Page 5 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Five

Tristan

I ’m in line at the deli, trying to decide between turkey and Swiss on rye or onion soup for lunch when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out. Emily’s texting.

I frown down at the notification as I shuffle forward in the queue.

She rarely tries to reach me during the work day.

Usually, she’s caught up in the flow of her writing.

Or at least she used to be. But even now, wrestling with writer’s block, she doesn’t interrupt me at work.

In an emergency, she’ll call. And if she wants to share something she’s read or remind me to pick something up at the store, she schedules a text or email to hit my phone right around six PM, when I’m typically leaving for the day. Emily’s considerate that way.

So, the text pricks at me. But it’s my turn to order.

I opt for the sandwich and a bag of jalapeno chips, grab a bottled water from the cooler, and pay the cashier without engaging in our usual Sixers basketball chitchat.

Then I join the cluster of people gathered near the pickup counter waiting for takeout orders.

I unlock the messaging app with the print on my index finger and read:

There was someone in Lashina and Ty’s yard.

Something? A deer? Rabbit maybe?

SomeONE. Watching our house.

My pulse quickens and the moisture dissipates from my mouth. I try to work up enough saliva to swallow, but my throat’s a desert. I twist open the water and take a long swig of cold liquid. I scan the cramped sandwich shop in search of a quiet corner. There is none.

I thumb out a reply:

Are you okay? Are they gone?

I want to tell her to call the police. But that call could set off a cascade of consequences that will complicate my plans. I twitch my lips as worry and practicality battle it out. Her response gives pragmatism the advantage:

I’m fine. Just rattled. Yeah, he’s gone. TBH, I didn’t actually see anyone.

You heard him?

Not exactly. I thought I saw movement behind the hedge row. Went to check it out.

…

He was gone. But he left boot prints in the mud.

“Turkey and Swiss for Tristan,” the sandwich guy calls.

I edge through the sea of people to grab my brown bag and a handful of napkins then rush outside. I turn my collar up against the blast of cold air and lower my head until I round the corner and the wind dies. Then I pull out my phone and call Emily.

She answers before the first ring finishes.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have texted. I’m just freaking?—”

I cut off her apology and explanation. “I can come home.”

She manages a shaky laugh. “That’s stupid. I’m fine. Besides you have that big murder…”

When she trails off, I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Damn. I’ve been careful not to share any details with her, and the media has been surprisingly circumspect about Giselle Ward’s death—most likely because the victim is the daughter of a local pastor.

But from the tremble in Emily’s voice, it’s clear she’s heard enough to know the twenty-year-old victim was stabbed.

If she also heard that Giselle’s roommate found her body, that’s all it would take to whip up her anxiety.

It’s understandable, given the similarities to the Cassie Baughman murder, and it’s probably why she thinks someone was watching her from the Simmons’ garden.

Avoiding this exact scenario is part of the reason I wanted her to leave town.

“Are you sure?” I ask now. I’ll leave work early if she says she needs me, but I really shouldn’t.

“I’m positive,” she says in an uncertain voice. “I’m packing up my laptop to leave anyway. Maybe working at the coffee shop will help me break through my block. Shake some words loose.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Speaking of good ideas, the thought of doing a writing retreat at that cabin is starting to grow on me.”

“Really? That’s great.”

“I ran the idea by a friend, and he thinks the change of scenery will help.”

A friend? I pause. “Sam?”

Now she pauses. “Yeah, Sam. So, will you forward me the owner’s contact info? I’ll send an email.”

I can tell from her voice she’s lying. She didn’t call her agent.

I’ll bet anything she called her psychotherapist. If she’s running her daily decisions by Dr. Wilde, she’s in worse shape than I thought.

But the upside is the good doctor certainly would’ve endorsed this plan—after all, it was his suggestion.

“I’ll take care of it for you. There’s a messaging feature through the booking site, and I already set up an account. Just in case.” I falter, considering how best to phrase this next bit. “Listen, you should go to the coffee shop. But …”

“But you don’t think anyone was there. You think I imagined it. I saw footprints, Tristan.” Her voice shakes harder.

I hurry to soothe her. “I don’t think you imagined footprints. I believe you saw them, but there may be an innocent explanation. A neighbor kid chasing a loose football or something. Footprints don’t necessarily mean someone was watching you.”

She inhales a ragged breath then explodes, “It wasn’t a kid getting his football, Tristan. Someone was watching me.”

She’s definitely spiraling, which is bad. But there’s a silver lining—this incident, real or imagined, may convince her to leave town.

“Okay, Em. I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m doubting you.”

“I smelled something,” she insists.

My heart skips. I have to ask, even though I know what the answer will be.

I force the words out. “What did you smell?”

“Sandalwood.”

March 2018

I was nervous, even more nervous than I thought I’d be. I must’ve told myself to forget it and walk away a dozen times during Emily’s forty-five-minute session with Dr. Wilde. But I didn’t.

Instead, I paced back and forth inside the crystal and candle store across the street from the psychiatrist’s office. The one-year anniversary of Cassie’s murder was approaching, and I knew this would be a vulnerable time for Emily. It was important that I meet her now.

So I ignored the dirty looks of the wild-haired proprietor of Insight, Scents, and Sense and continued to keep one eye on the glassed-in lobby across the street and one eye on the time. Finally, the owner approached me.

