Wrong Cabin, Right Time

Chapter One Travis

Chapter One

Travis

The sound metal makes when it’s being dragged across stone has always been therapeutic to me.

The familiar rhythm and precise angle of the blade as I’m carefully shaving off just a thousandth of an inch from its edge.

Even if the knife isn’t dull, the repetition of the process soothes a part of me.

Do you know what else soothes me? Killing people.

But I can’t go around killing people on a daily basis.

That would be impossible without getting caught, and I don’t have any intentions of getting caught, ever.

I’m way too smart, anyway. So, when I need to occupy my hands, this seems to be the efficient way.

I hold the blade at a twenty-degree angle to ensure a sturdy edge, one that can take a lot of damage, being careful to grind both sides evenly.

If not done correctly, a burr will form, ruining the edge completely.

I want the blade perfect for when I kill Kevin on Thursday.

Before me lie the stones I have collected throughout the years. Each one is diamond-plated with varying degrees of grit, ranging from 80 to 10,000. The best of the best.

I angle the blade just right and admire how the mirror finish of the edge is really starting to come through. I’m so enthralled by the blade that when a bird flies past the window, it slightly startles me. My finger slips mid-sharpening, and I nick my thumb.

Dammit.

My eyes zero in on the single drop of blood pooling over the tiny cut. It’s approximately half a millimeter deep and won’t need care besides a little cleaning, but I make a mental note to adjust my wrist torque, regardless.

Pulling a hair from my head, I lay it against the blade. The follicle splits in two with little to no pressure, signaling the waste of metal if I go any further.

Satisfied with my work, I start to clean up, carefully arranging and placing each stone in its storage box, the exact way I always do. Just when I’m about to place the last one where it belongs, a knock at the door interrupts the task at hand.

A knocking . . . at my door . . .

My heart rate picks up, and nervous energy spreads from my gut to my chest. Without moving a muscle, I glance at the clock on my kitchen wall: 3:30 p.m. It’s too late for the mail, and that’s the only time someone would knock.

There’s a reason why I live on the side of a mountain for most of the year. This has always been the favorite property I own. I don’t like people in my space. Someone knocking at my door means someone is in my space.

The knocking intensifies, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. Who the hell is at my door?

I should just ignore it until it goes away, but my curiosity gets the best of me. Reaching for my phone on the glass table, I pull up the front door camera, and the screen loads instantly.

The first thing I see is a messy bun of pink hair stacked on top of a head. A bun attached to the girl who is furiously knocking on my door for the third time. There’s no car, so she must have come on foot.

There’s a large backpack slung over her slender shoulder. It’s so enormous compared to her small frame that I’m surprised she’s able to stand upright instead of being pulled back by the sheer weight of it.

She drops the obnoxiously big bag on my front step before sitting down next to it.

Ugh. What the fuck is she doing?

Why is she even here, and more importantly, why isn’t she leaving?

Too bad dogs don’t like me. A guard dog to chase her off would be great right about now.

Frustrated beyond belief, I toss the phone down on my kitchen table. I stand up, and the sound of my chair scooting back against the teak floors fills the otherwise quiet space. Stomping through the kitchen, I make my way through the foyer to the front door.

I turn both dead bolts before unlocking the handle to pull the door open.

Fresh mountain air fills my lungs, reminding me that I haven’t been outside in a few days.

“Oh, hey!” The girl jumps up from where she was sitting. As soon as she turns toward me, a wide smile spreads across her face. Usually I’m not great at reading people, but even I know smiling means someone is happy.

What the fuck she could be happy about right now is beyond me.

“Heeeeeeey,” she repeats, but this time, for some reason, she draws out the word. Licking her lips as she looks up and down my body.

I glance down at my white button-down shirt and gray slacks to see what she’s looking at. When I don’t find anything out of the ordinary, I lift my gaze to where the annoying woman is standing in front of me. Realizing I was wrong to call her a “girl” before.

She may be a foot shorter than my six feet, two inches, but now that I’ve seen her up close, I’m guessing she is in her late twenties. Same age as me, and that’s the extent of things we have in common. I can say that after one look at her.

She’s wearing a washed-out purple, oversize shirt that hangs off her right shoulder, paired with black leggings and flip-flops. Yes, flip-flops. What kind of lunatic wears flip-flops like they’re some kind of actual footwear? Yeah, we’re not the same.

Propping one hand on her hip, she waves at me with the other. “I love your whole vibe.”

I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, so instead of entertaining her weird use of the English language, I ask the only thing that comes to mind. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, it’s me, Sage!” She points both of her thumbs at her face.

Sage?

“What an odd name,” I think out loud.

