Page 79 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
We do, indeed.” She patted the pocket of her grimy skirt, touching the cool metal concealed within its filthy, silky folds.
Without discussing the matter, the women knew they would go their separate ways now. Bound forever by what they had shared, but ready to move forward in the world alone.
—The Tower, by Emily Rose
Thirty-Nine
Alex
* * *
One month later
* * *
I survey the still, empty farmhouse. Spring sunlight streams through windows I kept shuttered for so long. The light illuminates dust motes swirling in the air. I haven’t left yet, but the house already feels unlived in, as if it knows its purpose as my fortress is ending. The thought brings a smile rather than the panic I’d expected. It’s served its purpose—both good and bad. It kept me hidden away from my past, but it also kept me hidden away from my present. No more.
On the kitchen counter, I place the key on top of the brief, unsigned note I’ve left for the new owner:
Here’s to escaping our towers. The garden blooms in late April, and the best blackberries grow along the north fence. The house has its own heartbeat; learn to listen for it.
My fingers brush the rough edge where I tore the page from my notebook. Emily will make this place her own, turn it into something other than a hiding place. She’s already transformed the cabin into her writing studio, and she swears the ghosts of Maleen and Ruth linger in the farmhouse attic and wave to her from the window.
I’ll be glad to leave my ghosts behind when I leave. I’m ready to undertake the slow process of stitching myself back together, piece by piece.
The door opens and the spring breeze drifts in, carrying the loamy aroma of thawing earth and new growth. Robert’s smiling face, as familiar as my own, appears in the open doorway, backlit by the morning sun. The scar on my collarbone twinges as I turn, a souvenir of that night, like the spiderweb of cracks still visible in the attic window.
“Ready to go?”
His grin broadens, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He’s beyond thrilled that I’ve decided to join him for the remainder of his final posting—even if the events that prompted me to do so are grim. And he’s used up all his leave so we can take a whirlwind trip first.
He’s all in on the trip, but he wanted me to see a therapist first. Talk to someone. But once I told him the man who tried to kill me and Emily was a psychotherapist, he stopped asking. Instead, he holds me on the nights I wake up shaking.
All my memories from the original attack have returned. And they’re rough. Coupled with my recovery from the fall, it’s been a rocky ride.
But I don’t want to waste any more time on either of the two experiences. I don’t want to close myself up. And I don’t want to talk. I want to, finally, live. To walk out into the sunshine and reveal myself.
I grin back and grab my bucket list notebook, its pages nearly full now. “Ready.”
I step out onto the porch gingerly, still favoring my newly healed ankle, and place my hand inside his, rubbing the callous on his thumb with my finger.
I take one final long look at the farmhouse, then turn toward the cabin perched on the rise to study it for a moment. This property provided me with security, protection, and safety for years. Or at least the illusion of these things.
It was the psychotherapist who’d led Tristan to me. Wilde had rented the cabin earlier in the year. In his archived booking email, he said he needed solitude to work on his research. Was it a coincidence that he chose my property? Or had Tate somehow tracked me down and pointed the doctor in my direction? With both of them dead, I’ll never know. But what I do know is hiding didn’t save me in the end.
I remind myself that I don’t need to hide anymore. I’ve set myself free.
Robert nuzzles my cheek. “We should head out. We have a long flight.”
“A long adventure,” I respond.
We walk down the steps to the waiting car at my halting pace. I don’t look back a second time.
Forty
Emily
* * *
