Chapter seven
Snow falls in enormous, luxurious, pure white flakes, fluttering about the hazy morning and laying down silken blankets of white around the cabin.
But even as I stand at the railing of the cabin’s wooden porch, a piping hot cup of coffee in my hands, watching the beautiful promise of new beginnings in their creation, evil pierces the eerie quiet enveloping me.
I can almost feel it clawing a bloody, violent path toward me through the layers of new powder.
Christmas and New Year’s have come and gone.
Ten days, to be exact.
That’s how long it’s been since my awakening on that nightmare day in court, when I learned I’d helped a brutal killer walk free, but nothing has changed.
Neither I nor Jeremy have been located by anyone who might be looking for us, but I can’t escape the feeling that no matter who hunts for us both, it’s him who will find me. Him who will never let me go.
The quiet stretches long and wide in the way it does, with Mother Nature busy creating silken, light fluff almost too perfect to not be painted with her magical brush.
But inside the depths of that quiet is an almost eerie echo of absolutely nothing, allowing my thoughts and fears to scream without obstruction or distraction.
He’s coming, my instincts scream at me. He’s coming.
The sky dims, the orb of the sun hidden deep in the haze as the light fades to darkness, with no streak of gold, blue, or orange to announce its departure.
I scan my surroundings, battling the deep, nagging certainty that has been haunting me for several hours at this point that Jeremy is already here.
The fact that Hulk, who is resourceful beyond the measures I suspect I’d approve, cannot find him is unnerving.
I reassure myself that my parents are the only ones who know I’m here, and not because I wanted to tell them.
Because my father’s voicemails grew more and more aggressive and almost threatening in tone, filled with promises that he’d return to the States to find me.
I suspect there’s so much talk about me and the case right now, he feels he needs to be in the know in some way.
Or it’s just his usual bluster. One of his opposing councils once called him “an expert bluster fucker,” and he had a hat made with that printed across it.
I thought then, as I do now, that his bluster is the definition of his parenting style.
Case in point, after my courtroom attack, when he’d told Oliver they were looking for flights to come home, they didn’t come home.
Nevertheless, I’d called my parents and told them all is well while weaving a story about accepting one of the many offers I’d received to write a book about Jeremy’s case.
As for Oliver, we’ve emailed back and forth, and I’ve fed him the same fairy tale of me being an attorney turned novelist. Only it’s not fully a fairy tale.
I am writing the book about Jeremy, my way of rehashing my files and trying to figure out what went wrong.
Of course, I realize now—in this moment and stupidly ten days into this mess, like I’m not a smart person—I haven’t once considered that we live in the age of technology.
I’ve used my cellphone and internet, and it’s safe to assume that means Hulk will know where I am, which also translates to the very real possibility Jeremy could possess such skills as well.
I have no way of knowing but at least anyone who wants to find me has to work for it and will likely leave their own electronic footprint.
With that idea in mind, I sit my butt down in a rocking chair before I dial Hulk.
“I still haven’t found Jeremy,” he answers in anticipation of my question.
I guess I might call him rather excessively, every single day.
Actually, no might about it. I do. I have.
And I will continue to. “Just stay where you are. It’s a good spot. ”
My eyes rip across the horizon toward the dirt road leading to the cabin, and I ask, “Do you know where I am?”
“Yes. I tracked you.”
Cotton clogs up my throat and sticks to the roof of my mouth. “Can he find me?”
“He’s not me, and most people aren’t, but any idea he might come for you is a new premise, not previously discussed. If you think he’s coming for you, honey, I’ll come get you and put you up someplace he can’t find you.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“You don’t think?” he demands. “This isn’t something to ‘think.’ You need to know.”
“I’m fine. Just please find him.” I hang up, certain that if Hulk comes here, he’ll die. Certain I have more of a chance of surviving alone.
I’m staying here, with no one else in the line of fire.
It’s the right choice, at least for now, but I need to shift from research to planning.
I can’t explain my visions of Jeremy’s victims, but without question, they’re devastatingly real.
That means that I have to find a way to explain his guilt, to prove it, in fact, or anyone I ask for help will think I’m crazy.
