Page 8 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
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He was gone. But he left boot prints in the mud.
“Turkey and Swiss for Tristan,” the sandwich guy calls.
I edge through the sea of people to grab my brown bag and a handful of napkins then rush outside. I turn my collar up against the blast of cold air and lower my head until I round the corner and the wind dies. Then I pull out my phone and call Emily.
She answers before the first ring finishes.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have texted. I’m just freaking?—”
I cut off her apology and explanation. “I can come home.”
She manages a shaky laugh. “That’s stupid. I’m fine. Besides you have that big murder…”
When she trails off, I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Damn. I’ve been careful not to share any details with her, and the media has been surprisingly circumspect about Giselle Ward’s death—most likely because the victim is the daughter of a local pastor. But from the tremble in Emily’s voice, it’s clear she’s heard enough to know the twenty-year-old victim was stabbed.
If she also heard that Giselle’s roommate found her body, that’s all it would take to whip up her anxiety. It’s understandable, given the similarities to the Cassie Baughman murder, and it’s probably why she thinks someone was watching her from the Simmons’ garden. Avoiding this exact scenario is part of the reason I wanted her to leave town.
“Are you sure?” I ask now. I’ll leave work early if she says she needs me, but I really shouldn’t.
“I’m positive,” she says in an uncertain voice. “I’m packing up my laptop to leave anyway. Maybe working at the coffee shop will help me break through my block. Shake some words loose.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Speaking of good ideas, the thought of doing a writing retreat at that cabin is starting to grow on me.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“I ran the idea by a friend, and he thinks the change of scenery will help.”
A friend? I pause. “Sam?”
Now she pauses. “Yeah, Sam. So, will you forward me the owner’s contact info? I’ll send an email.”
I can tell from her voice she’s lying. She didn’t call her agent. I’ll bet anything she called her psychotherapist. If she’s running her daily decisions by Dr. Wilde, she’s in worse shape than I thought. But the upside is the good doctor certainly would’ve endorsed this plan—after all, it was his suggestion.
“I’ll take care of it for you. There’s a messaging feature through the booking site, and I already set up an account. Just in case.” I falter, considering how best to phrase this next bit. “Listen, you should go to the coffee shop. But …”
“But you don’t think anyone was there. You think I imagined it. I saw footprints, Tristan.” Her voice shakes harder.
I hurry to soothe her. “I don’t think you imagined footprints. I believe you saw them, but there may be an innocent explanation. A neighbor kid chasing a loose football or something. Footprints don’t necessarily mean someone was watching you.”
She inhales a ragged breath then explodes, “It wasn’t a kid getting his football, Tristan. Someone was watching me.”
She’s definitely spiraling, which is bad. But there’s a silver lining—this incident, real or imagined, may convince her to leave town.
“Okay, Em. I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m doubting you.”
“I smelled something,” she insists.
My heart skips. I have to ask, even though I know what the answer will be.
I force the words out. “What did you smell?”
“Sandalwood.”
March 2018
