The Man in the Cottage

Chapter Seventeen Kelly

Chapter Seventeen

Kelly

The email arrives on a Tuesday.

I almost miss it. It's buried in my inbox between a newsletter I forgot I subscribed to and a spam message about car insurance. The subject line is simple: "Can we talk?" The sender is savannah.howe@.

I stare at it for a long moment before clicking.

Kelly,

I know we didn't get off on the right foot when we visited last week. I wanted to apologize for how my mom acted. She can be intense, and I think she came across harsher than she meant to. We're all just worried about Travis, and sometimes that worry comes out wrong.

I also wanted to reach out because there are some things I think you should know. Things Travis probably hasn't told you, because he doesn't like talking about the hard stuff. I'm not trying to cause trouble. I just think you deserve the full picture before you get any more invested.

Can I call you sometime? I promise I'm not like my mom. I just want to help.

—Savannah

I read it twice. Three times. Something about it feels off, but I can't pinpoint exactly what.

Travis hasn't mentioned Savannah much. She was quiet during the visit, glued to her phone, watching without participating. I assumed she was just along for the ride, dragged there by her parents. But this email suggests she has her own agenda.

I should show this to Travis. That's the obvious move.

But something stops me—curiosity, maybe, or the nagging sense that there's more to this family than he's told me.

He's been honest about the money stuff, about the boundaries he set, about why they're distant.

But what if there's something else? Something he's holding back?

I type a reply before I can talk myself out of it.

Savannah,

Thanks for reaching out. I'm willing to listen, but I'd prefer email over a phone call for now. What is it you think I should know?

—Kelly

I hit send and immediately second-guess myself. Travis asked me to be careful with his family. He asked me not to engage. And here I am, engaging.

But I'm not a child. I can hear someone out without being manipulated. And if there's something Travis isn't telling me, I'd rather know now than find out later.

The response comes within an hour.

Kelly,

I understand. Email is fine.

I want to start by saying I love my brother. He's been through a lot, and I know he's hurting. But I've watched him do this before—find someone, get attached, shut out everyone else—and it never ends well. For him or for the other person.

Travis has a pattern. When things get hard, he runs. He ran from our family when we needed him. He ran from his team after the incident. And he's been running from everything for the past six months, hiding in Virginia instead of dealing with his problems.

I'm worried he's using you as another escape. Not intentionally—Travis isn't malicious. But he has a way of drawing people in, making them feel special, and then disappearing when things get complicated. He's done it to girlfriends before. He did it to our grandmother when she was sick.

I know that's hard to hear. But I think you deserve to know what you're getting into.

Travis can be wonderful—charming, attentive, the kind of guy who makes you feel like you're the only person in the room.

But he can also be cold and distant and impossible to reach.

And when he decides he's done, he doesn't look back.

I'm not saying this to hurt you. I'm saying it because I've seen the aftermath. I've watched people fall for my brother and end up devastated. I don't want that to happen to you.

If you ever want to talk more, I'm here.

—Savannah

I read the email three times, my stomach sinking lower with each pass.

He did it to our grandmother when she was sick.

That can't be right. Travis told me he visited his grandmother every day. He drove two hours each way, sat with her for as long as they'd let him, put his entire career on hold to be there. That's not someone who runs.

But Savannah was there. She's family. She would know things I don't.

I close my laptop and stand up, pacing the kitchen. My coffee has gone cold. Outside the window, the yard is gray and muddy, the last of February clinging to winter even as March approaches. Travis is at the rink—his morning routine, unchanged—and I have at least an hour before he gets back.

An hour to decide what to do with this.

The thing is, some of it rings true. Travis does run. He ran from his career, from his family, from his whole life. He's been hiding here for six months, just like Savannah said. And he does have a way of making you feel special, of looking at you like you're the only person in the room.

But is that manipulation? Or is it just how he is?

I think about everything he's told me. The grandmother. The photographer. The family that saw him as a paycheck. He was honest about all of it, eventually. He didn't lie—he just took his time revealing the truth.

Maybe Savannah is doing the same thing. Maybe there's truth in her email, buried under layers of family resentment and hurt feelings.

Or maybe she's just like her mother, looking for an angle, trying to get between us for reasons I don't understand.

My phone buzzes. Nicole.

How's the writing going?

I type back: It's not. Got a weird email from Travis's sister.

The one who was on her phone the whole time?

That's the one.

What did she say?

I hesitate. Typing it out feels like giving it weight, making it real. But Nicole is my person—the one I call when I can't figure things out on my own.

She said Travis has a pattern. Gets attached, makes people feel special, then disappears. Said he did it to girlfriends before. Said he did it to his grandmother when she was sick.

Nicole's response is immediate: That's bullshit.

You think?

