Page 80 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
Three months later
* * *
The fairy lights strung along the eaves that overhang the farmhouse porch cast a warm glow. Hundreds more of the tiny twinkling white lights wind through the verdant, blooming trees. The summer air is redolent with the scent of flowers and buzzes with the tinkle of glasses and the low hum of conversation. The sun hangs low in the sky, but hasn’t yet dipped behind the purple mountain.
I planned my book release party for the summer solstice for this very reason—the day will be long, and so will the celebration. I lean against the railing and survey the gathering spilling out from under the white tent to the wide lawn.
Sam and Jillian cross the yard to join me on the porch. Jillian’s long tiered maxi skirt swirls around her ankles. My agent hands me a flute of prosecco as he mounts the stairs.
“Here’s where you’ve been hiding,” Sam says.
“Not hiding. Just taking it all in,” I promise.
He raises his glass in an impromptu toast. “To breaking out of towers—and hitting the bestseller list.”
Jillian squeezes my arm. “And to think you almost missed your deadline,” she teases gently.
We had a long, boozy lunch on Sam’s dime after I turned in my book. And whether from the wine or her easy manner, I poured out the whole story about why I struggled to write this book—and why it’s the most necessary piece I’ve ever written. She understood, as writers do, and confided that she started writing romance after becoming a widow at twenty-two, awash in a sea of grief. It turns out opening up to someone, letting them know me and knowing them in return, doesn’t make me vulnerable. It makes me powerful. Whole. I owe this realization, and so much more, to Alex.
My gaze drifts over the lawn and I spot a familiar figure hovering on the edge of the celebration in the tent. I excuse myself and head down the stairs, pausing to smile at the late evening sun lighting up the cabin windows.
My writing studio is set up in the cabin, although some days I work in the farmhouse kitchen. I feel close to Alex when I’m there—in between her pithy emails and our infrequent phone calls. A beautiful arrangement of orange roses and white lilies sits on the porch—a congratulatory bouquet from her and Robert, sent from somewhere in Southeast Asia.
By the time I reach my inherited herb garden, Tristan’s broken free from the party. He stands alone, looking down at the overabundance of riotous basil. I come to a stop beside him and hesitate for an awkward moment, trying to decide how to start this conversation.
He turns toward me, one hand in the pocket of his linen pants and the other clutching a fluted glass.
“Nice turnout,” he says.
As I study my estranged husband, I silently thank him for breaking the ice for both of us. He looks tired. But not haggard, not like he did in the aftermath of all that happened. He has the lazy smile I know so well and the same warm eyes. The light tan is new, and I wonder if he’s started running again.
“I’m glad you came,” I tell him.
It’s true, I realize with a start.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” He clicks his glass against mine. “I read the book. It’s your best work, Em.”
My smile is so wide my cheeks ache. “Thanks. I’m surprised you found the time. I thought you were working overtime on … the case.”
“I was. But we’ve officially closed the investigation,” he says quietly. “Dr. Wilde’s notes helped us connect everything. All the attacks, going back to Alex. Wilde documented everything.”
My smile slips away. “Everything? Even the way Tate pulled him into his world, ensnaring him?”
Tristan and I understand our psychotherapist was a damaged person, but we also agree that he was, in a way, one of Tate’s victims.
“Especially that. He was studying himself by the end. Taking notes on his state of mind in the barn where he hid to watch you and Alex. When he ran out of space in his notebook, he dictated detailed records on the satellite phone they found on him.”
“How’s the townhouse?” I ask. It’s an obvious subject change, but I don’t want to dwell on Dr. Wilde.
“Empty,” he answers simply. “I miss you. So do Ty and Lashina.” He hurries to add, “But I understand why you need time.”
He does, I know. “Tell them I say hi.”
“I will. You working on anything? Or just basking in the glow of all the effusive reviews of The Tower?”
I point my chin toward my writing studio. “I’m starting a new book. A thriller this time.”
His eyes widen. “About what happened?”
