Page 51 of What You Never Knew

The night is dark, the moon at only half its glory and slipping behind clouds every few seconds, but I know the path well and move along it easily. A soft wind pushes through the trees around me, causing some branches to creak and leaves to whisper against one another, but otherwise the night is quiet. I don’t see or hear any evidence of movement ahead of me, so I quicken my pace.

I’m thinking they may have headed off into the woods in another direction when the sound of an engine rumbles through the quiet. It doesn’t have much power behind it, but I can tell it’s coming from the far side of the island.

I break into a run, the fire poker held out in front of me, the light from my phone bobbing up and down with each stride. I’m no longer worrying about staying out of sight, focused only on catching up to the shadowy figure before they make their escape.

Reaching the other side of the island, right where the path makes a detour to the clearing in the forest, I see a boat pulling away from the island. Breaking through the thin brush that’s grown up along the shore, I make it out onto the rocks to get a better look.

A small tin boat with an outboard motor is about a hundred yards from shore. Driving the boat is a hooded figure, definitely the same one I saw disappearing into the woods. I lift my phone higher to snap a few photos. The person looks back over their shoulder as they go, but it’s too dark to see any distinguishing features and the hood provides too much cover. Still, I stand there watching until they’ve vanished into the darkness.

It seems like no coincidence at all that the boat took off right where the other path is on the island. Maybe whoever put the cross at the tree is the same one who was in that boat. Maybe it started with a cross to freak me out and now the pranks are escalating.

Rushing back to the cottage, I call the police. Breathlessly I tell them about the record player starting on its own, about the person I saw running into the woods, about the boat and the tree with the cross. Saying it out loud makes it sound paranoid and made-up even to me.

They advise me to either get off the island and go somewhere safe or go into the cottage and make sure all the windows and doors are locked. They said they’ll send a boat out there as soon as possible to do a perimeter scan of the island.

I arrive back at the cottage feeling only mildly better. Inside I turn on as many lights as I can, but it does nothing to dispel the sense of violation that comes after a break-in.

Exhaustion presses in on me from all sides. The courage and adrenaline I felt when chasing that person into the woods have suddenly vanished, leaving me drained, emptying my reserves completely. All I want now is a soft bed, but the thought of heading upstairs to mine makes me shudder. I know that every sound will make me jump, every creak will be a footstep on the stairs. So, before I can second-guess the impulse, I grab my purse, walk out the front door, and head down to the dock to escape Avril Island.

It’s a bit of a risk, fleeing to his place. Hoping his door is unlocked, hoping he won’t mind me crawling into bed with him. Hoping somebody else isn’t already in there. The thought dawns on me only as I finish tying the boat up at his dock.

We’ve never actually called it a relationship or discussed exclusivity. I just assumed it because it’s Ezra—my Ezra. What will I do if he does have someone there? Do I get mad or politely apologize and then let myself out?

I shove these thoughts from my mind and climb the stairs to Ezra’s apartment as quietly as possible. The door is unlocked, which doesn’t really surprise me. Slipping inside, I shed my shoes and soundlessly make my way across the smooth hardwood. He’s left the oven hood light on, which guides me down the hall and to his bedroom. The door is wide open. I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until the exhale of relief comes. There is only one sleeping form in his bed.

Standing over him, I study his face, the slight part of his lips, the deep-purple shade of his closed eyelids—the vulnerability making him even more handsome. Listening to the rhythmic sound of his deep breathing calms me. I planned on waking him up immediately to tell him about the intruder and my chase across the island, but he’s so deeply asleep, so peaceful, I don’t feel right disturbing him.

Instead I slip my pants off and pull my sweat shirt over my head before easing my way into his bed. He groans and rolls away, allowing me to settle in beside him. Then he rolls back, his arm coming down to pin me in place. I expect him to say something, but his breathing is deep and he’s silent.

I work hard to settle into the safe closeness that Ezra offers, to relax into sleep. I manage to shed most of the anxiety I brought with me from Avril Island, but one question keeps surfacing that creates a new kind of unease. Why did a woman slipping into his bed unexpectedly, in the dead of night, not wake him in alarm?

When I open my eyes, I’m not sure where I am. A familiar panic rises in me; it’s not the first time I’ve woken up in a strange bed. Then I remember. I’m not that person anymore, and I came to Ezra’s last night. He materializes with the thought of him.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” He holds a cup of coffee out to me.

I push myself into a sitting position to take it. “You’re a very accommodating host. I show up announced, get into bed with you, and then you bring me coffee in the morning.”

“You can get into bed with me unannounced any night, my dear.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. “But in all seriousness, what the hell brought you across the lake in the middle of the night?” He takes a sip and studies me over the rim of his mug.

I run a hand through my bed head. “You won’t believe what happened last night,” I say, still not quite believing it myself. “I was dead asleep, and the sound of music woke me up. I went downstairs and the record player was playing.” I pause for dramatic effect. “On its own.”

He looks nonplussed, like I knew he would. “Old record players can be funny sometimes. Isn’t it possible that it wasn’t fully turned off and just somehow reset to start playing?”

“That’s a stretch, but regardless, it was playing a different record than the one I was listening to before bed.”

“So you hadn’t been listening to the Beatles before turning it off?”

I go to shake my head, then stop. “Wait a minute. How do you know what record was playing when I came down?” I suddenly have this gross feeling that I may have been the butt of a very mean practical joke.

“You kept talking about the Beatles in your sleep this morning, so I just assumed.” He looks away from me to put his mug on the bedside table. Then he pushes the covers off my legs and starts very gently running his hand up and down my thigh. “Did you have some drinks before bed? Is it possible that you forgot what album you put on last?”

I swat his hand away. “No, I actually didn’t. I went to bed early, sober, and was totally aware of what was going on.”

He puts his hand back on my leg. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to think of all angles here.”

I lean forward. “And do you know what song it was playing?” He shakes his head. “ ‘Blackbird.’ ”

He winces. “That’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?”