Chapter Six
The morning sun hits the silver skin of the Airstream, turning the interior into a convection oven.
I wake up with my skin slick with sweat, the humidity of the mountain morning trapped inside these metal walls like a physical entity.
The air feels exhausted, used up by the two of us during the long, restless hours of the night.
Beside me, Emmett is already awake. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, the muscles of his shoulders undulating as he scrolls through his phone.
Even with the door shut and the mountain air screaming outside, the heat radiating from his bare skin is the only thing that feels real.
I hate the way my pulse jumps just by looking at the curve of his spine, a physical betrayal that I know he’s watching, in real-time, on that glowing screen.
I don't need to see the screen to know what he is looking at.
He is reviewing the data from my sleep. During dreams, he checks the spikes in my heart rate.
Watching the shallow dips in my oxygen levels and the frequency of my tossing and turning.
The silver ring on my finger feels heavier than it did yesterday, a constant, nagging heat against my bone.
I move my hand, and the tiny needles on the inside of the band catch on my skin, a sharp reminder that I am tethered.
"You had a nightmare at three in the morning," Emmett says, his voice level and devoid of morning grit. He doesn't turn around. "Your heart rate hit one hundred and ten. What were you dreaming about, Ave?"
I sit up, pulling the damp sheet to my chest. My mind flashes to the wooden bird hidden under my pillow, to the frantic warning carved into its base. Run while you can. The words have been playing on a loop in my head, like a silent siren that won't stop screaming.
"I don't remember," I lie.
Emmett finally turns. His eyes are sharp, searching my face for the discrepancy between my words and the data on his screen.
He taps the glass of his phone, likely watching the live feed of my pulse as it begins to climb.
"The ring says you're lying, Ava. The stress response is immediate.
We talked about this. No more secrets. No more silence. "
"It was just a dream about the falls," I say, trying to force my breathing into a steady, rhythmic pattern. "The sound of the water. It feels like it's inside the room with us."
Emmett stands up and walks the two steps it takes to reach me in this cramped space.
He shifts on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning slightly under his weight as he reaches for my hand.
He takes it in his hand, his thumb tracing the etched waterfall on the silver band.
He doesn't squeeze, but the grip is absolute.
"The falls are a part of us now," he whispers. "The water is the honesty we're seeking. It washes away the pretenses until there's nothing left but the truth. Today is the Honesty Hike. We're going to climb to the upper ridge. We're going to talk about the wreckage, Ave. All of it."
He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint, masculine scent of his soap.
“I know you're afraid. I can see it on the graph.” His voice drops to a low, seductive vibration that makes the hair on my arms stand up. “But fear is just the precursor to breakthrough. You have to break before you can be forged into something new, Ava. And I’m the only one who can put the pieces back together.”
He lets go of my hand and moves to the small kitchenette to start the coffee.
The machine's sound is a mechanical intrusion into the stillness.
I take the opportunity to slip into the bathroom, closing the door and leaning my head against the cool metal.
I reach into my pocket and feel the wooden bird.
I need to hide it better. If he finds this, if he sees the message, I don't think I'll ever leave this mountain.
I look at my reflection in the small mirror.
The woman looking back is a stranger. Her eyes are wide and haunted, her skin pale despite the heat.
I look like a woman who is waiting for the floor to drop out from under her.
I think about the woman who carved that message.
Where is she now? Did she make it to the Red Trail?
Or is she buried somewhere under the relentless weight of the falls?
"Five minutes, Ava," Emmett calls out. "The air is getting thinner. We need to move before the heat becomes unbearable."
I dress in the clothes he laid out for me: a dark green hiking shirt and shorts that fit perfectly, chosen for their practicality and their lack of hiding places.
I tuck the wooden bird into the very bottom of my hiking pack, buried beneath a spare pair of socks and a first aid kit, and pray he doesn't check the bag.
We step out of the Airstream and are met with a wall of heat.
The seventy-five-degree temperature is deceptive; the humidity makes it feel like we're walking through a swamp.
The mountain is beautiful in a tragic, overripe way, with greenery so dense it feels oppressive.
We begin our ascent toward the upper ridge, following the Blue Trail as it winds through the ancient oaks.
The climb is steep, the terrain jagged and unforgiving.
Emmett leads the way, his pace steady and relentless.
He doesn't look back to see if I'm keeping up; he doesn't have to.
He has the phone in his hand, monitoring my stats in real time.
He knows exactly how hard my lungs are working, and exactly how much sweat is beading on my skin.
"Tell me about the art studio, Ava," he says, his voice carrying clearly over his shoulder.
The question is a physical blow. "What about it?"
"Why did you keep it for six months after you told me you'd closed it down? Why did you spend those Saturdays there, pretending to be at the library?"
I stumble over a tree root, my heart rate spiking. I see him glance at his phone.
"I wasn't ready to let go," I say, my voice trembling. "It was the only place that was mine, Emmett. The only place where I didn't feel like I was a part of a set."
"A set," he repeats, the word sounding like a slur. "You think being my wife is like being a piece of furniture? I give you everything. I support you. I protect you. And you used that protection to build a wall between us."
"It wasn't a wall! It was a sanctuary."
He stops abruptly and turns around. We are on a narrow section of the trail, a sheer drop on one side leading down to the churning white water of the creek. He steps into my path, forcing me to stop. The heat is stifling here, the air thin and sharp.
"A sanctuary is a place you go to be safe," he says, his eyes dark and turbulent. "Who were you hiding from, Ava? Me? Or the version of yourself that knows you belong here, with me?"
"I wasn't hiding, Emmett. I was just... being."