“Well, it’s better than the rest of my name.” She giggles. “Juniper Sage Featherstone, but I go by Sage.”

I don’t care what her name is—though it is quite a ridiculous name, I take note. It still doesn’t tell me why she’s here. I open my mouth to ask just that when she steps toward me . . . into my personal space.

Immediately, I take a step back, not wanting her to get too close. Who knows what kind of diseases she carries. Especially someone who goes outside dressed like that.

“Did you know that the safest social distance, without disrupting someone’s personal space, is between eighteen inches and four feet?

Personally I prefer the four feet. But intuitively, for me, when it comes to instances of this nature, no less than eighteen inches is mandatory,” I inform her, leaning back and away.

She swats her hand at me while letting out a hearty laugh. “You’re so funny! Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” She takes another step toward me, causing me to lean back and away once more.

I shake my head. “No.” But instead of complying, she pushes right past me and into the house, my house. The audacity of this woman is nothing short of infuriating. Frustrated, I stomp my foot on the floor. My chest is tight, and my pulse is racing. She’s invading my privacy in the most basic way.

“Wow! Your cabin is just as beautiful on the inside too. Everything is so modern and clean,” she exclaims, completely ignoring my refusal to let her into my house.

“You must spend a lot of time cleaning. Do you have a cleaning service that comes out here?” she asks, but doesn’t give me time to respond.

“I bet you have a hard time getting someone to come this far. But I guess that’s the price you pay to live out here in such a beautiful place.

Man, your view must be killer! I can’t wait to see the upstairs. ”

I feel my eyes go wide with terror as she keeps walking farther into my space. Her flip-flops make the most annoying slapping sound as she scurries across the pristine wooden floor.

Slap, slap, slap . . . My eye twitches at the sound, and I think about googling “how to install silent floors fast.”

I want to clasp my hands over my ears so I don’t have to hear that awful sound or her voice. I want my quiet house back, and I want it now.

“Hey! Stop!” I call after her, but she’s already in the kitchen.

My anger threatens to boil over as I follow her through my house.

“Oh my god! I was right. The view is amazeballs!” she exclaims, dashing to the window.

“That’s not a word,” I inform her, nervously crossing my arms over my chest. I’m overwhelmed by her presence, and when I glance at the table where my knives are still laid out, I briefly think about using one to slit her throat.

That would surely shut her up . . . but also leave a huge mess in my kitchen.

No, I don’t kill randomly or messily. I kill smartly. It takes me weeks to prepare for a kill. Meticulous planning is a must.

“Well, as you know, I’ve stayed in a lot of cabins, but this one will definitely be one of my favorites. I mean, look how spacious this is! And your kitchen is a dream! Did you pick all of this out yourself or have someone design it?” She pauses and looks at me with a big smile on her face.

Finally I have a moment to get a word in. “Who the hell are you, and why are you in my house?”

“I told you, I’m Sage. We spoke on the app,” she explains.

“I’ve never talked to anyone on some app.” I lift my hand to pinch the bridge of my nose as the pressure builds behind my eyes. Great, a headache is coming. This infuriating woman is giving me a migraine.

“Wait, are you not Ryan?”

“No, I’m Travis,” I say, my voice strained with anger. “Ryan lives half a mile from here, on the other side of the mountain.”

They don’t know me, but I know all my neighbors within a five-mile radius. I had my private investigator dig up everything on them, and that’s how I know Ryan Mitchell rents out his cabin when he goes to visit his second home in Florida.

I state the obvious: “You are at the wrong place.”

Her mouth pops open as her eyes go wide. I think she is about to apologize, but instead she throws her head back and laughs. Her hands come to her chest as her whole body shakes with laughter. “OMG!” she says between laughs. “I can’t believe this happened.”

I just stand there, waiting for her to calm herself to explain more.

She finally stops laughing and clears her throat.

“I’m so sorry about all of this, and I’m sorry for barging in on you.

This is all just a huge misunderstanding.

See, I’m an Airbnb reviewer. It’s kind of my job.

I travel around to different scenic locations and post about my stay.

Since it’s easy to get turned around even with GPS, Ryan gave me directions to his place. I guess I’m not great at reading maps.”

Clearly not.

“Anyway, sorry again. I’ll try and give Ryan a call, see if he can help me find his house.” She spins around and heads toward my front door.

Finally.

I follow her. I need to make sure she actually leaves. I’m only a few steps behind when she suddenly stops and spins around, causing me to almost run into her.

Once again, she’s in my personal space, and all I can do is look into her light-blue eyes, tainted by a brown freckle on her right iris.

“Hey, at least I crashed the house of a nice guy and not some serial killer.”

The corner of my lip lifts up. “Yeah, lucky,” I say with a grin.