CHAPTER 1 BIANCA
A log in the fireplace pops. I jump, almost dropping my phone. My hand won’t stop shaking.
“Stop being so skittish, Bia,” I mutter. “You’ve gotta chill out or you’ll ruin the romantic vibe before he even gets here.”
Right.
Romantic vibe.
I scan the cabin’s ground floor, cringing at the giant stain on the back of the sofa and the way the area rug is worn completely through in at least four—no, make that five spots.
None of that was pictured on the rental website.
It doesn’t matter how many candles I’ve brought. No amount of mood lighting is going to make Christopher think this place is romantic. Not after I swore a cozy cabin in the woods would be way more atmospheric than a business hotel in the center of Chicago. He’s never going to let me live this down.
Maybe he won’t notice if I turn off all the lights and wait by the fire wearing nothing but my new lingerie?
I’m halfway to my overnight bag when another sound makes me stop. Not a pop like before, but something louder, coming from outside.
I stare at the rickety front door, holding my breath as I confirm what I already know: it is locked. I locked the knob, and the deadbolt, and slid the chain into place myself. Those were pictured accurately on the website, thank God, otherwise I’d never have considered this place to begin with.
If anyone or anything is out there, they’ll have to get through that locked door to get in here. And get through Christopher if they want to get to me. Assuming he ever shows up.
I loosen my death grip on my phone and check the screen. No texts. No missed calls. No voicemail messages. I’m about to open the messaging app when the sound comes again. Something mechanical, metallic. Like a car.
Relief bubbles my chest. You’re being such an idiot, Bia. Worrying about nothing.
It’s traffic I hear, a car on the road below the cabin’s driveway. Duh. Obviously.
I shrug off my unease, ignoring the chill that no fire can chase away.
It’s just Christopher coming up the drive. Nothing suspicious or scary or life-threatening.
A conviction that crumbles when his car never appears.
He’s more than an hour late. I know he hates me calling when he’s driving but, fuck it, he’s going to have to deal this one time. Three rings, four. His voicemail is just about to click on when he finally answers. “Shit, B. What is it?”
He’s breathless and annoyed and it makes me feel even crappier about being in this drafty cabin all alone. “Hi. Sorry…” I hate that I say it, but it’s become a habit with him. A way to circumvent his bitching before he starts. “It’s just, I’m wondering—when do you think you’re going to get here?”
“Here?” There’s a pause, like he’s thinking. “What are you talking about? Where’s here?”
“Our weekend away, remember?” The silence on the other end says he doesn’t. “You know—a cozy cabin in the woods, curling up by the fire, getting away from it all for a few days? We booked it for this weekend, Christopher. I sent you the address, you said you’d meet me after work. I’m already here…”
There’s another beat before the penny drops. “Oh, shit, B. I completely forgot.”
Don’t yell. Don’t shout at him. You want to. You really, really want to, but just…don’t. It won’t do any good anyway. He’ll just get annoyed that I’m mad and that will kick off another argument and this whole trip is about reconnecting, not driving each other further away.
“It’s okay. No problem. We’ve got all weekend.” I force a cheerful lilt into my voice. “If you leave the city now, you’ll be here in a few hours. Still plenty of time for a romantic late-night dinner in front of the fire before, you know—”
Christopher cuts me off before I can even hint at the sexy new lingerie I packed. “Babe, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m on my way to the airport. I have to catch a flight tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. I have to be in Paris in the morning.”
“Paris? In the morning?” My voice gets squeakier with every question. “You’re flying out tonight?”
“Yeah, babe. That’s what I just said.”
“But—” But what about all the plans I made and the food I packed and the body hair I waxed off and the time we’re supposed to spend together away from his job and my classes and the threatening packages that keep showing up at my apartment…?
I don’t say any of that. Instead, it’s a weak, “But I haven’t seen you in weeks and we’re supposed to spend the weekend together. You promised.”
Christopher curses and I recoil, shrinking away from the phone.
“Sorry, B. Some asshole just cut me off. Fucking idiots. Anyway, I’m sorry about the weekend.
I really am. I’ll make it up to you when I get back.
Promise. But now I gotta go—” He’s still talking, but I can tell he’s done with our conversation.
Action item: Cancel inconvenient romantic weekend with girlfriend
Status: Complete
“Yeah, okay. I understand,” I say, feeling utterly deflated. “Have a safe flight. Let me know when you land. Love you.” The line goes dead before I get in that last part.
Right. Guess I don’t need to worry about the romantic vibe now.
Shit.
I stare blindly at the cabin wall, clueless about what to do next.
I understand Christopher’s work is important to him, I do.
His ambition and commitment to his career are two of the things that drew me to him in the first place.
He’s making a life for himself in the city.
Working really hard at something he loves.
