Page 65 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
She gives me a sympathetic look. “Yeah, I have one, not four. And before you ask if I have another vehicle, I’m neither foolish nor brave enough to try to drive a tractor down an ice-covered mountain.”
“So that’s it. We’re trapped.” My voice shakes.
After all this time I’ve spent wondering when Cassie’s killer would finally catch up with me, he finally has. The fact that it’s my brother-in-law is more than my frantic, frightened mind can grasp.
Alex’s eyes narrow.
“What?”
Her gaze darts around the barn, and I realize she’s not entirely sure we’re alone either. She gives an imperceptible shake of her head and motions for me to follow her outside. Just moments ago, I was so relieved to be inside. I never would have imagined looking forward to being back out in the elements. But I eagerly trail out of the barn behind her.
She stops and latches the door. We both know that if he’s in there, it won’t stop him. But it might slow him down.
She speaks in a low voice. “There’s no guarantee, but if we go back to the farmhouse and up to my attic, we might be able to make a call. Sometimes I can get a cell phone signal if I hold my phone out the window.”
“How do you live like this?” I blurt.
When her eyes meet mine again, they’re full of dread and sorrow. “I thought it was protecting me. I never dreamed it would endanger me.”
A long silence passes between the two of us and then I say, ever hopeful, “Well, maybe the landline is back. I mean, it was working last night when I called Tristan. Maybe?—”
“Maybe.” She gives me a gentle look. “But don’t get your hopes up. The ice weighs the lines down. It’s even worse than the wind and snow. Still, you’re right. There’s a chance. There’s always a chance. So we can’t give up.”
On an impulse, I shift the butcher knife to my left hand and grab her left hand with my right. I squeeze, and she squeezes back. Then we run as quickly as we dare, using a little Charlie Chaplin stride to cross the slick grass. Once we hit the gravel in front of the farmhouse, we drop hands and run flat out, no longer worrying about falling.
Alex has the key out and is turning it in the lock even as we reach the front door. She pushes it open with her shoulder and we race inside.
“Emily, lock it,” she shouts.
I throw the bolt, and she picks up the phone in the kitchen. Then she turns to me and shakes her head. No signal. She reaches into the top drawer of the desk up against the kitchen wall and grabs an old flip phone. “Come on.”
She gestures for me to follow her and we race through the house to the stairs, pound up the stairs, and past Alex’s bedroom to the end of the hall. There’s another set of stairs. We race up them. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest.
At the top of these stairs, a door leads to yet another narrow stairwell. I clamber behind her up the steep stairs to the attic, where yet another door stops us. There’s no landing, so I stand on the step beneath her while she struggles with the door.
“It sticks. The paint swells when the humidity rises.” As she explains, she gives the door a hard bump with her hip.
It doesn’t budge. Just as I’m about to let the wave of defeat engulf me and sink to the ground, Alex throws her whole body at the wooden door and it jerks open.
“Come on.” She grabs my hand and yanks me into the cold, drafty attic.
Thirty-Four
Tristan
* * *
I shift my weight in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position in the molded plastic seat. Still, I’m grateful for my grim surroundings. Graham pulled some strings to get me into an interview room and not a holding cell. It’s probably only a matter of time before I’m behind bars, but I’d like to delay that for as long as possible. Apparently, my boss would, too.
The officer who booked me did, however, take my watch, and the clock on the wall is stuck at ten minutes to eight. It could be intentional, an effort to disorient people. Or it could be a dead battery. As a county employee, I’m leaning toward the latter. Whatever the reason, though, it does disorient me. I don’t know if I’ve been in here for twenty minutes, two hours, or some amount of time in between.
I turn my gaze away from the infuriating stopped clock and crane my neck up to study the water stain on the ceiling tiles and wonder if it’s evidence of a budgetary issue or a Rorschach test. I’ll know for sure when someone asks me what I see.
The door opens and Detective Dunn comes into the room. He doesn’t care what I see in the stain. Instead, he says without preamble, “Give me your arms.”
I obediently lift my wrists, and Dunn unlocks the cuffs.
“Thank you.” I rub my raw, red skin and then turn circles with my wrists to get the blood flowing again.
