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The bedrooms are arranged along a central corridor that overlooks the main level. The main bedroom takes up one corner, with the small green bedroom beside it, the slightly larger twin-bed room next, and then Madison’s in the opposite corner. Yes, it’s the farthest from ours, and that was Kit’s doing, which I’d agreed with once I figured out why. Having Madison as a houseguest wouldn’t cramp our style; having her bedroom right beside ours might.
Her room, like ours, has windows along both exterior walls, with a seat in one and a small balcony off the other. When she’s here, the room is—as my mother puts it—an apocalyptic disaster zone. Of course, Mom first used those words to describemyteenage bedroom, so Madison comes by it honestly. Now, though, it’s ready for renters and, when Kit and I step inside, a pang stabs through me.
This is supposed to be Madison’s room. Her personal space where she had the freedom to slap up K-drama posters and hand-paint the furniture and make as much of a mess as she wanted because it was hers. Renting it changed all that. Take down the posters. Paint the walls neutral. Replace the furniture. Stuff all her clothing and belongings in a locked trunk to be shoved into the crawlspace between visits.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
And whose fault is that? Blame me for being too sentimental—and stubborn—to sell the island. Blame Kit for giving me a glimpse of a dream I can’t let go. Blame the pandemic for upending our lives, for incinerating my marriage and hurrying along Anna’s death with delayed treatments, both events sending me spiraling into financial chaos when I could least afford it.
Blame everyone. Blame no one.
It’s just a damn bedroom. At least it’s still here, and it’s still Madison’s, and she’s never once complained.
So why does it hurt so much? Because everything hurts these days,and now I’m standing in her doorway, imagining this room evaporating before my eyes, because it doesn’t matter if we’re safely in the house with a security system and nothing else goes wrong. How am I going to keep Hemlock House after what’s happened? After finding Nate’s…?
When I shiver, Kit steps up behind me, his arms going around my waist, and I don’t stop him. I close my eyes, and I picture Nate. I see him smiling, always smiling, no matter what new joker card life dealt him. His mom long gone, his dad an alcoholic, Nate working his ass off to go to college, only to be ripped back to this nowhere life by the pandemic.
“It’s fine,” he’d say. “I’ll get out next year, and someday I’ll come back and be able to rent this place myself. This is just a pothole in the road, and I’ve got a long way to go yet.”
My stomach seizes.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Kit whispers. “I’ve got this.”
I shake my head and pull from his grip. Then I turn on the bedroom light and look around as he heads for the balcony door. He checks that as I pace around the room.
I can see why Jayla and Garrett came back so quickly. It’s obvious that Sadie grabbed her things and left. Her overnight bag is gone. The tiny en suite bath shows signs of pre-bedtime use—a damp hand towel and a toothpaste streak in the sink, plus a grease mark from moisturizer or makeup remover. I open the cabinet and vanity drawers. Empty but for the unopened toothpaste and toothbrushes I leave for guests.
I head into the bedroom, where Kit is checking under the bed.
“She got ready for the night,” I say. “Signs of brushing her teeth and washing up. She used the bed, too, and remade it.” The bedspread is in place, but rumpled, as if pulled up over the sheets in a half-assed effort. “Everything points to her leaving on her own. Garrett complained about not having the door code, but I gave Sadie that and the security code to pass on to him.”
At my words, I stop and turn to Kit.
“Check the access logs,” we say, almost in unison.
“I’ll go down and do that,” Kit says. “You okay up here?”
“I am. Go on.”
It’s only after he leaves that I realize we failed to secure the room on entering. I’d been distracted, thinking about Nate, but it’s still embarrassing after we told Garrett we could handle it. We should have entered, checked the bathroom and closet first, then under the bed, then the balcony. All the places an intruder could hide.
I eye the closet door.
Should I call Kit back? Or get Jayla?
The answer, obviously, is yes. That is the smart thing to do. But it seems silly, and I don’t want to be that woman, even if I recognize, deep down, that not calling for backup makes me another stereotype—the woman so intent on being tough that she takes unnecessary risks.
And in the time it takes me to work that through, I find myself at the closet door, knob in one hand, kitchen knife in the other as I yank it open. A squeak in the closet has me staggering back, knife rising, until I realize that my yank set the empty hangers rocking.
There’s a rack with a dozen hangers and two shelves with extra blankets and pillows. Nothing else.
I close the door… and a figure moves behind it. I manage to bite off a yelp as I realize the figure is me, reflected in the dresser mirror. I shake my head and glance at the door to be sure the others didn’t hear my yelp. When no one comes running, I walk to the dresser. I reach for the first drawer and pause. There’s dust on the top of it. I bend and squint. Yep, definitely dust, which is not at all like—
Tears prickle. Damn it, stop thinking about Nate. Yes, he deserves every tear, but I can’t afford them yet. Later I will mourn. For now, I can pretend that hand could have belonged to someone else. Whatever gets me through this night.
I open the top drawer to find candy wrappers. Huh. Did Sadie develop a sweet tooth? I remember when Jayla and I would swoopdown on the candy aisle like vultures spotting road kill, while Sadie would riffle through every bag of trail mix looking for one without chocolate.
I pick up the wrappers. Kid’s candy, the cheap kind you can buy at the store in town.
