Page 33 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

I turn to look at her. “He acted like he didn’t recognize your name immediately, which I find hard to believe—given what happened.”

She locks eyes with me. “There’s zero chance that he didn’t remember me right away, Emily.”

“I know. He lied to me.”

Anger flashes across her face, and I’m glad I left out the part about her being untrustworthy and emotionally disturbed.

“Do you think he’ll do something?”

“Do something?” I echo, confused. Then I realize Alex isn’t angry, she’s afraid. She’s afraid of my husband. “No, of course not.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “What’s your next move?”

“Nothing until I get back home. Maybe a joint counseling session so we can talk about these things because he obviously doesn’t feel comfortable confiding in me—not about you, or Tate, or his dad’s suicide.” Saying the words aloud is like a gut punch.

“I hope you didn’t make a mistake by telling him.”

I regret bringing it up with her—not bringing it up with him. He’s my husband. Of course, I told him. I ignore the little voice that reminds me of all the things I haven’t told him.

I clear my throat. “I need to work on my book today. Do you think there’s any chance the power came back on at the cabin?”

“Doubtful. It’s not as if the switchover from snow to rain magically healed the lines. And even though it’s warm enough that it’s raining, there’s a good chance the mountain road iced over last night. I wouldn’t expect to see a utility crew out here for another day or two.”

I blow out a frustrated breath.

She continues, “The good news is, according to the weather on the radio, the storm is moving on. The rain should stop by this late afternoon.”

“Great” I say weakly. I can block out the world—the weather, Alex, Tristan, all of it—and re-immerse myself in my story.

“I can show you how to make a fire. Or you’re welcome to work here, where you can charge your laptop.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I should go back to the cabin before I overstay my welcome. But I would be grateful for the fire-starting lesson.”

“Suit yourself.”

We finish washing the dishes, then I have another cup of coffee and pack my bag.

We lace our boots, pull our hoods up, and head out into the downpour.

We stomp through the slushy snow to the cabin, trying to avoid the fallen tree limbs that litter the path.

I’m glad that the ground is mushy and mucky, and not icy—yet.

When we reach the cabin, we jog up the stairs to the porch and I dig into my parka for the key. “Give me a second.”

“Are you sure you locked it?” She’s frowning at the front door.

“I’m positive,” I tell her as I fish out the key ring.

“Well, it’s unlocked.”

She pushes the door open, stomps the slush off her boots and walks inside. She heads straight for the fireplace. I guess she’s as eager to be rid of me as I am of her.

I trail behind her. “I know I locked it.”

I have a specific memory of juggling the bag with the wine bottle and the food and my laptop bag all onto one arm so I could pull the door shut and lock it with my free hand. I don’t tell her this because I know it will make me sound defensive.

She gives me a long look, then shakes her head. “Sure you did,” she mumbles before gesturing toward the kitchen. “I’ll show you how to get the fire started. There should be a gas lighter in the drawer by the stove.”

I swore I left it on the hearth. “I had it out last night. It’s not over there?”

“Nope.”

I must’ve put it back in place on autopilot. As I’m passing the little writing desk on my way through the living room to the kitchen, something on the floor glints in the sunlight, catching my eye. I crouch to pick it up. It’s a sliver of glass.

Puzzled, I scan the floor for more, but it’s just the one shard. Then I see it. The corner of a rose gold rectangle peeks out from beneath the sofa. I pull it toward me.

“Shit.”

She turns. “What?”

I raise my phone to show her the smashed glass. “My phone’s broken. I left it here last night because I don’t have a signal. I left it plugged in even though I know it wasn’t charging. Habit, I guess.”

She leaves the hearth and joins me at by the couch. “That stinks.”

The charger is still plugged into the wall outlet, the cord dangling loosely.

“I don’t even understand how it fell off the desk. The wind maybe?”

She gives me a strange look. “The wind didn’t blow your phone halfway across the room through a closed window. Maybe you bumped it with the bags when you were walking through?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I packed up my desk first. Then I got the food from the kitchen and put on my coat. I didn’t go this way. I came down the hallway.” I point to the hook where my coat was hanging.

She follows my finger then her eyes cut toward the front door. “And you’re sure you locked the door when you left?”

“I’m positive.”

Our eyes lift to the ceiling, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing.

She stands and gestures for me to follow her upstairs. I hold up a finger. Wait. Then I creep out to the kitchen and grab a knife from the block on the counter.

When I return to the living room clutching the knife, she whispers, “I’ll go first.”

“Or we could leave?” I whisper back.

