at the ashes in the hearth, long cold, as a melancholic ache crushes my chest. In front of the fireplace is my white stuffed gorilla I named Kongo after watching it in theaters. Thinking back on it, I was far too young to see it, but Mom let me anyway. She’d given this to me when I got my tonsils and adenoids taken out. It kept me company through many late-night bedtime stories, where she’d read me R.L. Stine books until I was old enough to read them myself. All of my Barbie dolls are still stacked next to it in an unceremonious heap.
The cabin isn't huge but it's big enough for two people; a tiny kitchen, a Queen-sized bed, a twin-sized bed, and a couple of rocking chairs placed in front of the fireplace along the opposite wall.
The entire property is off-grid, and there are still a few logs in the holder next to the fireplace, but I will need to gather some more firewood if I plan on being comfortable tonight. This far North, thunderstorms can often welcome evenings just on this side of cold. After bringing in the rest of my bags and the supplies, I look for the ax we kept here for chopping wood and I find it in our tall cabinet in the kitchen.
Walking outside, a dark gray rain jacket on, and new hiking boots squeaking on the soggy overgrown path that wraps around the cabin, I make a mental note to clean the leaves off it in the morning.
In the shed I find protective glasses and a splitting wedge, which will make my job a lot easier. With the storm headed this way, I don’t have much time to get the job done. I'm happy to find a felled black walnut tree nearby. Mom always hated them, and not because they dropped huge green husks that fell from them and clogged up our push mower.
I spend forty-five minutes chopping wood, resting on my knees every thirty seconds. It’s the same thing I do when I travel so people don’t see me huffing and puffing while climbing the hills of Riomaggiore. Only then, I turn around and snap pictures so it looks like I’m meaning to stop, and not just out of breath.
So, I might be a little more than out of shape.
The sky darkens until it’s difficult to tell when one log splits into two, and that’s when I give myself permission to stop. The first of the raindrops hit my cheeks, helping cool my overheated skin. Exhaustion takes over me after the back-breaking labor and carrying the split logs into the cabin to nestle in the wood holder next to the fireplace. I contemplate heading straight to bed, but a rumble in my stomach warns me otherwise.
I didn’t know how hungry I was until I smell the smoky, spiced scent that now tickles my nostrils. I follow the odor around the side of the cabin, straining to find the source of the smell. And then I whip my head up when I hear the crunch of gravel out front.
As I approach the front of the cabin, I spy a tall, shadowy figure stalking up the driveway, and I freeze mid-stride. Ice bubbling to the surface of my blood, I stand still, like a deer caught in the sights of a predator, more afraid than I’ve ever been. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and the fading light of day, coupled with the storm right near us, gives the area an ominous feel.
Who on Earth is here?
"I'm sorry for frightening you, Sahira ." He has an accent that I can't quite place, and his voice is like liquid honey.
"Who … who are you?" I fumble to turn on the flashlight on my phone.
I point the beam of light at the figure, slowly closing the gap between us. In front of me is a man built like a granite mountain, and I glance around for any sign of another person.
The second I determine he’s alone, my eyes lock onto him, drinking in every detail as if my life depended on it—and it might—his jet-black hair resting across his forehead, terra cotta skin, and dark eyelashes that frame striking blue eyes, like gemstones caught in the light of the setting sun.
He appears to be in his early thirties, his complexion flawless enough to pass for a professional model on any magazine cover. Paired with his tailored suit, so at odds with the Northern woods, he appears as though someone plucked him from the pages and deposited him in my path.
My heart thrashes in my chest at the intensity radiating from his gaze. Raw emotion flashes across his face, as though I were the answer to every question, prayer, and hope he’s ever had. I feel undressed in front of him, like my soul is laid bare before him and he cradles it carefully in his hands. I’m overpowered by a flood of emotions so powerful I can barely breathe.
I should be afraid and curse myself for leaving my ax by the chopping block. Instead, I continue to freeze where I'm at, staring far longer than is acceptable for a first encounter.