Maybe I’ll enlist a team that will find victims we’re not aware of, victims that will result in him being charged and back on trial.
And this time, I vow, I’ll join the DA’s office and ensure Jeremy ends up behind bars.
The DA will love the attention my switching sides will deliver, but I won’t care.
I just want Jeremy in captivity. The answers I seek must be in my case files.
They have to be. I have something on Jeremy—something buried in the evidence.
A sense of urgency drives me to my feet.
Thunder rumbles in the far distance, the gentleness of the snow showers transforming into thundersnow, darkening the shadows and stirring the wind, transforming the calm into unsettled mischief.
A light pierces the horizon, bobbing along the dirt path leading to the cabin.
My heart jackhammers, and my gaze follows the light as it tracks down the mountainside, and I’m acutely aware that the solitude that has become my sanity is about to end.
But it’s not Jeremy.
Jeremy is already here.
I shake myself with the ridiculous idea that came out of nowhere, my arms fold in front of me, a shelter of sorts.
I knew I couldn’t stay here forever. I am even objective enough to know that I’ve been avoiding the very real possibility that I am losing my mind, or even worse, that I already have.
Headlights flicker with the bumps of uneven terrain, and I freeze with the sudden déjà vu of prickling on the back of my neck, of the hair standing up on my arms. I brace myself for what comes next, knowing instinctively what is happening to me.
Just like it had in the courtroom when Jeremy had touched me, ice rips down my spine, the sensation tearing through me with so much force that I barely manage to contain a scream.
I have no idea why, but I reach for my cup, and coffee slops over my hands, but I hold on, squeezing the cup with a viselike grip, a subzero chill rushing over me, consuming me.
Thankfully, the effect fades quickly, leaving me holding my breath with no vision to follow.
It’s as if something internal warns me of trouble, as if the ice tries to shield me from the fires of hell.
I pant out a breath, and somehow my mug is on the porch, shattered into tiny broken pieces, and I wonder if it’s a replica of my mind.
My gaze flicks to the vast expanse of the woods, and I fight the urge to run.
Headlights near, closing in on me and my impending escape—it’s truly now or never.
Stay or run.
I’m still standing on the cabin’s porch, frozen in place, when the approaching car’s lights flicker at the entrance to the driveway.
My feet don’t move, seemingly sealed in cement and locked in place.
Some part of my mind operates as if I’m an observer of a horror movie and the audience is screaming, “Are you nuts? Don’t just stand there! ”
Isn’t that the point? I think again. I probably am nuts, certifiable in fact, but clearly, I’m not straitjacket material just yet because my sense of self-preservation lives on.
I won’t survive the woods, and there’s nowhere else to hide.
I turn and dart inside the cabin, slamming the door shut behind me and locking it before tugging off my fur-lined white hat to let my hair flow in a wild mess around my shoulders.
I drop the hat on the wooden dining chair to my right, and my coat follows.
Remarkably calm now, I head to the kitchen and behind the bar that divides it from the living area.
I pause at the ceramic sink and illogically take the time to wipe the mess of the spill off my hands, ignoring the sting lingering from the subzero attack on my skin.
Somehow, despite this, my hands are unnaturally clammy, and I run them down my jean-clad legs before opening the dark wood of the cabinet above me and surveying the contents inside.
After a quick glance, I locate the Folgers coffee can well-hidden behind the filters, instant creamer, and an assortment of spices.
“Good ol’ Folgers,” I murmur before throwing my nerves into the famous campaign song.
“The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.” Yeah, I sound crazy, even to my own ears, but I might be dead soon.
What does crazy matter? Besides, the best part of this particular can of Folgers is no longer the coffee, but what my father has replaced it with.
I remove the small .22 Magnum handgun from the can and reseal the lid.
With the cold steel in my palm, I silently thank my father for insisting, despite my teenage whimpers of fear and my mother’s equally loud protests, that I learn to shoot the darn thing.
Not that I’ve practiced in years, but it has to be like riding a bicycle—you never forget.
It better be like riding a bicycle. God. Please don’t let me have to find out.