Page 59 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“You think it was him?”
Him. She means Cassie’s killer. And I do.
“I always wondered. I definitely have an association with the scent. The first time I spent the night at Tristan’s, he lit a candle that he picked up from a little shop in town. The smell made me so sick.”
“Sandalwood?”
“Right.”
“That’s a pretty big coincidence for him to have a candle with a scent that triggers you. Don’t you think?”
“You don’t think it’s a coincidence?”
“Do you? Honestly?”
She watches my face while I work through it.
“It has to be. He didn’t know about Cassie’s murder, and he couldn’t have known about that scent following me around. And even assuming for the sake of argument that he somehow found out, why would he deliberately try to throw me off balance on a night when we were taking our relationship to the next level? It doesn’t make any sense.”
She bites down on her lip hard enough that a drop of blood surfaces.
“Just say it,” I tell her. “Whatever you’re going to say, say it.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t make any sense. If Tristan’s who you think he is—a good guy who loves you who isn’t involved in any way in the attack on me, your roommate’s murder, or this latest murder in your town. But if, like you say, we don’t rely on the most convenient explanation, but go to the actual simplest one, then your husband’s not who you think he is.”
I sit on my hands to hide the fact that I’m shaking again. “We’ve been over this. Tristan was nine when you were stabbed.”
“I’m not necessarily saying he’s a killer. Maybe he’s a gaslighter, a stalker, a sociopath. Or just a garden-variety dick.”
“Oh, come on, Alex. So, what, you think he’s hiding in the woods, watching us? Getting off on this? He’s the one who moved the axe, broke my phone? He’s in Pennsylvania.”
“Maybe he is, but we don’t know where Tate is.”
This is true, but it feels like a huge stretch. I give her a close look. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Now she’s shaking, and that’s frankly more terrifying to me than anything that’s happened so far.
She swallows hard. “Remember you said you smelled it—sandalwood—on my blanket?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know what you were talking about. I didn’t know the name of the scent. But I took a nap on the couch yesterday, and I pulled the blanket up over me. When I was falling asleep, I smelled something that stirred a memory in me. I didn’t know what it was then. But I’ve smelled sandalwood before, too. A long time ago. When I lived in Windy Rock.”
The full weight of what’s she’s saying hits me.
“We don’t know where Tate is,” I repeat her observation.
We both turn to look out the window toward the rain-lashed woods.
Thirty-One
Tristan
* * *
My stomach growls. I ignore it. I skipped breakfast and started poring over the case files as soon as I came downstairs this morning. The ticking clock in my head grows louder with every passing moment. I don’t have time to eat. My stomach protests—more loudly this time—and I glance at my watch. I’ve been at it for four hours. Twenty more minutes, I promise myself. Then I’ll take a break and scarf down a sandwich or reheat some chili.
My appetite appeased by the prospect of food, I turn back to the documents spread out on my desk. And as if on cue, my cell phone chirps. My inclination is to ignore that, too. But it could be Emily. I turn it over to check the display: Mom.