The man standing before me is more than just beautiful. He’s exquisite. My mouth hangs open slightly as I take in his well-defined arms hidden underneath his tight two-piece suit, his lean waist, and the way his strong legs take root in the ground below him. He must be well over six feet, and his broad shoulders hold a confidence I don’t feel right now.
My eyes travel to his face. He has a dark, sun-drenched look to him that makes me think he's from the Middle East, although his blue eyes suggest I might not understand what the hell I'm talking about.
Is he an investigator? Did Hannah let them know about the box I received?
The corners of his mouth curl up, revealing a brilliant straight set of teeth, radiating kindness. Like a warm embrace, I’m overcome with a feeling of peace, one I don’t fully understand. How could his smile be so captivating and comforting? Was it the soft twinkle in his eye or the slight curve of his lips? I’m aware I should be afraid, but instead, I feel a strange sense of safety, especially as the intensity in his eyes fades.
I angle my body toward the man on the driveway, giving a little wave as I push my long, tangled hair behind my ears. My rain jacket hangs open, and that’s when I notice my oversized t-shirt and black leggings are covered in dust and small bits of wood. I desperately need a shower and my muscles ache from chopping wood. I should run for the ax, not get lost in this stranger's eyes.
"I'm Osgood Finlandian, but you can call me Oz. I own a cabin down the road and thought I'd check out the place after I drove by and saw tire tracks leading here. No one's been here in a good twenty-five years, so I wanted to make sure people weren't breaking in."
Twenty-five years? While true, the man in front of me can't be over thirty-five or forty. I don't recall any other kids living nearby when I was little. Unless you count the occasional family staying at the campgrounds between here and the entrance to the forest.
"Thanks for looking in on the place. I'm Lana Chapman-Sawyer. This is my cabin, but I haven't been here since I was a kid." I'm still wary of the stranger in front of me.
"Ah, okay." He runs a hand through his thick, jaw-length hair. "You're the woman whose mom disappeared here ... I'm sorry."
And there it is—the inevitable moment when people remember the scared little girl whose mom vanished. My stomach flip-flops at the idea that this beautiful stranger knows about the absolute worst event of my entire life. It broke me, and I've spent the rest of my life trying to find the pieces again.
"Yeah,” I absentmindedly toe gravel at my feet. “I was eight when she disappeared. I'm back to piece together what might have happened to her." No sense in hiding the story; he already knows it.
Everyone did.
"Would you like some help? My family has owned a lot of this forest for several centuries, and I don't think there’s another person alive who can navigate these woods better than I do."
I think about that for a moment, digesting Oz’s offer, and consider the odds. Investigators spent years trying to figure out what happened to Mom, to no avail, so I could use the help. Besides, despite being startled when Oz first arrived, I believe I can trust this man. My intuition has never steered me wrong before.
"Actually, that would be great. Thank you. Uh … I'd invite you in, but I haven't settled in yet, and I'm still trying to find my bearings." Glancing at the storm, I wince. The nice thing would be to invite him in, especially as the rain picks up, but I’m still hesitant.
While I don't have a lot of belongings, my stuff litters the table and both of the beds. I'm also very certain that the bra I'd taken off and flung across the room as soon as I got in the cabin is on full display somewhere on the floor. With that realization, I throw my arms over my chest and zip my jacket.
Oz averts his eyes. "Not a problem, Lana. Would you like to come over to my place, and we can map out a game plan? I've got a hot shower. You can freshen up while I make us something to eat. You've had a long day from the looks of it."
Ouch . Was he admitting I look like shit? Despite my embarrassment over my disheveled state, the idea of being close to him stirs up something inside me.
"I'd kill for a hot shower, thank you. Let me grab a few things really quick.” I start walking away but hesitate, turning back to meet his gaze. “Just wait here, okay?”
