Page 44 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“He cut me from here.” She points to her collarbone and traces a diagonal line all the way down the fabric of her shirt to her abdomen. “To here.”
“Oh my God.” I try to breathe.
“I don’t remember any of it. I apparently fought him off because my neighbor called the police with a noise complaint. She told them a domestic violence incident in my apartment was making it impossible for her to hear her television program. That cranky bitch saved my life.”
“What happened?” I say it mainly to encourage her to keep talking, but now that she’s started telling her story, she needs no prompting.
“It took the police a long time to get there because of the storm. When they did, my bedroom window was open. The rain was pouring in and I was bleeding to death on my bedroom floor. They life-flighted me to the hospital in Bangor, and I—” She stops abruptly and takes a shuddering breath before biting out the words, “I shouldn’t have survived.”
“But you did.”
“But I did. Everyone called it a miracle. It didn’t feel like a miracle.” She laughs bitterly. “It felt like I’d have been better off if I hadn’t. I was in so much pain. I couldn’t remember anything. I was terrified. I didn’t know who’d done this to me or why or if they’d be back.”
I reach over and gently squeeze her free hand as it dawns on me. “That’s why you were so freaked out when I told you Tristan was from Windy Rock. Did you recognize him?”
“No. But I did some research last night and connected the dots.”
I’m casting around for something comforting to say, but she’s committed to pushing through to the end of her story. She swallows audibly, clears her throat, and says, “When I got out of the hospital, I did a stint in a rehabilitation center to re-learn how to walk and talk and use my hands again. But I never regained my memory of that night. In fact, I don’t remember anything in the days leading up to the attack. But as soon as I could, I got the hell out of Windy Rock and never looked back. I met my husband in Boston, and when he was transferred out to the West Coast, I tagged along even though we’d only been dating for a few weeks.”
Then I wonder—did Tristan recognize her? Or, worse, did he know ahead of time who she was? The thought makes me dizzy. “You weren’t Alex Liu in Maine, right? Could Tristan have known who you were when he rented the cabin?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve gone over it a dozen times. I don’t know how he could have found out. I’ve been extremely careful. He knew me as Lexi Lincoln.” She pauses here to give me a knowing look. “In Windy Rock, I’m forever Lexi Lincoln, the girl who was stabbed.”
My heart twists. This story is horrific—so much worse than mine. But I don’t know why she’s telling it. I’m here to hear it, to bear witness. But it’s not related to Tom Weakes’ suicide. Then I falter. It’s not, right?
She searches my face as though she can read my mind and then says, “Three days after I was stabbed, while I was still in a medically induced coma, Tom Weakes jumped off the cliffs outside town into the ocean.”
Bile rises in my throat. “A coincidence?” I croak.
She doesn’t answer directly. Instead she says, “By the time I was discharged from the hospital to rehab, Tara and Tristan were long gone. They left Windy Rock for good the day after Tom’s funeral, or so I heard. Tristan didn’t tell you any of this?”
I shake my head. “Like I said, he never talks about his father. Mr. Weakes, I mean. When he mentions his father, he means Jon Rose. And he never talks about Windy Rock.”
Alex watches me closely. I drink my wine and look back at her. She’s waiting for something, but what? Then understanding hits me like a punch to the gut.
“You think it was Tom. You think Tristan’s dad attacked you, tried to kill you?”
She responds in a measured tone. “I told you, I don’t have any memory of the attack. But people talked. The timing was curious, if nothing else.”
“Surely the police investigated him,” I say, grasping at straws.
“After a fashion. There wasn’t a lot to go on. Tara and Tristan had left town. I had no memory of the attack. And Tom was dead.”
“But Tate wasn’t.”
She gives me a grave look. “That’s right. Tate wasn’t dead, and he didn’t leave with his mother and brother.”
I’m confused. No, I’m reeling. “Wait, do you think Tate did it, and his father found out and couldn’t live with it? Or they did it together? Or what, exactly?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’ve never known what to think. But now, I look at the facts. I look at you showing up here. Tristan Weakes’ wife?—”
“Tristan Rose’s wife,” I interrupt fiercely.
She raises an eyebrow and continues. “You just happen to be married to this person who’s enmeshed with my past. And your roommate just happened to be stabbed and left for dead during a storm. That’s … well, it’s something.”
I’m not following her, so I come out and tell her, “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Alex. You’re going to have to spell it out.”
“Maybe Tristan and his brother aren’t estranged,” she says.