Kelly. You told me what his mom was like. Apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

But what if she's right? What if there's stuff he hasn't told me?

Then ask him. Don't take his sister's word for it.

She said he did it to his grandmother. That he ran when she was sick. But he told me he visited every day.

So either he's lying or she is. My money's on her.

Why?

Because she's the one who reached out unprompted. She's the one trying to plant doubt. That's manipulator behavior, babe. Classic.

I want to believe her. Nicole knows me better than almost anyone, and she has good instincts about people. But she's also protective—maybe too protective. She'd tell me what I want to hear just to keep me from spiraling.

What if I'm being naive? I type. What if I'm so caught up in this that I can't see what's right in front of me?

Then you'd be human. But Kelly—think about what you actually know. Not what his sister is telling you. What have you seen with your own eyes?

I think about it. What have I seen?

I've seen Travis show up every morning to fix things that didn't need fixing, just for an excuse to be near me.

I've seen him help me with my book, offering insights that unlocked problems I'd been stuck on for months.

I've seen him sit with me at the kitchen table for hours, talking about nothing, laughing at my bad jokes, looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

I've seen him break down when he talked about his grandmother. The way his voice cracked. The guilt he still carries for not being there when she died.

Does that sound like someone who runs? Does that sound like someone who shuts people out?

I've seen someone who's trying, I type to Nicole. Someone who's been hurt and is scared of being hurt again. But he keeps showing up anyway.

That's your answer then.

But what if—

No. Stop. Her next message comes through fast, emphatic. You're doing that thing where you look for reasons to sabotage something good. You did it with Jaxson in college. You did it with that guy from your old job. You get scared and you start looking for exits.

I stare at the screen. She's not wrong. I do have a pattern of my own.

This is different, I type.

Is it? Or is it just scarier because you actually care this time?

I don't have an answer for that.

Just talk to him, Nicole says. Show him the email. Let him respond. Don't make decisions based on what his manipulative sister says without giving him a chance to explain.

Okay.

Promise me.

I promise.

Good. Now go write your book and stop spiraling. Love you.

Love you too.

I put down the phone and stare out the window. She's right. I know she's right. But the doubt has already taken root, spreading through my chest like something cold and heavy.

Travis has a pattern.

He shuts people out.

He disappears when things get complicated.

I think about the past few weeks. How happy we've been, how easy it's felt. The dates, the conversations, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious. Has it been too easy? Too good to be true?

Or am I letting his sister's poison do exactly what it was designed to do?

The back door opens, and Travis walks in, bringing cold air and that familiar soap-and-ice smell. He's flushed from skating, his hair damp, his eyes bright. When he sees me standing in the kitchen, he smiles.

"Hey. You okay? You look worried."

I should tell him. Right now, show him the email, let him explain. That's what a healthy relationship looks like—honesty, communication, no secrets.

But the words stick in my throat. Because part of me is afraid of what he'll say. Part of me is afraid Savannah is right.

"I'm fine," I say. "Just stuck on a scene."

"The book?"

"Yeah. The wife found the evidence, but I can't figure out what she does next."

"Ah." He crosses to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup. "The hard part. You've got the revelation—now you need the reaction."

"Exactly."

He leans against the counter, watching me. "You sure you're okay? You seem off."

"Just tired. Didn't sleep well."

It's not a lie, not entirely. I did sleep badly. I've been sleeping badly since his family showed up, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe this email is the shoe. Maybe this is what I've been waiting for.

"I should get back to it," I say, gesturing toward my laptop. "Deadlines and all."

"Okay." He sets down his coffee and crosses to me, pulling me into a hug. His arms are solid around me, his chest warm against my cheek. "I'm here if you want to talk. About anything."

"I know."

He kisses the top of my head and heads for the door. "I'll be in the cottage. Shower and some errands. Dinner later?"

"Sounds good."

I watch him go, the back door closing behind him, and then I'm alone with my laptop and Savannah's email and the question I can't stop asking myself.

What if he's not who I think he is?

I sit down and open the laptop again, rereading the email one more time. The words blur together, Savannah's voice mixing with my own doubts until I can't tell which is which.

He did it to our grandmother when she was sick.

But Travis told me he was there. He said he visited every day. He said he missed her death because he was in a meeting with lawyers, not because he ran.

Someone is lying. Either Travis or Savannah. And I need to figure out which one before this goes any further.

I close the email without responding and open a new document. The cursor blinks at me, waiting.

I'm supposed to be writing a thriller about a wife who discovers her husband's secrets. And here I am, living my own version of the same story.

The irony isn't lost on me.

I start typing, but it's not the book. It's a list. Everything Travis has told me about his family, his grandmother, his past. Everything Savannah claimed in her email. The places where the stories align and the places where they don't.

I need to see it clearly. I need to understand.

And then I need to decide what I believe.