I did it again with Maren.
Bianca told me everything hours ago as we sat at a café facing each other.
Maren went to meet her boss the afternoon Earl Newman told me to go to hell.
That was Royce Knott she was hugging. He took off because his longtime girlfriend had dumped him, and while he was gone, his brother fired Maren.
That embrace was innocent. It was Maren being compassionate because that’s who she is.
Even after everything she’s been through.
I glance out the window of the car into the darkness. I called up the driver I’ve used on occasion and offered him a ridiculous amount of money to make the five-hour drive to take me to Tupper Lake. Bianca drew me a map to the location of the cabin where Maren is staying.
She did it from memory because she was here with her once.
It was days after Maren lost her baby. She was bleeding when her boyfriend, Kollin, took her to the hospital. When the doctor came in to tell them that the child growing inside of Maren for twenty-two weeks had died, Kollin rushed out of the examining room.
An hour later, he sent a three-word text to Maren: I need time.
He never spoke to her again. He packed up her belongings that afternoon and had them sent to her parents’ apartment. He arranged for the manager of Human Resources to fire her hours later under the guise that they were cutting costs.
She didn’t give him the son they were expecting, so he pushed her out of his life with a short text message.
“How much longer?” I ask the driver, my impatience seeping into my tone.
“We’re five minutes out, Mr. Morgan.”
Just five more minutes until I can tell Maren I love her.
I rest my head back on the seat, close my eyes, and hope to hell she’ll forgive me.
Chapter 58
Maren
I fell asleep after a late dinner.
I made myself a meal that consisted of scrambled eggs and fruit. I stopped to buy supplies at a store in Tupper Lake before I drove up to the cabin. The couple that runs the store recognized me from the visits I used to make with my parents.
A sense of nostalgia rushed through me as they talked about how happy we always looked on our way to our retreats.
I’ve always viewed my time here like that - a retreat.
It’s an escape from the stress of New York City and a chance to recharge and revaluate my life.
Sitting up in the bed, I hear the crunching sound of gravel.
That can only signal that a vehicle is making its way down the road that leads here and to a few other cabins.
I glance at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table.
It’s almost three a.m., so I’ve been asleep for more than four hours.
I swing my feet over the side of the bed. I let out a short, quick breath when I feel the coolness of the old wood floors on my toes.
Wrapping one of the thin white blankets on the bed around myself, I stand.
I didn’t consider how cold the nights get at this time of year when I was packing. I should have brought something warmer than a pair of yoga shorts and a T-shirt to sleep in.
I take a step toward the kitchen to get a glass of water when I hear a light tap on the front door. It’s the only door in and out of the cabin.
Fear grips me from the inside out.
I move fast, grasping in the dark for the baseball bat that my dad always kept hidden next to the bed.
He never needed it. The only people who stopped at the cabin were the neighbors. Their visits usually involved a campfire by the lake and cookies with mugs filled with hot chocolate or apple cider.
Another knock fills the silence.
I walk on shaking legs to the doorway of the bedroom. That gives me a clear line of sight to the door of the cabin, but it’s solid wood so I can’t see who is standing on the other side.
I inch closer, holding the bat in the air.
Another knock greets me.
I could pretend I’m not here, but that won’t scare away a would-be intruder, so I call out, “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
I stumble forward. Keats is here? How?
“Maren, please let me in. Please.”
I move to the door and turn the rusted lock. When I swing the door open, I have to blink twice. “You’re here? You came all this way?”
He smiles. “I’d go to