This is becoming a problem.
I sit curled into one of the porch chairs with a leg tucked beneath me, humming while I shade the edge of another suspiciously muscular tree. Zain left for his shift hours ago after making me promise to call if my breathing changed, my shoulder hurt, or I developed any other symptom he could classify as medically suspicious.
My phone is inside on the kitchen counter, and for once, the cabin is completely quiet.
Then movement near the trees catches my attention.
I lower my pencil.
A woman steps from behind a pine at the edge of the property, and it takes me only a second to recognize her.
Mrs. Harlan.
My landlord’s wife.
She is in her fifties, with neat blond hair and the same careful expression she wore the two times we met. Except there is nothing polite about the way she is looking toward Zain’s cabin now.
Her gaze shifts to the road. Then back to the house.
A red plastic gasoline can hangs from one hand.
My stomach drops.
She starts along the side of the cabin, keeping close to the trees as she moves toward the back.
I stand.
“Mrs. Harlan?”
She spins so fast the can swings into her leg.
For one long second, we stare at each other.
Then her face changes.
“Kaia.”
I set my sketchbook on the chair.
“What are you doing here?”
Her fingers tighten around the handle of the can.
“Why are you outside?”
The question makes no sense.
“I’m staying with Zain.”
“I know.”
Something cold slips down my spine.
Her gaze moves over the porch, the open front door behind me, then back to my face.
“You just keep finding another house in the neighborhood.”
I take a slow step toward the center of the porch, putting more space between us.
