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)
Why would he lie to me about who he is?
It makes no sense. Nothing about this makes sense. If he’s a screenwriter, does he have connections to people I know? Is he connected to the adaptation that I wish never happened? Is he connected to Allister McFuckity Fuckface?
How did he even know I was here? How did he know, before meeting me, to tell Mari that we were doing something related to my writing? I thought that was my idea, after I met him.
I replay it all in my head, searching for clues, for signs that I missed—signs that this man wasn’t who he claimed to be. But all I’m left with is confusion, a thick fog of unanswered questions clouding my thoughts.
I turn back to the screen, my eyes scanning the information. His address is listed in Los Angeles. Los Angeles. Hours away from here, miles from the small town where he claims to live. My stomach twists into a tight knot. Why would he pretend to live here?
At this point, I don’t care about the why anymore. I don’t care about anything except getting out of here. The panic rises in my chest, thick and suffocating, and all I know is that I can’t stay here another minute. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare, one I can’t wake up from. The walls of the cabin seem to be closing in around me, the silence suffocating.
I need to leave.
Now.
Adrenaline is surging through my veins as I rush to my bedroom. I don’t even stop to think about how best to gather my stuff. I just act, my movements frantic and desperate. I yank my suitcase out from under the bed. My fingers fumble with the zipper. There’s no time to be methodical. I don’t bother folding anything. I pull open the closet, grab handfuls of clothes, and toss them into the suitcase without a second thought. Shirts, jeans, shoes—it all goes in, crumpled and chaotic.
I throw open the dresser drawers and empty them in seconds, piling more clothes on top of the mess I’ve already made. The fabric bunches together, wrinkling under the weight of my toiletries as I toss them carelessly on top. Shampoo, face wash, toothpaste—it all lands in the suitcase in a jumble.
The whole time I’m packing, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I’m crying now, the sobs quiet but uncontrollable, my shoulders shaking as the reality of the situation crashes down on me. The burden of everything I’ve done, everything I’ve let happen, feels unbearable.
How could I have been so reckless? How could I have been so blind?
I swipe angrily at my tears, but they keep coming as I struggle to think clearly. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely grip the charger as I pull it from the wall. The cord slips from my grasp, falling to the floor with a clatter, and I choke back a sob as I shove it into the suitcase. My chest feels tight, my breathing shallow, and I feel like I might fall apart completely. How could I be so careless?
The question echoes in my mind, over and over again, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I don’t have time to think about everything I’ve done in the past few weeks, the lies, the betrayal. It’s all too much. I grab my car keys off the dresser, the metal cool against my palm.
I know I’m leaving half my stuff lying around the cabin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except getting out of here. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run, to put as much distance between me and this place as possible. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I rush toward the bedroom door, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
I walk into the kitchen, my mind spinning, the panic still fresh in my veins. And then I scream.
The instinctual sound rips from my throat, but it does nothing to change the scene in front of me. Saint doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t turn around at the sound of my voice, doesn’t react at all. Instead, he’s standing at the table, his broad shoulders stiff, his back to me, staring down at my laptop screen. The very same screen that, just moments ago, revealed the truth to me about who he really is.
My heart constricts as I realize what he must be looking at.
I take a scared step back, instinctively retreating into the doorway of my bedroom, my thoughts a chaotic whirl as I try to map out any possible escape route. My eyes dart to the window. Could I make it out before he reaches me? The window isn’t that far, but it’s partially blocked by the bed. I’m not sure I could get through it fast enough. The only other way out of this cabin is through the front or back door, and for both, I’d have to pass Saint.