Page 23 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
He pushes the door open and heads out into the hallway. I pull up the email from the Maricopa County Homicide Cold Case Unit and forward it twice: first to Graham Stone’s email, and then, in violation of department protocol, to my own personal email address. I delete the second forward from my ‘Sent’ history for all the good it’ll do me, which is probably none. I use my phone app to scan my notes on the Giselle Ward murder, then I shut down the computer, grab my bag, and turn out the lights.
As shaken as I am that my mitochondrial DNA came back on that hair, I’m relieved. A two-week suspension beats being named a person of interest in a murder. But my window of time is shrinking, and not having access to the lab and all its resources is going to make my plan harder to execute.
Fourteen
Alex
* * *
I jolt awake, sweaty and gasping. I press my shoulder blades against the mattress and stare wide-eyed up at the ceiling I can’t see in my dark bedroom. I listen for the sound that woke me, straining to hear over my ragged breath and thumping heart. Aside from my noises and the steady ticking of the old clock on my nightstand, the room is silent.
I sleep the sleep of the dead most nights. When Robert’s home, he always remarks on how lucky I am to be such a sound sleeper. I tell him it’s all the fresh air and sunshine. And it’s true. I stay active all day, eat and drink well, and wear myself out so that by the time my head hits the pillow, my exhausted brain turns off. Then, I give myself over to sleep until the first gray light of morning starts to leak in through my curtains.
Not tonight, though.
After several long minutes of foggy-headed confusion, I accept that I’m not going to fall back to sleep. I could blame the coffee. Or the whiskey.
I’d planned to stay up late looking into Tristan and Emily Rose’s past. But once I realized Tristan was Tom Weakes’ son, I lost my appetite for the research project. After I puked my guts out, I was too keyed up to sit still, let alone sleep. So I pulled Robert’s dusty bottle of bourbon out of the cabinet, poured two fingers of the liquid into a heavy glass, and then lay in bed reading my book—a biography of the bloodthirsty Harpe brothers, often called the country’s first serial killers—until the booze did its job, and my eyes grew heavy.
I suppose I could also blame my choice of bedtime reading material. It’s gruesome stuff, but typically, nothing interferes with my sleep. It’s a point of pride. Sleeping soundly through the night without nightmares was one of my priorities after the attack. I thought if I could do that—sleep alone without fear—I’d be well on my way to reclaiming my life. I’m not sure how true that turned out to be, but I am generally well-rested.
Tonight, though, is a lost cause. I sit up, switch on the light, and take a long drink of water from the glass by my bedside. I’m wide awake. I glance at the clock. It’s just after four o’clock. The sun won’t rise for another three and a half hours, thanks to daylight saving time, which went into effect a few weeks back. A flash of irritation blazes in my chest as I sit on the edge of my bed to pull on my long, thick, wool socks. Blasted Emily Rose.
By the time I pad down the dark, quiet hallway to the bathroom, I’m already correcting myself. It’s not her fault. Either she’s the most gifted actor I’ve ever met or she had no idea that her questions about Windy Rock would upset me. How could she? But whether or not it’s her fault, her presence here has interrupted my routines and now my sleep. Cranky, I brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. Although I sleep like a rock, when I’m up, I’m up. So, I might as well start my day.
In the kitchen, I prepare a bowl of oatmeal and get my coffee going by the dim nightlight built into the stove’s hood. I’m not yet ready to face overhead lights. I flip on my laptop so I can attend to some emails and check my bookings. But my digital routine is interrupted as well, this time by the weather bulletins. The storm has definitely shifted and picked up speed—it’s made landfall in Georgia and it’s barreling up the coast at us.
I study the weather alerts, paying particular attention to the storm track models. By the time I’m done, my views on my early morning wake-up have switched from irritated to grateful. It’s even possible that what woke me was the precipitous drop in barometric pressure ahead of the storm. Maybe my interrupted sleep is a blessing, not a curse. Regardless, I can make use of this time. I gulp my coffee and shovel the oatmeal into my mouth.
