Tabitha is on her feet before I can ruminate further. “What was that?”
“A tree.” I stand. “We’re fine. This roof has withstood worse.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
“You should keep the lantern with you,” I say. “The master’s down the hall. I’ll get my stuff out of there.”
“And you?”
“I’ll take one of the others.”
She nods but doesn’t move. The storm rages on.
“Henry,” she says.
And her use of my name guts me. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear it from her lips, in her sweet voice.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not here to—” She cuts herself off, shakes her head. “No. We promised honesty. I don’t know what I’m doing here that isn’t running from…”
“From what?”
“From…something.”
“Me neither,” I say.
Her breath catches. For a second, we’re just two people admitting we’re not built of steel. Then the wind blows again, and the house seems to moan.
“You should sleep,” I say. “The storm will be over by morning, and things will look different.”
“They always do,” she murmurs.
She picks up the lantern. The light halos her, soft and unreal. She grabs her suitcase that’s still by the door, starts down the hall but then stops and turns back.
“Yeah?” I say.
A beat. Then, “Nothing.”
Zach thumps his tail from the rug by the hearth and lifts his head. I rake a hand through his fur and then follow Tabitha to grab my bag from the master.
Thunder booms again.
I shove my stuff into one of the other bedrooms but then head back to the great room. I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling. Down the hall, a door clicks shut.
“Hey,” I say to Zach as he lies down next to the couch.
Just the storm.
And the two of us.
And the dark.
Nineteen
Tabitha
The storm eats at the edges of the cabin. Wind rattles the eaves, and rain pelts the glass like it has a grudge. The power stays dead.
