Page 29 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Twenty-Seven

Alex

S omehow, we polished off the second bottle of wine while I told my story.

I’m not drunk, I’m drained. I feel flat and empty. I don’t talk about what happened to me. But on the rare occasions when I do, I feel this way—like I’ve been hollowed out.

I glance at Emily. She, I think, is buzzing.

She gives me a woozy half-smile and says, “It’s getting late, and I need to wake up early to write while it’s daylight. Unless you think the power will be back on in the cabin tomorrow?”

There’s virtually no chance of that happening. But I tell her, “Maybe.”

“So, are you still up for showing me how to make a fire?”

I look at the clock. It’s late. It’s dark. It’s going to be freezing cold in that cabin.

“Why don’t you stay here? I’ll make up the guest room.”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to put you out.”

“You’re not. I’m offering. It’ll only take me a few minutes to make the bed, and you’ll be more comfortable here,” I say firmly. “I’d be a bad host if I sent you back to that cold cabin.”

She hedges. “Well, if you’re sure?”

“I am.”

We carry the empty bottle and the glasses out to the kitchen.

It’s true. She’ll be more comfortable here, and I don’t need a bad review on Stay Your Way.

But it’s more than that. I don’t want her to be alone after the conversation we had.

And I don’t want to be alone. This truth surprises me because I’m accustomed to wrestling with my ghosts and demons by myself.

I mean, Robert’s always there for me emotionally.

But he’s not usually actually physically here for me. I find Emily’s company comforting.

“Come on, I’ll show you the guest room,” I tell her.

As I lead her down the short hallway to the spare bedroom, she asks, “Does your husband know?”

I don’t have to ask does he know about what. I stop walking and turn to her.

“Yes. Robert knows.”

She gnaws on her bottom lip. “I think about it all the time—telling Tristan. But I just can’t make myself talk to him about it.”

“That’s understandable,” I tell her. “Like you said, He doesn’t see you as The Girl Who Found Her Dead Roommate. You don’t want to lose that.”

“Still.” She wrinkles her nose, unconvinced.

“There’s something to be said for a fresh start.”

“You didn’t take one. You told Robert.”

I give her a sad smile. “Your scars are psychic. Mine are physical. The first time I got undressed in front of Robert, I knew I’d have to tell him or lie. And you can’t build a marriage on lies.”

She pales, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s thinking of my torn-up body or my pronouncement.

“I’m not judging your marriage,” I hurry to assure her.

“But you’re right—it’s built on lies. Well, omissions. Things I haven’t said.”

“And things he hasn’t said,” I remind her. “That cuts both ways.” It’s intended to make her feel better, but I think it makes her feel worse.

“My marriage is a lie,” she says more to herself than to me.

I open the door to the guest bedroom and usher her inside. I turn on the light and pull a set of fresh sheets and a stack of blankets from the closet. Her hands tremble as she helps me put the sheets on the bed.

I sigh. I’m bad at this—rusty and out of practice—but she’s teetering. “Listen, you’ll probably feel better after a night’s sleep. But if you don’t and you decide you need to have a heart-to-heart with your husband, you can do that when you see him. There’s no expiration date on honesty.”

“You’re right.” She nods, but her grimace lets me know I’m even worse at providing emotional support than I thought I was.

I spread two warm blankets over the sheets and smooth the covers while she slides a pillowcase onto the pillow and plumps it up. I hand her an unopened toothbrush package and a travel-sized toothpaste tube from the bedside table.

“Get some rest.”

“Good night, Alex.” Her voice is soft.

I walk through the first floor and turn out the lights. Then I throw some water on the dying embers in the fireplace and double-check that the doors are all locked before I head upstairs. I hear the water running downstairs as Emily gets ready for bed, too.

I spread thick night cream on my face, neck, and scars, then rub what’s left of the heavily scented lotion into my hands and feet, and my thoughts turn to Tristan.

I saw the expression on Emily’s face when she told me a red-haired woman had been stabbed to death in their small community. She has doubts about her husband.

I do, too. But if he wanted to kill her, Emily Rose would’ve been dead a long time ago.

So either this is all a massive coincidence—which frankly seems impossible—or he’s playing a different game with her.

What’s your angle, Tristan? I assign the question to my subconscious with instructions to work on it overnight.

I climb into bed, pull the blankets up to my chin, and fall asleep to the sound of the snow turning to a driving rain. Rain is good. Rain is better than snow for the utility companies and road crews—just so long as it doesn’t end up as ice.

As I drift to sleep, I feel an odd intimacy, almost a bond, with the woman in my guest room, and I wonder if she feels it too. We’re strangers, but we share a bone-deep understanding of how a single violent night can change your whole life.