Just like I’m trying to do by going to culinary school and interning at any and every cafe and restaurant that will have me.
But work isn’t everything. Ambition can’t be the be all and end all.
I want a partner who cares about me, and wants to spend time with me, and doesn’t forget about the first quality time we’ve planned to spend together in three freaking months.
And I really wish I hadn’t spent what was left of this month’s budget on renting the cabin and buying all the ingredients to make Christopher’s favorite meals.
I’m deep in wallow-mode when a new sound grabs my attention. It’s closer to the front door this time, and not like a machine moving. Like a human moaning.
Fear sets in. Deep, cold, certain.
Christopher isn’t coming. I’m all alone in this place, stuck out in the middle of nowhere on the edge of a town I can barely remember the name of. And someone is definitely outside.
I approach the front door. There’s a small window in the upper portion covered by a thin pleated curtain. Heart in my throat, I pull back that curtain just enough to peek outside.
The cabin’s porch is tiny, a postage-sized rectangle with a wonky roof held up by wooden posts. A gust of wind sends the outside lamp swinging, the chain creaking under the strain. The weak glow stumbles across the uneven wood planks.
Giant snowflakes have started to fall. They’re coming down fast. Even with the rickety roof, the porch floor is already coated a solid white.
For one second I let myself believe the noise somehow came from the snow. Or the strain of the porch roof trying to withstand the wind. They are delusions I cling to until I see the footsteps. And the blood.
Ice settles beneath my skin, saliva pooling in my mouth like I’m about to be sick.
This can’t be happening. Only Lucy and Christopher know where I am. Bile burns the back of my throat, the fear too thick to swallow down. How the hell did he find me?
A man steps under the light. He’s a patchwork of dark leather and shadows and blood. A lot of blood.
I stumble back on a choked scream. The man pounds against the door, making it shake in its frame.
“Go away!” The words are sandpaper in my throat.
Another thud.
“I’m calling the police! I-I’ve got a weapon!” I run to the fireplace and grab the poker.
There’s another thud, then…nothing. Through the gauzy curtain I can still see the shape of him. He’s large and looming and blocks out almost all of the porch’s light.
I tip-toe closer, holding the poker out in front of me. “Leave me alone! Just… just leave. Before the police get here.”
“I’d love to,” comes a voice from the other side. It’s low, ragged. Pained. “Fuck, I really would, I just need a little help and I’m outta here.”
Help?
As fucking if.
I use the poker to pull aside the curtain, the pointy end aimed right at him.
His head is pressed against the glass, giving me a clear view of the wicked cut running along his hairline.
Blood has matted his dark hair and painted angry streaks down one side of his face.
I catch a flash of stormy eyes before his lids drop, his jaw locked against another groan.
“What happened to you?”
His mouth moves but it takes a second for sound to come out. “An accident.”
God, he could be lying. He probably is lying. It could be a self-inflicted wound to make me feel sorry for him. To get me to lower my guard and let him inside. “What kind of accident?”
He’s so close to the window I can see his throat tense around a tight breath.
“A crash. Down there.” He shifts his head in the direction of the road.
The movement throws him off balance. He slumps even harder against the door.
“I-I—” Whatever he’s about to say morphs into a language I don’t understand.
The words are low, angry, and with every one his face gets even paler.
“I can’t just let you in. It would be insanely stupid for me to let a man I don’t know into my house. In the dark. During a snowstorm. That’s straight out of Horror Movie Survival 101.”
He tilts his face and, at this angle, I swear I see him try to smile. It turns into a grimace a half a breath later. “Wouldn’t know. Don’t spend a lotta time watching movies.”
“Another reason for you to stay out there, and me in here.”
“Are you really deciding…on whether or not…to help me…based on my movie watching habits?” His breathing is getting more and more labored. Even from the other side of the door I can see how much talking is taking its toll.
I grip the poker harder, even as my fingers hover over the chain. “No. No, obviously not. I’m just—”
“Scared. Yeah, I get it. The situation isn’t ideal for either of us. Believe me. But I’m not going to cause any trouble. I just need a second to catch my breath and make a phone call. That’s it.”
God, he’s going to pass out on the porch. His face has gone almost completely white, the blood on his forehead stark in contrast. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” His promise is weak but audible.
This is a horrible idea. An epically stupid idea.
On a scale of one to ten of bad ideas, it’s a solid thirty, minimum.
I’ve spent the last few months trying to escape a threat.
Inviting a brand spanking new one into the house is insane.
But I can’t let him freeze to death out there.
There’s no way I want a corpse on my conscience.
“Fine.” I wave my fire poker at him through the window. “You can come in for one minute. That’s it. And if you do anything even remotely suspicious, I’m going to use this.”
“I expect nothing less.”
Palms sweaty, I unfasten the locks and open the door.