Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Two 5-hour Energys and an entire pan of brownies before lunch.
Yes, please.
Chapter Five
No.
Something isn’t right.
I sit up straight in bed, my heart hammering loud and wild in my chest as I slip the face mask off my eyes. The air in the room feels thick, the kind of suffocating quiet that follows an unexpected jolt from sleep. My mind races, trying to figure out what woke me. Was it a noise? A dream?
Whatever it was, it was disruptive enough to yank me out of a deep, blissful sleep, and now I’m wide awake, my senses heightened, my body tense with a rush of adrenaline.
It’s probably Mari, here for more wine after two days of silence since her visit.
I’m still trying to regain my bearings when I notice the lights. Red and blue flashes are cutting through the darkness of the room, splashing across the walls like some kind of warning.
They’re disorienting, casting long shadows that dance with each pulse of light, and for a moment, I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or if this is real. My bedroom is on the west side of the cabin, so I can’t see much from where I’m sitting, but the lights keep coming—urgent, rhythmic, and impossible to ignore.
There’s a window directly behind my headboard, so I twist around and pull the curtain aside to get a look at what’s happening outside. But all I can see are those flashing lights radiating from the front yard. I can’t see any vehicles from my vantage point, just the constant pulse of red and blue illuminating the trees.
My mind immediately races to worst-case scenarios—was there an accident? A break-in? Why would the police be here, in the middle of nowhere? Is it Louie?
A loud knock at the front door snaps me out of my thoughts, making me flinch. My heart jumps in my chest, the sudden noise propelling me out of bed. The pounding is relentless, echoing through the cabin like thunder. I slip on my robe with shaky hands and grab my phone, my pulse quickening with each step toward the front door.
I check the time on my phone. It’s almost five in the morning. The sun should be coming up soon.
I flip on the front porch light, the brightness flooding the small space in front of the cabin, and peer through the peephole.
The sight that greets me is unexpected. It’s a police officer, standing a couple of feet from my door. His stance is casual, but there’s an air of urgency in the way he cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder toward his patrol car.
The flashing lights from the car are so bright that they cast him in silhouette, making it difficult to discern his features. His profile is outlined by the harsh glow of red and blue, and for a second, I feel a strange disconnect, like this scene is happening to someone else and I’m just watching it unfold. My mind races with questions.
I hesitate for a moment, gripping my phone tightly, my fingers hovering over the screen. Should I call someone?
No, it’s too late. Or too early. Either way, I can handle this.
It’s probably just a misunderstanding—a wrong address, maybe. But that doesn’t stop the unease from settling deep in my stomach as I take a breath and reach for the door handle.
With one last glance through the peephole, I unlock the bottom lock first, wondering what on earth could have brought a police officer to my quiet, secluded cabin in the dead of night.
My thoughts spin out of control as I stand here, hand on the dead bolt, hesitating for a moment longer before I finally release it. Even though I unlock the door, I leave the chain latched, opening it only a few inches. A small sliver of space, just enough to see out, but not enough to let anything—or anyone—inside.
Being a writer comes with a constant sense of distrust, no matter what uniform someone might be wearing. I’ve created too many plot twists, written too many villains disguised as heroes, not to assume the worst in every situation.
My brain automatically goes to the darkest places—What if he’s in a fake police car?
For all I know, this guy could be posing as an officer, flashing fake credentials just so I’ll open the door and make myself vulnerable. Too many crime stories, too much stolen valor, too many psychological thrillers. I’ve been conditioned to be suspicious of every scenario.
But still, curiosity and concern push me to at least hear him out.
When the officer hears the door creak open, he shifts his gaze toward me, locking eyes with mine. The flashing lights from his patrol car are still making it difficult to see his features clearly, distorting his face in alternating washes of red and blue and shadows. My eyes are still heavy with sleep, making the whole situation feel surreal, like I’m caught between a dream and reality.