"You were drifting," he counters. He reaches out and grabs my upper arms, his grip firm. "You were looking for the Red Trail even then. You were trying to find an exit that didn't exist. That’s the wreckage, Ave. The lies you told to maintain a version of yourself that was already dead."
I look down at the creek below. The water is moving so fast it's a blur. I feel a sudden, terrifying urge to just lean back and let gravity take me, wondering if the silence at the bottom is as peaceful as I imagine.
Emmett seems to sense the thought and pulls me closer, his chest crushing mine until I can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against my own.
It’s a terrifying rhythm, but it’s a shared one.
“Don't even think about it. You don't get to leave the wreckage until I say it's finished. You’re mine, Ava. In this life and the next one."
We continue the climb, the atmosphere between us growing heavier with every step.
The Honesty Hike is a slow-motion interrogation, a psychological flaying that leaves me feeling raw and exposed.
He questions me about my friends, my family, my childhood, looking for the cracks in my narrative, looking for the places where I am still holding on to "me. "
By the time we reach the upper ridge, I am exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
The view is spectacular, a panoramic vista of the Blue Ridge Mountains stretching out like a sea of emerald and slate.
But I can't appreciate the beauty. All I can see are the trails, the thin veins of dirt that represent the only hope of escape.
Emmett finds a flat rock and sits down, pulling a bottle of water from his pack. He takes a long drink and then offers it to me. I take it, my hands shaking. The silver ring glints in the harsh midday sun.
"Something doesn't feel right; I need to check the perimeter," he says, standing up. "Stay here. Don't move from this spot. I'll be back in ten minutes."
He walks away, heading toward a cluster of boulders that overlook the falls. I watch him go, my heart hammering against my ribs. This is it. This is my chance.
I reach into my pack and pull out the wooden bird. I need to find a place to hide it, somewhere he won't look. I look around frantically, my eyes landing on a small crevice in the rock face behind me. I move toward it, my boots scraping against the stone.
I reach the crevice and am about to tuck the bird inside when I see something glinting in the back of the hole. I reach in and pull out a small, weathered notebook. The cover is cracked and faded, the pages swollen from the humidity.
I open it, my fingers trembling. The handwriting is frantic, the ink smeared in places.
He's watching me. He's always watching. The ring is a leash. He knows when I'm lying. He knows when I'm thinking of leaving. If you find this, don't trust the Blue Trail. It leads to the edge. The only way out is the Red. But he's already blocked the path. God help me, I think I'm going over.
The entry is dated July 3rd. Three years ago.
A shadow falls over the page. I don't have to turn around to know he's there. The air in my lungs vanishes, the thin mountain air suddenly feeling like liquid lead.
"I told you not to move, Ava," Emmett says. His voice is a low, dangerous vibration that I feel in my very marrow.
I slowly turn, the notebook clutched to my chest. Emmett is standing five feet away, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the book in my hands. He looks calm, but the sheer intensity radiating off him is suffocating.
"What is that?" he asks.
"I... I found it," I whisper.
"Give it to me."
I don't move. I can't. My legs feel like they've been fused to the rock.
Emmett takes a step toward me. "Ava. Give me the book."
I look at the cliff edge, then back at him. The "Unity" he wants is a grave. The "Honesty" he demands is a confession before the execution. I realize now that I am not the first woman he's brought to Ironcliff. I'm just the latest version of a project that keeps failing.
"Who was she, Emmett?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady. "The woman who wrote this. What did you do to her?"
Emmett's expression doesn't change, but his eyes turn a shade of blue that is almost white.
He takes another step, closing the distance between us until he is in my personal space.
He reaches out and takes the notebook from my hand, his fingers brushing mine with a lingering, possessive heat that burns worse than the cold mountain wind.
The silver ring on my finger pulses with a sudden, sharp blue light, a digital gasp that matches the hitch in my breath.
He doesn't just want the book; he wants the secrets I was willing to die for.
He doesn't look at the book, just drops it over the edge of the cliff without a second thought. We both watch as it disappears into the mist of the falls.
"She is a ghost," he says, his voice devoid of any emotion. "A woman who couldn't find the rhythm. A woman who chose the Red Trail and found out that identity is a lonely way to die."
He grabs my hand, his grip bordering on painful, pulling me into his personal space until I’m forced to breathe his air.
“You're different, Ava. You're going to find the rhythm.
Even if I have to break every bone in your body to make you dance to it.
Because a world where you don't belong to me isn't a world I’m willing to live in. "
He reaches into my open pack and pulls out the wooden bird. He looks at the message on the base, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face.
"Run while you can," he reads aloud. He looks at me, his eyes burning with a dark, obsessive hunger. "You've been keeping secrets again, Ave. And here I thought we were making progress."
He takes the bird and throws it into the abyss, following the notebook.
"The Honesty Hike is over," he says. "Now, we're going to talk about the consequences of betrayal."
He starts to lead me back down the trail, his hand a shackle on my wrist. But as we walk, the sky begins to darken, the first heavy drops of a mountain storm hitting the leaves with a sound like applause.
The twist comes when I look at the screen of his phone, which dangles from his other hand. The biometric feed isn't just a graph anymore. It's a map. And on that map, a third signal is moving. A signal that isn't mine, and isn't his.
On this ridge, someone else is moving: someone watching us from the trees.
The cliffhanger is the realization that the "ghost" might not be as dead as Emmett thinks, and as the first bolt of lightning illuminates the mountain, I see a figure standing on the Red Trail, watching us with eyes that reflect the fire in the sky.
The storm has arrived. And at Ironcliff Falls, the water isn't the only thing that's about to fall.