Chapter Twenty-four
The two naps were a mistake, because I cannot for the life of me fall asleep. Two in the morning finds me staring at the green alarm clock numbers.
Maybe it’s the naps, but maybe it’s also that I’m sharing a bed with someone for the first time in years. I glance over at Liam, who’s been dead to the world since our heads hit the pillows. Makes sense. The poor guy hasn’t slept in two days, since before George’s party.
Liam has to have WiFi in the cabin, but I didn’t think to get the password from him.
It seems a bit mean to wake him up just for that, so instead, I set my phone back down and entertain myself by fully replaying our encounter in the outdoor shower.
Maybe we could repeat the experience tomorrow morning …
There was something about doing it semi-outside, with the sound of the waves as our backdrop, that made it extra magical.
After the full mental replay that definitely has me hot and bothered and wishing Liam would wake up, I have imaginary dialogues with George in my head as she oohs and aahs over the lurid details of what his fingers did where.
It hits me that I should officially invite Liam to be my guest for the wedding. I hope he likes pea soup …
Around two thirty, Liam rustles beside me, then gets up. He grabs his phone and looks at something.
‘Everything OK?’ I say, propping myself up.
‘Oh. Just checking for raccoons.’ He turns to look at me, holding up his phone. ‘Did you hear them?’
I stifle a laugh. ‘Raccoons? In your phone?’
‘They’re getting into the cake again.’
‘What cake?’
‘I told them not to …’ His eyes are open, but a bit glassy … is he actually awake?
I peer into his face. ‘What did the raccoons say?’
‘They never tell me.’ He runs a hand through his hair with an air of frustration. ‘If I could just go back to before …’
OK, obviously he’s sleep talking, and it’s kind of adorable.
‘Don’t worry.’ I put a comforting hand on his back and rub a little circle. ‘No raccoons in here. The cake is safe.’
‘Oh … good. Just keep an eye out.’ He sets his phone down and heads to the bathroom.
I reach over the bed and help myself to his unlocked phone. Maybe I can get the WiFi password to display in his settings … I swipe away a few notifications. A news alert about the stock market and another news item about some tradwife influencer, but I’m not getting sucked into clickbait now.
Before I go into Settings, though, I can’t help but notice the myriad of dating apps clustered on his home screen. Ugh. Not ideal that these are on his phone. Especially since we just did that …
But I’m not going to overthink it. He only just asked me to be his girlfriend. He probably hasn’t gotten around to deleting them.
… on the other hand, I’ve been cheated on before. More than once. Maybe I’ll just take a quick peek and make sure he’s not still DM-ing other women.
I count half a dozen apps, which – wow, Mr Serial Dater indeed.
I tap open the first. I click on Previous Matches and scroll.
Shit, this guy realllly dated a lot. But the most recent match is from six weeks ago, so we’re good.
I swipe out and open the next. I pause for a second as I hear the toilet flush, then turn my attention back to his phone, open app number two and scroll through his hookup history.
OK, there’s a DM from a few weeks ago – but I recognize her.
Right! Lady in Pink, the one who tried to clock me with her purse.
The sink turns on and I hear the slosh-slosh of Liam washing his hands.
He’ll be back any second, and even though he’s sleepwalking, it’s not like I want him to catch me snooping on his phone.
Maybe I’ll look at one final app and call this mission complete.
I pick one at random. ChiMatch. Inside the app, I click on the MatchMessage icon, then scroll through his messages with various women.
None of them are recent, so looks like we’re good—
Wait. A name catches my eye and I stop scrolling.
Holy shitballs.
Zoe Dawson.
Right there in black and white.
My lungs are suddenly unable to inflate.
I open the messaging thread and scroll to the top, my pulse thundering in my ears. It starts in late November of last year.
Liam: Hey! What’s up? Surviving the cold snap?
Zoe: Hey handsome. Sure am. I happen to have a slanket.
Liam: No way! I always see ads for those. Worth it?
Zoe: Absolutely. Also, you mention tattoos in your bio – care to share what and where?? ??
It continues in a chatty vein – no time to read them all. I scroll down feverishly until the last message. From the day Zoe disappeared.
Liam: Just confirming tonight at Wine & Thistle
Zoe: Confirmed! See you soon. I hope you’re prepared for a thorough inspection of your tattoos – a girl has to make sure they’re real. I’ll be wearing red. ??
And then, the messages end.
I’m not just sick to my stomach, but everywhere, like my actual skin wants to vomit too.
Proof.
I’m so fucking mad at myself. Convincing myself that just because the meat bags were beef, and he had no deep freezer, it couldn’t be him? Fuck! That’s not rational! He could have a secondary cabin! Or a storage unit!
I hear his footsteps outside the door and practically fling his phone back on to his nightstand.
‘G’night,’ he says with a dorky smile on his face. ‘You’re nice. This is nice.’ Then, he tucks in, and within seconds, his heavy breathing tells me he’s out.
I sit up in the dark, knees gathered close to my chest, pulse racing. What do I do? Wake him, confront him?
No. That could be incredibly dangerous. Even if I grabbed my stun gun beforehand, he’s so much stronger, not to mention, we’re in a remote location. Would anyone hear my screams for help?
I could look for his car keys and leave now, alone. Yes. That’s smart.
I creep out of bed and open his nightstand.
No keys there. Are they in his wet jeans from earlier?
No, we tossed the wet stuff in the dryer – he has to have moved them.
I creep upstairs and use my phone flashlight to look around.
Not on the kitchen counter, or in the drawer.
There aren’t that many places to hide keys, but their location is not obvious.
Also, I should think this through better. If I leave with his car, couldn’t he have me charged with theft? Wouldn’t that be ironic, if no one could ever prove he was the murderer, but I got slapped with jail time for fucking grand theft auto …
The actual logical thing to do right now is to stay up here on the main floor, away from him.
Wait until morning. Pretend everything’s fine when he wakes up so that I don’t trigger any kind of murderous rage on his part.
Then, get out of here and back to the city asap.
The instant my cell has service again, I’ll call Barnett.
Now he won’t be able to ignore me. He’ll have to bring Liam in.
I’m shaking. I’m about to have closure. But it’s not the closure I wanted.
All my psychologizing from the past week about failure and letting go and pursuing my fucking dreams feels so stupid now.
Why the hell would I think that a leap of faith would work for me?
It’s never worked before. Maybe it works for people like George, but I’m different.
At least my bad boyfriends from before were just cheaters. Dating a killer is a new fucking low.
I let myself feel shitty about the loan too, because why not. I was being all glass-half-full at first, but screw that. The microloan is only half of what I need. Who am I kidding? I’ll never save fifty grand. I’m barely keeping up with my bills.
Outside the windows, the moon is reflecting on the lake, making a long, glimmering trail of white to the horizon. I look at it for a while, too angry with myself to even feel sad. I am never again looking at a man’s forearms.
After a while, I grab a fuzzy throw, wrap it around myself and lie on the couch. But I already know I won’t sleep a wink.