I look across the way, at the small house right next door. It’s run down, but there’s something majestic about the large, swooping windows, the brick chimney, and the cone jutting from the top floor—almost like it’s a castle. With some work, it could be really beautiful. It’s a fixer-upper, that’s for sure. Nick said his wife was sick—I wonder if they had plans to fix it all up, but then got derailed.
I know what it’s like to have plans get derailed.
That light is still on in the upstairs window. The silhouette of Rosalie Baxter stares right back at me. I don’t lift my hand this time. In fact, I let the curtains fall closed, with only a small crack between them.
That’s when I see movement behind Rosalie’s silhouette. It must be Nick, having come home. I peer through the tiny crack in the curtains, watching them. He bends down next to her, talking to her. He reaches out and touches her face. I expect him to lean in to kiss her, but he doesn’t.
I watch as he stands up. Suddenly, he’s pacing the room. He seems upset, but of course, I can’t hear a word of the conversation.
And then he stops pacing. He lifts his head and looks straight through the window.
I jerk my head away from the window. He couldn’t possibly see me, could he? No, it’s impossible. But either way, I shouldn’t be snooping. Whatever he’s doing with his wife in his own home is private. It’s none of my business.
I turn back to the television. I’m dying to know if there’s anything on the news about Derek. There’s no way for me to leave this motel tonight, but if they haven’t discovered the body yet, I have a bit of breathing room. I really wish I had my phone with me to browse the web, but that would’ve made me a sitting duck.
I turn on the television, but the entire screen is just a mass of snow. I fiddle with the antenna, turning it every which way, making it longer, then shorter. It’s hopeless—there’s no reception. It’s probably because of the storm.
Well, maybe if the storm is this bad, it means they’re not out there looking for me.
I wince at the thought of Scott Dwyer discovering my husband’s dead body. I still don’t quite understand why he didn’t insist on coming into the house to check things out. Isn’t that protocol? If you hear screams, don’t you have to look inside?
But he’s going to find the body eventually. I wish it could be somebody else who makes the discovery. I don’t want Scott to know what a mess my life has become in the last decade.
A sob rises up at the bottom of my throat when I think back to the simpler days in high school, when I first got to know Scott. Of course, my life was far from perfect then. The pain of both my parents being suddenly killed was still raw. Most days, I went straight home after school and studied. Before my parents died, I used to get involved in extracurricular activities, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore. Especially since they had been going to see one of my plays when the accident happened.
For most of high school, I kept to myself. I kept my nose in a book, and most of the other kids saw me as aloof or even stuck up. Anyway, they left me alone.
But Scott made an effort. He would talk to me in class, and he started walking me to my next class afterwards. He would joke around until I would smile, which was no small feat because I did not smile easily. Then one day, while we were talking about how unseasonably hot it was outside, I noticed his shoulder brushing against mine as we walked. He noticed too, and he grinned in my direction. Whenever he looked at me, it was with this expression of unbridled affection. Like he thought I was the coolest, most wonderful girl he’d ever met.
And then when we got to my social studies class （he had a class at the exact same time at the entire other end of the school, and was undoubtedly late for it every single day because of me）， he rubbed a hand through his hair, enough to make it stick up straight in the air. His smile was adorably nervous.
It’s so hot outside. Maybe we could go to Frosty’s for some ice cream after class is over?
It took me a split second to realize what was happening. Scott was asking me out on a date. And I realized how much I wanted it. That sounds nice.
I didn’t appreciate him. I was too young, and I didn’t know what other boys were like. I thought every boy would race around the side of his broken down Ford to keep me from opening the door on my own. Would drive me home every single day after school, even if it meant he had to rush back to school to get to swim team practice. Would kiss me softly and sweetly and respectfully ask permission before he tried anything we hadn’t done before.