Page 19 of Until We Come Home

A raccoon, maybe? Maren mentioned something about a raccoon who is the true resident of the cabins. I stare toward the glass, where the faint moonlight outlines the pines, the water hidden in the night.

It's a very dark, very quiet forest.

What felt cozy and rustic four hours ago is suddenly giving major slasher film energy, like some wild creature is about to step straight out of the pines. My unhelpful brain immediately serves up a true-crime docuseries I binged last week, specifically the episode highlighting just how many serial killers favored the rainy Pacific Northwest.

Ugh. Please stop, brain.

The sheets are cool against my skin as I shift restlessly, my fingers picking at the frayed trim of the blanket. Turning my head toward the open doorway, I strain my ears for the steady, rhythmic sound of Mateo breathing in his room.

Is he out cold already? He’s usually an insomniac. Normally I’m the one who can sleep through almost anything, but apparently imaginary forest murderers are where my nervous system draws the line.

I try to redirect my thoughts somewhere peaceful. I'm not normally this jumpy, but bouncing between tour dates and airports all month has left me exhausted. Combine that with several cups of Betty’s vodka punch and a lingering true-crime rabbit hole, and it’s no wonder I’m lying here wide awake.

Deciding to focus on something grounding, I close my eyes and run the Sugar Plum Fairy variation from The Nutcracker. I’ve danced it more times than I can count, from a drafty studio at thirteen to the last Nutcracker season before I walked away from ballet for good.

Contemporary and commercial work is what I do these days, but sixteen years of classical ballet training doesn’t leave your body, and the autopilot is soothing. It’s my version of counting sheep. In my head, the celesta starts up, and I begin counting off the beats.

It’s comforting, and count by count, the tension in my shoulders slowly drains out until I finally feel myself drifting toward sleep.

A woman screams.

I shoot upright, heart slamming against my ribs, not sure if I dreamed it. The cabin is silent. Just the hum of the AC and my own breathing, loud in the dark. I’m halfway to convincing myself it was some half-asleep glitch of my brain when it comes again, a bone-chilling, top-of-the-lungs scream, right outside the window.

I’ve heard coyotes howling in Silver Lake, but this sound belongs in a horror movie. Definitely not a harmless little raccoon.

Scrambling off the mattress, I swing my legs over the edge and immediately stub my pinky toe on the bedside table.

"OW! Son of a bitch!" I hiss, hopping across the rug on one foot.

Limping down the pitch-black hallway, I push his door open.

"Mateo," I whisper into the dark.

The scream comes again, closer this time.

“Mia?” He stirs, lifting his head from the pillow. “What’s going on? You alright?”

“Are you seriously not hearing that?” I ask frantically, crossing the room and climbing straight onto his mattress. “What kind of creature makes that noise? It sounds like it’s right outside the window! Like a woman dying!”

Another scream, long and awful, trailing off into the trees.

He rubs a hand over his face and reaches over to flick on the bedside lamp. His black hair is rumpled and falling across his forehead, and apparently the T-shirt was only for my benefit, because his shoulders are bare again in the lamplight. He looks at me like I’ve woken him up to discuss the weather.

“You mean the fox?” he asks, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.

I freeze, listening as the terrible noise rings out through the trees once more.

“Aren’t foxes supposed to, I don’t know, yip?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Red foxes scream,” he says, settling back into the pillows, clearly enjoying this. “Usually only in the winter when they’re looking for a mate, but they’ll do it over territory too. There’s one that hangs around the cabin. Probably telling something to get off its lawn.”

“Oh,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chest, feeling ridiculous.

He arches an eyebrow, propping himself up on one elbow. “Since when do you get jumpy? Weren’t you live-texting me a true-crime docuseries last week?”

“I think that might be the problem,” I say. “Did you know the Pacific Northwest has more serial killers than anywhere else? There was an entire episode about it. Bundy, the Green River guy... the host had a whole theory about the rain and the dense woods where nobody can hear you.”

“Great,” he says dryly. “Thanks for that imagery at two in the morning.”