He inclines his head, and I pivot on one leg before bolting up the creaking porch steps to the cabin, taking them two at a time. Adrenaline courses through me as I slip on the top step, and in a horrifying second, I stumble. My arms stretch outward, desperate for something to grab onto, but instead of the unforgiving ground, my hands meet those of a stranger. He catches me as I trip, his muscled arms holding me steady. His skin is cold, but his touch sears through me like fire, blazing a path through my chest before pooling low in my belly.
Oz helps right me, and I dust myself off. He saves my dignity and doesn't say a word. Mortified, I run into the cabin to grab my stuff, and after shutting the door, I shrink down against it.
Well, that was freaking embarrassing.
I collect myself against the door, but then I remember Oz is still waiting outside for me, so I dart across the room, grabbing clean clothes and some toiletries. I pause my hand over my makeup bag and consider whether I should bother putting on makeup after I shower. He's seen me at my worst, and it is late in the evening. I don't want him thinking that I'm trying to impress him.
I mean, I am trying to impress him, but I don't want him actually knowing that.
Who am I kidding? Of course I’m going to put makeup on. Sure, he's probably not interested, but I can always bring my best self, right? Maybe this man likes thick chicks, and we'll spend the evening rutting in the woods.
A wicked grin crosses my face, and I grab the makeup bag and toss it in my backpack. Careful, Oz; I'm a man-eater when I have my hair and makeup done. With that thought still on my mind, I exit the cabin, locking the door behind me.
A grin spreads across Oz’s face, and his two eyebrows rise in unison. "All set?"
The air between us is perfumed sweet with a hint of spice and vanilla, so I take a deep breath through my nose before I respond. Perhaps it’s the wildflowers at the side of the house.
I give him a nod, and we start down the long driveway. Now that I’m side-by-side with Oz, a breeze sends another aroma up my nose of Earth and elemental, which is likely the storm that seems to be holding out on us. I can't help but take a deep breath to inhale more.
As the leaves and gravel crunch beneath our feet, I gaze down at Oz's leather shoes. Why is he dressed so nicely out here? They're huge and had to have cost more than my entire outfit combined.
"Size fifteen." Oz quirks an eyebrow at me.
I glance down at my boots. “I thought I had big feet.”
He smirks. “Where were you before you came back to the cabin?"
Do I explain that after my adoptive parents died, I had an early mid-life crisis and sold everything I owned so I could escape and travel the world? That, since then, I’ve traveled through much of Europe, Central, and South America, hitching rides on boats and buses and clinging to the sides of trucks? I'm not sure if he's ready for that level of crazy yet. Instead, I tell him about South America.
"I was traveling in Colombia for a bit, and I stayed near Leticia in the Amazon Rainforest, right off the Amazon River."
"I spent a lot of time in that area, so I'm familiar with the Amazon. ?Habla Espanol?"
"No. I took Spanish, but I remember little. Are you fluent?"
"I speak a few languages, and I've done a lot of traveling. I have business dealings all over the world."
As a free-spirited person, I feel even more inadequate learning those things about Oz, and I can only imagine what he thinks of me now. The gal who got an MBA only to give up a lucrative corporate job in pursuit of adventure.
The rain starts, and I pull my hood up. Oz plucks a black umbrella out of the inside pocket of his coat. We continue small talk and walk another half mile, wedged together under his umbrella until we reach the entrance to his cabin's driveway. He starts up the pavement, and I follow suit, but there's no cabin in view at all, although I spy light through the trees. My nerves stir a little.
"It's about a quarter-mile walk. Are you going to be alright?" He eyes my obviously brand-new, never-been-scuffed-before hiking boots.
I tell him to press on, although my heels are chafing.
Eventually, the "cabin" comes into view. The only word that comes close to describing this place is “compound.” His definition of cabin and my definition of cabin differ wildly. His definition is grand, mine simple; he focuses on what you can see, I on what you cannot but feel.
The jack pine trees standing between me and the lodge-like building are so tall that I can’t see their canopy in the dark. Each window of the place is at least twenty feet high, and a single door—just as big—sits at the front.
