Chapter Five—Lorna #2
“I hate the mattress, which can be replaced. I like everything else.”
I had teased, “Even the shower pressure?”
“The shower pressure is criminal.” He took another drink. “I’ll replace the showerhead.”
“And the mattress?”
“I’ll have one delivered.”
I’d laughed. “You’re going to have a mattress delivered to a mountain in North Carolina?”
He set his mug on the railing and sat beside me. The love seat complained under his weight.
“I’m going to come back here with you,” he said. “I’ll sleep on a decent mattress, take a shower that doesn’t make me angry, and cook pancakes.”
I had screwed up my face. “Your pancakes were terrible.”
“They were terrible.” He’d been unbothered by the admission.
“One of them was raw in the middle.”
He held up his index finger. “That was one pancake.”
“It was the first one.”
“I improved.”
“You burned the next two.”
Chris laughed, pulled me against him, and kissed my hair. “I’ll practice before spring.”
I’d let my phone fall into my lap. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“About coming back?”
He looked at me then, his expression losing some of the humor. “Lorna, I want to come back.”
I believed him.
He probably believed himself.
Highfield started that April. Denver came first. Then another trip. Then meetings in New York, Dallas, and Denver again. The promised spring weekend became June, then September.
Fenton started that summer. After that, whenever I asked Chris about the lodge, there was already something on the calendar.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
The mattress upstairs is still the one Chris hated. The showerhead is the same one he called criminal. I painted the guest bathroom blue because I liked the color and Chris didn’t, and by then it had been obvious nobody else was going to use it often enough to care.
I stand beside the trail for another minute before heading back.
The lodge looked like a bad investment when I bought it but may be the smartest thing I’ve ever spent money on.
By four, I’ve swept the porch, carried in enough firewood for the week, and wiped down the kitchen. My body has started to object to the lack of sleep, so I take two ibuprofen and open my laptop.
Brooke has sent three messages.
I can hold this week’s newsletter.
No pressure, but people are asking if you’re okay.
Mia can cover comments. Just tell us what you need.
I stare at the messages.
People work for me. People depend on decisions I make.
Chris thinks I have too much time alone. I close my eyes briefly, then type back.
Hold the newsletter this week. Please keep the scheduled evergreen posts paused too. I’m okay. I need a few days. I’ll check in tomorrow.
Brooke responds before I can close the laptop.
Done. Take care of yourself. We have everything here.
No questions, argument, or suggestion that she knows what I need better than I do. Not even a hint that I’m too crazy to properly perceive reality. I close the computer.
Dinner is chicken thighs with lemon and rosemary over rice. I cook enough for leftovers and eat at the table while watching the squirrels chase each other in the oak tree outside my window.
When darkness settles over the mountain, I check every lock again. Then I check the cameras. There’s still nothing.
My old number shows six missed calls from Chris, but I don’t listen to the voicemails.
I leave the phone face-down on the living-room table, take a shower under the terrible showerhead Chris never replaced, and climb into the mattress he hated.
For several minutes, I lie awake waiting for something intangible. The lodge creaks once as the temperature drops. A branch brushes the roof. The refrigerator starts downstairs.
My body reacts to each sound before my mind catches up. My pulse jumps, then settles. I keep expecting another sound to follow.
None does, but I’ve been living in fear for so long that I can’t switch it off just yet.
At some point, I fall asleep.
When I open my eyes again, daylight fills the room. For three or four seconds, I don’t know where I am.
Wood ceiling.
Blue quilt.
Window facing trees instead of Charleston Harbor.
Then yesterday returns.
The hallway.
The hotel.
Chris.
My rings.
I lie there while the memory settles into place. Then I look at the clock. It’s seven forty-three.
I slept all night.
No two o’clock trip through the security cameras. No alarm app open beneath the covers. No sitting upright because the building made a noise I couldn’t identify.
Almost nine hours. I can’t remember the last time I managed that feat and stay in bed another minute. The mattress really is awful.
Downstairs, I make fresh coffee and carry it onto the porch. The morning is cold enough for a sweatshirt. Mist hangs low between two ridges, and something splashes in the creek below me. I tuck one foot beneath me in the chair and unlock my phone.
Still no voicemail from an unknown number, no package notification, and no anonymous account in my comments.
I open the spreadsheet but have nothing to add.
Yesterday, I was too busy getting here and separating my life from Chris’s to think much about the absence. This morning, with coffee warming my hand and the lodge quiet behind me, I can’t ignore it.
For eighteen months, whoever has been doing this has known where I ate, what I ordered, what I wore, and what perfume disappeared from stores years ago. They knew enough about my home to leave a white rose on my pillow after I lost consciousness.
I disappeared from Charleston without announcing it and nothing followed.
I look toward the gravel drive. The camera has recorded only animals since I arrived. Nobody has found this house. Nobody has sent anything here. My phone hasn’t received a single message that belongs in the spreadsheet.
It’s a relief, but I won’t get complacent. I open a new page in the legal pad and write the date. Under it, I write one sentence:
Left Charleston. Contact stopped.
I draw a line beneath it and set down the pen.
Forty-two entries tell me what happened while I was there. The empty space after them tells me something too.