She raises an eyebrow and shoots me a look. I sigh. It was worth a shot.

As we tiptoe up the steps my heart thumps. I brace for the creak or squeak that will give us away, but we’re as silent as thieves. My left hand on the banister is slick with sweat. I clench the handle of the knife more tightly in my right so I don’t lose my grip.

We reach the second floor and she moves quickly from room to room. I’m a step behind her. The rooms are empty.

“There’s no one here.”

“Anymore,” I say.

She gently removes the knife from my shaking hand. “The simplest explanation is usually the right one, Emily.”

She heads for the stairs and I follow her, not willing to let it go.

“Do you honestly think the simplest explanation is I somehow wandered from the hallway to the desk, accidentally knocked my phone to the ground hard enough to break it without noticing, and have a false memory of locking the door when I left? That might be the most convenient explanation, but it’s certainly not the simplest. The simplest explanation is after I left, someone broke in and smashed my phone. ”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

She turns and looks at me from the bottom of the steps. Her expression is one of genuine curiosity. “Why would someone do that? And, more to the point, who would do that?”

We go into the living room. She sits on the couch.

I take the chair near the desk and try to gather my thoughts.

I didn’t expect her to believe me. I was prepared for her to dismiss the idea the way Tristan tried to get me to believe it was an animal, not a person, in Lashina and Ty’s garden.

But she’s just watching me, waiting for me to answer.

“I don’t know why,” I begin slowly. “But it’s happened before. In the weeks before Cassie was murdered, I kept thinking someone had been in our apartment. Things were out of place. Nothing was ever missing but just things weren’t where they belonged; they’d been moved.”

She draws her eyebrows together and her face takes on this pinched expression. Then she says in a quiet voice, “That happened to me, too. It started a month or so before I was attacked. It got so bad I worried I had a cognitive impairment.”

My pulse is a jackhammer and my mouth goes dry. “And the smell?”

She blinks. “Smell?

“There was this distinctive scent—kind of spicy, kind of sweet. Sandalwood. It’s used in cologne, perfume, candles, all sorts of stuff. I smelled it everywhere—in our apartment, in my car, empty classrooms. Then after Cassie died, it went away.”

“You think it was him?”

Him. She means Cassie’s killer. And I do.

“I always wondered. I definitely have an association with the scent. The first time I spent the night at Tristan’s, he lit a candle that he picked up from a little shop in town. The smell made me so sick.”

“Sandalwood?”

“Right.”

“That’s a pretty big coincidence for him to have a candle with a scent that triggers you. Don’t you think?”

“You don’t think it’s a coincidence?”

“Do you? Honestly?”

She watches my face while I work through it.

“It has to be. He didn’t know about Cassie’s murder, and he couldn’t have known about that scent following me around.

And even assuming for the sake of argument that he somehow found out, why would he deliberately try to throw me off balance on a night when we were taking our relationship to the next level? It doesn’t make any sense.”

She bites down on her lip hard enough that a drop of blood surfaces.

“Just say it,” I tell her. “Whatever you’re going to say, say it.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t make any sense.

If Tristan’s who you think he is—a good guy who loves you who isn’t involved in any way in the attack on me, your roommate’s murder, or this latest murder in your town.

But if, like you say, we don’t rely on the most convenient explanation, but go to the actual simplest one, then your husband’s not who you think he is. ”

I sit on my hands to hide the fact that I’m shaking again. “We’ve been over this. Tristan was nine when you were stabbed.”

“I’m not necessarily saying he’s a killer. Maybe he’s a gaslighter, a stalker, a sociopath. Or just a garden-variety dick.”

“Oh, come on, Alex. So, what, you think he’s hiding in the woods, watching us? Getting off on this? He’s the one who moved the axe, broke my phone? He’s in Pennsylvania.”

“Maybe he is, but we don’t know where Tate is.”

This is true, but it feels like a huge stretch. I give her a close look. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Now she’s shaking, and that’s frankly more terrifying to me than anything that’s happened so far.

She swallows hard. “Remember you said you smelled it—sandalwood—on my blanket?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know what you were talking about.

I didn’t know the name of the scent. But I took a nap on the couch yesterday, and I pulled the blanket up over me.

When I was falling asleep, I smelled something that stirred a memory in me.

I didn’t know what it was then. But I’ve smelled sandalwood before, too.

A long time ago. When I lived in Windy Rock. ”

The full weight of what’s she’s saying hits me.

“We don’t know where Tate is,” I repeat her observation.

We both turn to look out the window toward the rain-lashed woods.