It’s beautiful, and it fits him. Though, the idea of Oz living here, alone, in this seclusion doesn’t make sense to me. Where are his friends? His family? If anything, it stirs a deep sadness in my chest.
Is he alone, too?
Embarrassed, Oz admits he got a little carried away when designing the place.
His cabin is resplendent in forest green with warm wooden beams. I step back and crane my neck to take it all in. The wood is stained a deep oak color, and the roof is made of cedar, which softens the security lights that filter through the trees. Scents of dirt and moss tickle my nose.
I can’t breathe, can’t think of anything but the big, lonely home in front of me. Yes, it’s warm and inviting, but are the halls hollow and free of the pitter patter of little feet? Do the walls hold a lifetime of memories, or secrets of sorrow, too?
The wooden front door and the window frames, even the roof beams look as if they’ve been whittled by hand. Understanding dawns on me now. Each and every square inch of this place is meticulously crafted, with a heart and an artisan’s soul. Details I’d been too na?ve to notice now come alive. From the driveway, this place is foreboding and a little cold. But up close? At the heart of it?
This is Oz.
My feet carry me up the stairs, and my heart places me somewhere I never thought I’d be again—home.
Wait, home ? I shake my head. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t know this man, nor have I ever been inside his home. And I definitely didn’t know this place sat right next door until today.
He holds the door open. "After you."
As I step inside, a cool gust of wind rushes through the side of my hair, billowing it back. Oz steps around me and takes my jacket from me, and places it in a closet near the front door. A glow of firelight warms the cold moisture off the marble floor as I step in.
I am at his house . This is a big house, but I can feel the warmth from the decor, which echoes sentiments of an old world gone by. A vintage chandelier, its beaded chain dripping with crystals, hangs from the vaulted ceiling and casts light upon the entry. All around the walls hang artwork, its curator one with a unique eye for the past and how it could inform the present.
My eye catches a painting across the foyer, and I step closer to capture a better look at the artwork. The painting is of a curvy woman, dressed in nothing but a sheer blanket draped around her ample bosom and tiny waist. My face heats at the signature in the bottom right corner of the canvas— O. Finlandian, painted in big loopy swoops.
He painted this woman, stroke by stroke, with such passion she seems to come alive under his brush.
Lucky girl . I pull at my filthy shirt, feeling like an intruder in my dirty clothes, and ask Oz to show me to the bathroom so I can shower.
He walks me past the expansive kitchen, where I inhale the smells of baking bread, up the wooden stairs, and down to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. It has a standalone, deep jetted tub along one wall and a marble-tiled walk-in shower along the other.
Oz flicks on the towel warmer and sets a very fluffy bath sheet along the top bar. "Do you want a towel for your hair, too?"
He must spend a lot of time around long-haired women, but probably not enough time around curly-haired ones. "No thanks. Because I have curly hair, I usually wrap it in a t-shirt to dry."
At that, he inclines his head, leaves the room, and returns with one of his t-shirts.
"Oh, you don't have to … "
"I insist." He extends his arm towards me, the t-shirt clutched in his hand.
I reluctantly take his shirt from him and set it on top of the towel, giving my thanks. He leaves the room, and I lock the door.
Foolish to be here, in a stranger's house using their shower, but let's not push it by leaving the door unlocked. I won’t make it easier for him to murder me.
After undressing, I pick up his shirt, hold it up to my face, and inhale deeply. It was him earlier; that intoxicating aroma of earth, vanilla, spice, and an elemental sort of scent reminding me of thunderstorms.
My mind races with a million questions. What kind of crazy am I, drawn to a stranger like this? I want to trust him, but at the same time, he has that irresistible charm that all the women in true crime documentaries fall for. Still, he has a lovely Burberry-scented body and a face that could make even an angel cry.
Or sin.
Those pants of his hug his sculpted thighs so tightly, and I’d be a fool to not be attracted to him. I wonder if he's as into me as I am him?
Gods help me.