Page 57 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“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.”
