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I hope the GPS isn’t steering me wrong. I refuse to be one of those people who turns into a river simply because they assume their GPS knows what it’s doing, so if I don’t start to see cabins soon, I might have to reverse out of here. And while I’m a good driver, reversing through the forest as sunset approaches sounds like a bad plan.
Creeping forward at barely five miles per hour, I keep one eye on the path—I mean, private drive—and one on the trees. I left the main road several minutes ago, and even that was barely a two-lane stretch of rural asphalt that’d seen better days. And now? I’m out in the boonies.
A secret thrill runs through me.
While majorly remote, the forest is already so beautiful, and I have faith that this is going to be a great vacation.
Just Henry and me, alone in the woods, with a private hot tub and a queen-size loft bed all our own. No stress, no work, no plans. Just us.
I’m choosing to ignore the elephant in the plan that is Paisley’s wedding. For now, I’m focusing on the good the way I always do. No sense in wallowing in a storm I can’t stop from coming, so I’m going to focus on the sunshine.
I crest over a hill and see through the trees to a small clearing, and there it is! The cabin looks exactly like the posting online, with a porch just big enough for a two-seater rocking chair, a chimney, and a rock engraved with a bear paw and the nameAnderson. I squeal as I dance in my seat a bit, proud that I found it on my own and excited to get inside. I park my car off to the side as instructed and pull my suitcase from the trunk, beelining for the door.
A quick check of my confirmation email gives me the door code, and when the light turns green and I hear the soft snick of the lock turning, I dance again. The tippy-taps of my tennis shoes on the wood porch are the only sound as I open the door... into heaven.
Okay, maybe it’s not everyone’s version of heaven, but it’s mine. The cabin is perfect, like the online pictures were taken this morning, right down to the fresh knife-hand chops in the two matching couch pillows.
The ad called it modern rustic, and I’d agree, with the big wood beams on the ceiling, stark white walls, and minimal décor. There’s a fireplace with a fluffy rug in front of it—wait, is that a bearskin? Hopefully, it’s fake or at the least, antique. But the thought is whisked away as my eyes scan the rest of the space. The kitchen is small and efficient, with an apartment-sized stove and refrigerator, and the stairs are almost ladder-like, reaching up to an unseeable loft where I know the bed is located, and the windows out the back of the space are unadorned, letting the green of the trees surround you, even when you’re inside. Not that you need curtains. There’s not another sign of human interference for as far as the eye can see.
I drop my suitcase, running for the back door and throwing open the slider.
The hot tub is here, along with some outside seating. I take a deep breath, letting the smells of fresh forest air and bright sunshine fill my lungs, and then I exhale jaggedly. I can feel the weight of the city falling from my shoulders, the responsibility of my patients floating away, and the excitement of possibilities swirling in to replace them.
I’m here. I deserve this.
It feels a little truer this time. I pull my phone from my back pocket and take a quick selfie. I look happy, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed against the green backdrop. I send the picture to Henry, along with a quick message ofMade it, wish you were here. I don’t expect him to reply. He’s got to keep his attention on his work if he’s going to come enjoy this place with me, but I want him to know I’ve safely arrived.
I busy myself with getting set up, pretty quickly deciding that I’m not hauling my suitcase up the ladder to the loft, and instead, I leave it in the bathroom where I can get dressed after showering. It’s down a short hallway and is surprisingly large, nearly the same size as the kitchen, with a walk-in shower and a vanity with two sinks.
“Ooh! A rain shower head! I’ve always wanted to see what one of those was like,” I say aloud, not giving a second thought to talking to myself. I do it all the time. I’d like to blame it on my work where I talk to patients, whether they respond or not, but the truth is, I’ve done it my whole life. I’m missing the switch in your brain that tells your mouth to shut up, and for the most part, people ignore me anyway, so my constant muttering has never mattered. As long as no one tells me any government secrets, it’s fine.
Keeping up the running chatter, I ooh and aah over the black matte handrail on the stairs as I climb up and then gasp at the plush comfort the bed offers. “I’m going to curl up and never leave,” I vow. The loft is tucked under the roof pitch and has a sharply sloped ceiling. Luckily, I’m short and can stand to my full five-foot-three height with no problem. Henry will have to duck down to avoid conking himself to sleep, but that’s okay. Especially when the bed is covered with a fluffy green comforter, a soft plaid blanket, and pillows that I can tell are down feather-filled from feet away. They look that cozy.
The best part? There’s a window right over the low-slung headboard that makes it feel like a treehouse.
“Tomorrow’s plan—curl up with my morning caffeine hit and watch the birds and squirrels outside,” I say to the empty room. “Get mySnow Whiteon with the forest critters.”
I may never leave this place.
CHAPTER2
COLE
Stakeouts suck.That’s it. The end.
But more often than not, they’re how I spend my days and nights, weeks and weekends. Alone, staring at a mark, flipping through a file of information either mentally or digitally.
Minutes pass, hours pass, sometimes days and weeks pass. My ass barely moves.
Luckily, this gig probably won’t take that long. The man I’ve been hired to watch is already inside his secretly rented unit, pacing around with a glass of scotch in his hand. Liquid courage, perhaps, for what he’s about to do? He doesn’t seem the type to need it, though.
Mr. Webster is a good-looking man in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair, a penchant for expensive watches, and apparently, a mistress thirty years his junior. At least that’s the suspicion his wife came to me with, and it seems on par with his type—old enough to be at the top of the food chain career-wise, kids out of the house, and after having lived a life of climbing one ladder after another, looking for some sort of excitement and challenge. Or maybe he’s just an asshole who’s finally getting caught by a wife who’s ignored the signs in the past. Either way, or even both, it doesn’t matter to me.
Infidelity isn’t the type of case I prefer, but unfortunately, it brings people to my door and pays well. Especially with the clientele I serve.
Like Mrs. Webster. She sits on at least three Boards of Directors, two corporate and one non-profit, her perfectly coiffed hair doesn’t dare get out of place, and she moves in a social circle of the wealthy elite courtesy of her husband’s work. So when she showed up, delicately dabbing at bone-dry eyes and proclaiming that she had concerns about her husband’s loyalty, I added an annoyance fee guised as travel costs, and she never batted a glued-on lash.
Because it all comes down to money. It affords people like the Websters the gift of buying their way out of almost any situation without actual consequences. Like an unhappy marriage, for example.
