Chapter 13 Louise
LOUISE
The snow was past my ankles, blowing in icy sheets that whipped around my legs and stung my face. I yanked my scarf tighter, zipped my coat to my throat, and slipped on my headlamp. The click of the switch echoed in the silence, and a narrow beam of light pierced the darkness ahead.
I started walking.
Wine in one hand. Duffel slung over my shoulder. Backpack strapped tight. Each step was a slog, the snow dragging at my legs like hands trying to pull me under.
Time dissolved into a dizzying haze of cold and dark, broken only by the thin beam of light from my headlamp.
The silence around me was unsettling. Not peaceful, but eerie. Every now and then, a loud crack echoed somewhere in the forest, a tree limb breaking under the weight of the storm.
My toes became completely numb, that kind of numb that makes you glance down to be sure they're still attached. Same with my ears, my nose. My joints ached with every step, ankles grinding, knees stiff. I felt like a rusted machine abandoned in an old shed.
I began to grow weary and just as I was about to take a break, I stumbled on a tree root and hit the ground with a hard thud.
Snow exploded around my body, catching in the icy wind and swirling into the black sky above. Pain shot like lightning in my knee.
With a guttural groan, I rolled to my side and spat out the snow from my mouth. I couldn’t even feel the cold anymore.
Pushing to a seated position, I winced at the pain in my knee.
I lifted the bottle in my hand that I’d somehow managed not to drop. I might not have been able to feel half my body, but dammit, I had my wine. If this was going to be my last hurrah, I was going to make damn sure I wouldn’t remember the last half.
My JanSport fanny pack was still in place but my denim duffel was three feet away, miraculously dangling from a wilted pine tree that had caught its fall.
My purse, on the other hand, lay at my feet, half its contents scattered over the snow. My cell phone had slipped from my pocket but was still in one piece.
I clicked it on and checked the reception. Still no bars.
I shook my head like a dog, ice and snow flinging around me.
Blowing out a breath, I began plucking my things from the snow.
A broken watch with half of the band missing, seven hair clips, a handful of bobby pins, a tube of bubbles, used dental floss, a pair of scissors .
. . the missing watch band suddenly making sense .
. . a foldable tripod, washcloth, a hammer, a flashlight, a tube of super-glue, two tampons, a condom labeled orgasm donor that I’d gotten from a bachelorette party years earlier, and finally, two used tissues.
God I was a mess. Totally unprepared for anything that came my way.
Once everything was back in its rightful place, I pushed to my feet, my back and knee screaming with each movement. A fresh sheen of sweat broke out over my body.
I wobbled a bit—from the wine or exhaustion, I wasn’t sure. At that point, I debated on turning around and sliding my way back to Ansel, but I knew I had to be close to the resort. Besides, I was too far in at that point.
I couldn’t find my other glove, so I used my scarf to wrap my bare hand.
My breath came out in short, quick puffs as I pressed on, me against the elements.
Minutes passed into another hour, and my wine bottle was empty. The trek had turned into a tree-to-tree stumble when finally, my hands wrapped around a mailbox.
Mailbox?
I’d made it. The Shadow Creek Resort.
People.
Shelter.
Food. Bed.
Not. Alone.
Praise the Lord.
Renewed energy spurted through my frozen veins as the light from my headlamp bounced off an ornate black iron gate. Locked. That seemed strange–why would a resort have a locked gate?
Looking back now, there were a lot of things I missed.
The absence of a Welcome to Shadow Creek Resort sign, for starters.
No cars in the lot. No lights in the windows.
I hadn’t noticed the hay bales stacked beside the drive, or the silent herd of cows clustered along the fence line, watching me with glassy eyes as I passed.
Too cold to care, I hoisted my bags over the gate, scrambled up, and dropped like a rock on the other side. After brushing the snow from my jacket and shaking off the sting in my knees, I started up the winding driveway.
I could barely make out the dark silhouette of a sprawling structure on the hill, and behind it, soaring mountains.
A castle on a hill.
I made it.
Tears of exhilaration filled my eyes as I jogged the rest of the way, my bags and headlamp bouncing with each step like a drunk firefly in the night.
