I take a step back. “How did you…？”
He shrugs. “You’re not wearing your ring anymore. And come on, you’re obviously running away from something. I’ve never seen anyone so panicked.” He looks me in the eyes. “You’re pretty easy to read… Kelly. I don’t need to be psychic.”
I take a deep breath, steadying myself by clutching the desk. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m overreacting to something that was obviously a performance. Maybe I told Greta my name without realizing it. It’s certainly something I could’ve done unconsciously.
“Okay,” I say. “I… I guess I’ll wait for the plow.”
He nods. “That’s a good idea. I promise I’ll call you as soon as they get here.”
“Okay, thanks.” I take another deep breath. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“You’re going to be okay.” He reaches out and puts his hand on mine. His fingers are a little rough and calloused, unlike Derek’s baby smooth skin. For a moment, a thrill goes through me. But then he pulls his hand away. “Just hang out upstairs. You’ll be out of here before you know it.”
I take my bag and trudge back up the stairs. Despite his reassurances, something is telling me I’m making a horrible mistake by staying here.
Chapter 13
When I get back up to my room, there isn’t much to do. Since I slept so horribly, I lie down on the bed and shut my eyes. Maybe I could get a bit of sleep in, so that I can drive all night long. After staying in one place for so long, I need to put some distance between me and my home. Fast.
I drift in and out of sleep for a couple of hours. Every time I get into any sort of deep sleep, the image of Derek with the red stain spreading across his abdomen pops into my head. And then I’m wide awake.
That will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I wish I had my phone. If not to make a call, then at least to surf the web. You don’t realize how much you depend on your phone for entertainment until it’s gone. I wish I had at least brought a book.
I open the top drawer of the dresser. The Bible is apparently the only book in this room. And it’s not exactly easy reading. When I was younger, our parents used to make us go to church every Sunday. Claudia and I hated it. We would spend the entire time whispering to each other until our parents told us to be quiet.
Maybe it will give me some comfort. Who knows?
I crack open the Bible. I expect to see the familiar first words: In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
Instead, the entire first page is covered in red magic marker. Somebody has scribbled across the pages: Get out now, whore!
I stare at the words, a prickling sensation in the back of my spine. I turn the page and there it is again. The same words, written over and over. Get out get out get out get out…
I snap the Bible shut with shaking hands. Well, so much for getting comfort from the words of God.
I wonder if those words were meant for me. I wonder if somebody saw me by my car with Nick and wanted to send me a message. I raise my eyes and look across at the house next door. The sun has gone down and I can see that same light on the top window. And the silhouette of a woman staring out at me.
Rosalie.
But it couldn’t have been her. Nick told me she can’t even walk. She couldn’t have come over here, climbed up the stairs, unlocked the door to my room, scribbled in the Bible, then gone back home. It’s impossible.
Anyway, I need to calm down. The plow should be here soon, and then I’ll get out of here. And never come back. In the meantime, I’ll watch some TV. That should help.
I turn on the television. Unlike yesterday, the picture is clear. There is another pretty blond newscaster on the screen, talking about damage caused by the storm. Stupid storm. If that hadn’t happened, I would’ve been out of here ages ago. But I am praying I still have more time. After all, it’s only Saturday. It’s entirely possible nobody will notice Derek is missing until Monday.
“In other news,” the anchorwoman says, “the body of thirty-four-year-old Derek Alexander was found last night in his home…”
My chest turns to ice. What?
The blond anchorwoman keeps talking, but I can only focus on little pieces of what she’s saying. And then a second later, Deputy Scott Dwyer is on the screen. He doesn’t look great—he looks like he hasn’t gotten much more sleep than I have. Scott’s mildly bloodshot brown eyes make contact with the camera lens as he recites the details of the case in a flat voice.