“That would be against all laws of nature.” I closed the agenda and shifted in my seat, panic bubbling in my chest.
Otis laid a hand on my jittering knee. “You got this. No one knows more about Lew Elliot than you do.” He leaned back, refocusing on the road. “Everyone else actually has a life.”
“Otis, you’re awful,” I snorted, but it broke the tension. “I think we’re here.”
Up ahead, a slanted shingled roof peeked out from behind tall pines. The house sat at the end of a narrow drive, up moss-covered stone steps.
Otis parked and reached for his seatbelt, but I put a hand on his.
“I got it from here, tiger.”
He sighed. “Good. I was faking it anyway. Don’t fancy getting my boots all mucky with forest-yuck.”
“You literally put mud on your face,” I said, grabbing my thrifted leather duffel from the back seat.
Otis scrunched up his nose. “That was Australian pink clay, thank you very much.”
“You take good care of Skye’s.”
“Always do.”
I opened the door and he shoved something into my hand. Pepper spray.
“Just in case this is all a scam to murder you and harvest your organs. Cheerio,” he chirped, and drove off.
I gathered what was left of my courage and climbed the slick stone steps. Snow blanketed the mossy forest floor like powdered sugar.
The wooden house had two stories and a wraparound terrace beneath a low-hanging roof. Deck chairs huddled in a semicircle beneath the overhang. A damp fireplace was covered with branches. There was movement inside. I dropped my duffel at the front door and double-checked the address.
Judging by the cars outside, I wasn’t the last to arrive. I craned my neck toward the massive window that formed the center of the house—it stretched all the way up to the peak of the roof. Honestly? It looked kind of fancy. Was that… a hot tub?
Rolling my neck and cracking my knuckles, I inhaled the crisp, loamy air to brace myself.
Which was a mistake.
These lungs werenotmade for mountain air. And my occasional nicotine habit wasn’t helping.
A coughing fit later, the door opened.
A blonde woman—early twenties, maybe—with long, wavy hair and a sweeping hourglass figure smiled at me.
At first. Then the corners of her mouth dropped as she took me in.
I shoved my chipped nails into my pockets, suddenly self-conscious about the rips in my black jeans and the scuff marks on my Docs.
Her smile returned just as quickly, though a little less brightly this time.
“Hello, I’m Elaine,” she said, her voice wrapped in a sultry French-Canadian accent. “You must be number four.”
“Yes. Yeah.” I shuffled awkwardly. “I’m Nora. Writer number four. Four of the five. In the competition. Together. Yay, us.”
Word vomit. It was painfully obvious I didn’t get out much.
Elaine studied me with an odd expression, like she was trying to figure out if someone had made a mistake inviting me.
“We’re just getting settled,” she said, gesturing me inside with a graceful flick of her hand.
The cottage’s interior was… something.
