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W hen I felt Sheriff Reed was far behind, I cracked the windows to let some air in.

There was a bit of a chill now—a comforting one that screamed autumn.

Fall was my favorite season. It meant getting to wear sweaters and hoodies.

Cozy up in blankets. Sit around bonfires with wine and snacks.

Taking strolls through the park and enjoying the foliage.

The breeze cooled my mind a bit, but it didn’t keep the questions from coming at me fast and furiously. Why did that sheriff stop me for a measly LED light? Why did it matter? And most importantly, was he related to Alex Reed?

I brushed the questions aside as I turned onto another single-lane road and drove about three more miles. Before I knew it, the wheels of my car were traveling up a steep, rocky pathway. The tires dipped and bobbed as clusters of colorful trees surrounded me. Then I saw it.

According to the description, the cottage was named Twilight Oaks.

Seeing it in person, I understood why. Twilight Oaks may have been swallowed in the trees, but from the middle of the pathway, if you looked up at just the right angle, you saw so much of the sky beyond the mountains of lush treetops.

Above those mountains were an accumulation of thick clouds swirling with remnants of a lavender and orange sunset.

Wisps of blue lingered in the sky, painting a beautiful canvas that only God’s hand could create.

The view was breathtaking. I could see why Eve booked here. She lived for aesthetics and this view would’ve made any influencer happy.

Along the way, I noticed a house painted blue to my left.

It was deeper within the trees, sconces glowing gold on the porch.

As I drove by, I spotted a person standing on the left-hand side looking in my direction.

I was going too fast to take in the detail of them, but it was good to know there were neighbors around.

Once parked, I climbed out of the car and opened the back door to collect my overnight bag.

The air smelled earthy and sweet at the same time, like a mixture of maple syrup and briny water.

I focused on the cottage again while shutting the door.

Up close, I could tell its age. At least forty years old with some recent renovations.

The gray paint and white shutters looked like new additions.

One part of the house, the face of it, was made of stone.

The wood porch and stoop glistened, as if it’d recently been rinsed off.

Not a splinter or crack in sight. Planted flowers were surrounded by dark mulch and a footpath led to the back of the house.

Alex Reed certainly took care of his home.

The front of the house had trees hovering in every direction, like parents cradling a baby.

They towered so high I had to tip my head back to see the tops of them.

At the door, I typed in the provided code from my confirmation email on the lock and gained access.

The interior was cozy. Suede sofas, wooden walls, a stone fireplace.

Throw blankets in a basket in the corner.

The kitchen had wooden countertops, a butcher block island, and stainless-steel pots and pans hanging from a built-in shelf above the island.

The age of the house revealed itself again as I walked deeper into the house, hearing the creaking and moaning fill the silence.

Setting my things down near the four-top table, I soaked in all the details before venturing toward the rooms. The smaller room had a full-sized bed and TV.

One window to the right of the bed with the curtains parted.

The master bedroom was simple. Kind of tight, but tolerable for someone planning a short stay.

The king-sized bed was too big for the room.

On either side of the bed, nightstands were wedged in the corners and topped with lamps.

Random paintings of lakes were attached to the wall, all looking like they’d been picked from a thrift shop.

A sliding door was in the room. I pushed the curtain aside and it revealed a cluster of tree trunks.

In between the trunks, I spotted dark, rippling water.

Right. Now to look for signs of Eve.

I checked the closet. Empty. The bathroom was spotless.

Nothing but a bottle of hand soap and complimentary shampoo.

Nothing under the bed. I slid the sliding door open and popped my head out.

There was a single Adirondack chair to the right facing the trees and distant lake.

Leaves were scattered on the cement block. No sign of her.

I left the bedroom and returned to the main area, checking the kitchen next.

Nothing was in the pantries except salt and a few other condiments.

The dishwasher was clear. The fridge had only ketchup and mustard inside.

But when I opened the freezer, I paused.

A pint of ice cream was in the door of it.

And not just any ice cream. Baskin Robbins cotton candy ice cream.

There was only one person I knew personally who ate that sickeningly sweet ice cream. It was her comfort treat. Her favorite to eat when she’d had a bad day or when her period came on.

We had nights where I’d settle for a chocolate pint while she devoured her cotton candy. I’d tease her about how gross it was, and she’d stick her tongue out to show me the melted blue and pink swirl.

Eve had definitely been here. That was her ice cream.

I grabbed it quickly, opening it. The container was half empty. No freezer burn. Sure, it could’ve been anyone else’s ice cream, but what were the odds someone would have selected that particular flavor? And likely during the same week she was here, no less.

I placed it back in the freezer and went to retrieve my phone from my purse. I had to jump on this now. After several failed attempts, my text message finally went through as a green bubble to Nico.

Eve Castillo journal entry

I met someone a few nights ago. I went to Miami with Pam, and we sunbathed and took pics for our Instas.

Pam is kind of annoying, but she has a big following and a lot of connections, so I deal with her.

I feel bad saying that because she is very sweet.

But she talks so damn loud and is so theatrical. It just totally blows my mind.

Anyway, this guy kept looking at me when we were at the pool.

He had a cabana boy drop drinks off for us.

Pam said he was looking at me the most. She said it loud enough for him to hear (like I said, annoying).

At first, I ignored the guy. He was cute but really not my type.

I can’t lie and say I didn’t like the attention though.

After dealing with Lincoln, it was nice to know I was still desired, still wanted, still eye fuckable.

Men always looked at me. It wasn’t new. But lately, it seemed to be happening less often, or maybe I didn’t care enough to notice.

The way this guy eyed me . . . it was as if he practically owned me already.

Like he knew he would have me, no matter what it took.

For some reason, I liked that. His assuredness. His confidence.

He asked me to meet him at a club and we really hit it off. We took ecstasy. I danced with him all night long. Took shots. Fucked him in his hotel room. Then fucked him again in the shower. The night was a beautiful whirlwind. No, it was magical.

We’ve been texting every day since I left. He Face-Times me when he’s free. He’s so fucking amazing. Like I literally can’t get him out of my head. He’s patient, smart, sexy, and makes really good money.

But I don’t want to jinx it. The good thing is he’s ten times better than Lincoln, but I wonder sometimes what Lincoln is up to. I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him. If he regrets letting me slip away.

Anyway, we’ll see how things go with the new guy. If it feels right, maybe his name will be worthy enough for me to write it down.