Chest heaving, I topped the hill, where my lamp reflected off rows of sweeping windows. Rock walls and weathered wood beams stretched to an A-frame entryway of a structure that seemed to stretch for miles on each side. Massive and long, like a mega ranch house.
I pulled off my headlamp as I stepped onto a front porch that was completely bare.
It didn’t have a stick of furniture on it, no pots or plants.
Strange. I hadn’t been to many five-star resorts in my life, but this wasn’t what I imagined.
I imagined lush lounge areas, furniture, lights, people. A bar.
I took a step back, and for the first time, considered that perhaps I wasn’t at my intended destination. Maybe I’d wandered onto someone’s private estate?
Chewing on my lower lip, I turned around and looked back down the path I’d come from. There was no way in hell I was going back. I turned back to the sprawling ranch house. No cars, no lights, no sign of human existence whatsoever.
Maybe it was for sale?
I stepped to the window, cupped my hands, and peeked in. Darkness. Not even a digital clock, a night-light, or little red dots glowing from an entertainment center.
Lifting my headlamp to the window, I swept the narrow beam of light to illuminate a massive room with slate flooring that stretched to a wall of sweeping windows. No furniture.
I knocked. Nothing.
I tried the doorknob. Locked.
I propped my headlamp onto a rock in an empty flowerbed, positioning the beam on the door. I pulled out my trusty credit card, and slid it between the lock and doorframe.
One try, two, three, and—pop.
Yes!
I gathered my bag.
The massive wood door creaked as I shoved it open with my toe, its weight resisting me like it didn’t want to be disturbed.
I stepped over the threshold and into air so cold it stole the breath from my lungs.
The sharp tang of fresh-cut lumber hit me instantly—raw, clean, unfinished.
Like the place was mid-renovation. Or abandonment.
My headlamp cast a pale, jittery beam as I swept it across the vast interior.
Long hallways stretched to either side, wide enough to drive a truck through.
The walls looked newly demolished, turning what must’ve once been bedrooms into open, empty alcoves.
Seemed strange, but what did I know about high-end homes?
My apartment still had yellowing wallpaper and popcorn ceilings.
I descended a few steps into a sunken living room, leaving a trail of snow-wet gear behind me.
The focal point was a towering stone fireplace, flanked by the floor-to-ceiling windows I’d seen from outside.
To the right, a sprawling kitchen with copper cookware hanging like trophies above a marble island.
A breakfast nook sat in shadow. It was all too clean.
Too untouched. Like it was waiting for someone to breathe life into it.
To the left, a beautiful arched doorway pulled my attention.
The trim was ornate, carved with a precision that didn’t match the rawness of the rest of the house. I crossed the room and stepped through the archway—and stopped dead in my tracks.
My breath caught.
It was a library.
And not just any library.
Think Beauty and the Beast. The scene where the Beast gives Belle a gift beyond imagining? That. But real.
Walls soared around me, lined edge to edge with shelves packed full of books.
Thousands of them. Leather-bound. Hardcovers.
First editions. The scent of paper and time drifted through the cold.
At the far end of the room, two well-worn brown leather chairs sat beneath a tall reading lamp, the only furniture in sight.
That was it.
A thousand stories. Two chairs. And silence.
I reached out, trailing my fingertips across a row of spines. Not a speck of dust. My hand paused on a familiar title—To Kill a Mockingbird.
A real estate agent must be staging the place. Probably for some older, affluent buyer. The whole property had to be worth a fortune. If the surrounding land came with it, maybe millions.
I stepped back and tilted my head to take in the timbered ceiling. What would it be like to live in a place like this? To walk barefoot on heated floors, pour coffee at that marble island, curl up in a library that looked like it belonged in a castle?
Bottomless bank accounts. Private chefs. Heated garages.
No pain. No struggle. No desperation.
A life I would never know.
My gaze drifted back to the shelves. I walked along them slowly, letting my fingers trace the grooves in the wood—until they bumped over a thin crack. I stopped, frowning.
I raised my light, peering at the thin line running vertically from the shelf to the floor. Looking from left to right, I didn’t see any other cracks like this one.
A secret door?
Frowning, I took a step back, but was halted by an ice-cold barrel pressing into the back of my neck.