I toss the bowl and mug into the sink and fill them with soapy water to soak. I’ll deal with them later. Then I pull on my coat, hat, and boots. I clip a headlamp to my wool cap before putting my gloves on. Finally, I slip a slim flashlight into my pocket, just in case. I activate the light on my hat as I step out onto the porch and its beam shines a few feet ahead of me as I stop to fill my lungs with the morning mountain air. The cold air burns.
I grab the axe that I leave propped against the wall near my door and walk down to the clearing to split two armloads of dried firewood. I’ve already gathered more than enough wood to last until the spring thaw. But with a storm coming, I want more. Plus, the activity gets my blood pumping and warms me.
I dump the half-logs in the bin by the door, return the axe to its spot, and do my rounds. I check the garden shed, tool shed, and barn, making sure everything is put away, battened down, and locked up. As I pass the empty chicken coop, I’m grateful, not for the first time, that I sold my chickens to the family down the valley.
For a while my brood provided me with eggs and companionship, but then a red fox slaughtered Henny Penny. My pain at finding the clump of bloody feathers left behind overwhelmed me. It was too much.
I prefer loneliness to loss. It’s why I told Robert I didn’t want to have children—I can’t bear the thought of grieving another chicken, let alone a potential child. It’s a dark worldview, and I know it. But it’s mine.
I pause beside the fencing that does nothing to keep the rabbits out of my garden and let my gaze travel down the hill, falling on the dark cabin. Just then, the lamp in the bedroom comes on with a soft yellow glow. I jump back into the shadows even though there’s no way the woman inside can see me and I have no reason to hide on my own property.
Emily Rose is either an early riser or a poor sleeper. Well, she does have a deadline looming. There’s every reason to think she’s up at this hour to tackle her manuscript. Still, it’s awfully early. As I stand there in the gray half-light, watching the cabin, the skin on the back of my neck prickles as if I’m being watched, too.
I shift my gaze without turning my head and scan the area with my peripheral vision. I’m being ridiculous and know it—there’s no one else up here. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s someone in the dense woods across the clearing. I narrow my eyes, straining to make out a shape, movement, any hint of life. There’s nothing.
I huff out a frustrated breath. Life on this remote mountaintop is many things. Sometimes I feel isolated, even lonely. But I’ve never felt afraid before. Not once. My seclusion has always been a source of comfort—knowing that I’m removed from all the violence and suffering that suffuses society makes me feel protected and secure. But not now. Now I feel vulnerable, exposed. I curse Tristan Rose under my breath. His coming here has breached my defenses.
A sharp crack breaks the silence as if someone or something has stepped on a fallen twig. I freeze. I wish I hadn’t left the axe on the porch. My throat goes dry. I can’t swallow.
Finally, with shaking hands, I remove the flashlight from my pocket and switch it on, aiming the beam into the woods, low to the ground. I’m hoping to catch the glow of an animal’s eyes—a fox, a squirrel, or one of the blasted bunnies. I see nothing.
I switch off the light, and as I do, I hear the rustle of dried leaves. I listen harder. No, it’s just the wind gusting in advance of the storm. Focus on the storm, I order myself. Make the preparations to stave off a real threat instead of obsessing about imaginary ones.
Chastened by my own scolding, I finish my circuit, methodically securing items that might blow away, tightening ropes, testing locks. I consider going to the cabin to make sure it’s storm-ready, too. I know Emily’s awake. But it’s far too early to pay a visit. I tell myself I’ll drop by later, and turn to trudge back to the farmhouse. Raw from the wind and unsettled, I’m eager to get back inside and warm up with another mug of coffee. Daydreaming about my hot drink, I decide I’ve earned a dollop of fresh cream and a spoonful of sugar.
When I reach the porch, all thoughts of my treat vanish as I gape at what’s not there. The axe is gone.
Fifteen