“Sir, your energy is unsettling. Please either buy something or leave.” She met my gaze with clear hazel eyes.

I peeked at the time—four more minutes until Emily’s session would end—and grabbed a candle at random from a skirted table. I caught a whiff of a familiar scent that reminded me of aftershave as I crossed the cramped shop and plunked the candle down beside the cash register.

“Mmm. Sandalwood and amber. Excellent choice. Sandalwood is known for relaxing, calming qualities and is believed to bring positivity and purity of thought,” she told me as she carefully wrapped the glass candle container in brown paper.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I responded absently.

She reached out and wrapped her bony fingers around my wrist. I started.

“Your pulse is quite high, and your energy is agitated. The candle should help regulate your nervous system.”

I didn’t want to get snarky with her. And I definitely didn’t want to miss my chance to meet Emily by getting sucked into a conversation with this woman. She was woo-woo but well-intentioned. So I managed a smile.

“That’s good to know. I hope it works.”

She smiled back and slid a pack of wood matches with colorful tips into the bag alongside the candle. “It will. I know it.”

She rang up the purchase, and I handed over two twenties. Apparently, relaxation and positivity didn’t come cheap. Another glance at my watch. T minus 90 seconds.

I practically ran out of the shop. Then I jaywalked across the street and positioned myself to bump into Emily.

I waited with my hand on the building’s entrance door and stared through the glass at the lights above the elevator bank inside.

When a light and a faint ding announced the arrival of the elevator from a higher floor, I rushed inside the small lobby.

Emily stepped off the elevator, her head down. I knew from past encounters that she lowered her gaze to hide her red-rimmed eyes and puffy face after her sessions. I walked directly into her path.

A middle-aged mom-type shook her head and skirted us as Emily bounced off my chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Emily exclaimed, raising her head.

“Don’t be. It was my fault. Are you okay?” I caught her elbow with a light touch and guided her over to the wall, out of the flow of foot traffic.

“I’m fine. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she confessed.

I smiled my understanding. “I get it. I get lost in thought, too. Sometimes what’s going on up here,”—I tapped a finger against my temple—“is way more appealing than what’s going on out there.” I waved my hand at our surroundings to indicate the outside world.

She eyed me more closely. “Yeah, sometimes it is.”

After that, it was easy enough. I walked her back to her apartment, invited her for coffee the next day.

We fell into a casual friendship. Started hiking on the weekends.

Our first kiss. Some Netflix and chill, as we used to say.

A few parties. Eventually, we started having sex, always at her place. But I never spent the night.

Then, at the end of March, I had her over to my place for a dinner date and a sleepover. Decidedly not casual. I wanted to signal my readiness to take our relationship to the next level.

She stopped on the porch to stomp the snow off her boots. I yanked the door open, and she hurried inside, her cheeks red from the cold and her long hair windblown. She thrust a bottle of red wine into my hands.

“Here. I hope this goes with what you’re making.”

“Lasagna. So, yeah. Thanks.” I kissed her, and literal sparks flew from the static electricity.

We both laughed.

“Lasagna, huh? Do I smell garlic bread, too?” She inhaled deeply, sniffing the air. Her blue eyes went saucer-wide and the color drained from her face. She wobbled on her feet.

“Em, are you okay?”

She looked like she might puke or maybe pass out, so I led her to a kitchen chair and got her to lower her head below her knees. Then I uncorked the wine she’d brought and poured her a splash.

She waved it off. “Could I get some water, instead? Please?”

I filled a glass from the faucet and watched the color return to her cheeks as she slipped slowly.

“Feeling better?” I was torn between concern about her and not wanting to burn the meal.

A small nod. “Yeah, thanks.”

She wrinkled her nose and cast a glance toward the coffee table in the living room, where the overpriced candle from the crystal shop crackled and burned.

I followed her gaze. “What?”

“What’s that scent?”

“The candle? Sandalwood. Doesn’t it smell great?”

She mustered up a weak smile. “Yeah, I guess. I smelled it everywhere I went for a while, then, out of the blue, it disappeared. But now it’s back.”

Her fixation on the candle confused me, but she seemed to expect a response. “Well, it’s a very popular scent. Has been for years. I can remember my stepdad wearing it as aftershave when I was growing up.” And, before him, my dad. But I don’t talk about him. Ever.

“Really? I never smelled it until … last winter.”

Last winter was her oblique way of referencing her roommate’s murder.

And while she didn’t seem to make the connection—at least not consciously—between the aroma and the killer, I sure did.

I covered the candle with its lid to extinguish the scent, then pulled her into the dining room and got her settled in the chair.

As she draped her napkin over her lap, she murmured, “Such a strange coincidence.”

“What is?”

“That scented candle.”

I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the wine and two glasses. I poured her a generous portion. As I handed her the glass, I said, “Not really. It’s a phenomenon called frequency illusion.”

She smiled an odd, sad smile. “Yeah. Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon.”

“That’s right.” I clinked my glass against hers. “Cheers.”

She brightened, visibly shrugging off her sorrow like it was a coat. “Cheers. I’m so excited to try your cooking.”

Neither of us brought up her reaction to the sandalwood candle for the rest of the evening. The next morning, before sunrise, I left her sleeping in my bed, crept out to the trash can in the backyard, and tossed the thing in the bin.