A Trusted Stranger, page 11
I head downstairs to look over the pictures I took. I curl up on a couch, pulling my legs beneath me, and begin scrolling through them. The room is dark, except for the faint glow of lightning from outside.
Engrossed as I am in my task, I hardly notice when the lighting in the room changes subtly. I glance toward the window, the curtains of which are open, and spot a dark shape there.
Not a tree, not a shrub. A person standing inches from the glass, looking in.
Dread tightens around my heart. I stiffen, my fingers frozen mid-scroll. The glowing screen of my phone seems obscenely bright in the near-dark room, a beacon drawing the intruder's gaze straight to me.
I snap the phone off, plunging the room into darkness once more, and scramble backward on the couch. My pulse throbs in my ears, drowning out the storm outside. Then, breaking my paralysis, I race to the nearest lamp and turn it on.
But when I look back at the window, the figure is gone.
I rise, pressing my face close to the cold windowpane, searching the storm for answers. But there is nothing—no trace of the figure who dared to peer into my world. Only my own reflection stares back at me, eyes wide with the knowledge that someone out there knows I'm getting closer to a truth I'm not sure I want to uncover.
I hesitate, unsure what to do. Go back to bed? How can I, knowing there’s someone lurking about the house?
Steeling myself, I rush to the door, then turn back to open the closet and throw on a raincoat. With this protection against the storm (but no protection against the figure spying on me), I open the door and venture out.
As I step outside, the wind flings itself against me as if to rebuke my intrusion into this tempestuous night. My footfalls are muffled by the cacophony above; each drop of rain is an icy pinprick upon my skin, trying to awaken me from this nightmare. But there is no waking, not when darkness weaves itself into reality.
As I reach the window through which I glimpsed the stranger, I notice footprints in the flower bed. Barefoot footprints, just like the ones I saw beside that bench Lauren showed me.
Who in the world was watching me? And how often have they been around the house? The day when I asked Elena Sandoval if she'd been watching me through the window—had it actually been this person?
There’s a voice in my head warning me to go back, but instead I find myself following the footprints down toward the lake, where the water mirrors the chaos in the heavens. It laps hungrily at the shore, eager to erase the clues that draw me closer to an unseen menace. Each step I take is dogged by the chilling sense of being followed, but whenever I glance back, there is only the void of night and the relentless downpour.
The forest looms, a dark sentinel guarding secrets best left undisturbed. Branches snag at my coat, tugging me deeper into the underbrush where civilization has no claim. The scent of damp earth and decaying wood fills my lungs, a primal perfume that speaks of life and death entwined.
This is the farthest from the house I have ventured. How far does this forest extend? I can’t see any more footprints. I may be determined, but I’m not exactly an experienced tracker, so I just try to hug the edge of the water as best I can. It’s difficult, however: a tumble of rocks drives me farther inland, and before I know it I’m lost in the confusion of wind-tossed pines.
And then, there it is—a shack jutting up among the stones and trees, covered with moss and crawling with vines. Fishing gear lies scattered around it like the discarded memories of a mind unhinged. There are fresh cigarettes about, along with empty soda cans without so much as a single pine needle on them, so I have no doubt someone has been coming here very recently.
The question is, who could it be? And why were they watching me?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The afternoon sun filters through the leaves of the tall oaks that stand sentinel around the Hollingsworth mansion's expansive deck. I balance a tray of freshly poured lemonade, the ice clinking like tiny bells in the glasses, as I weave between clusters of lounge chairs where Lauren and her friends preen in the sunshine.
Some of these women are distant neighbors here in Lakeside Estates, but I get the impression that a number of them are from outside the community, given the way they talk about the beauty of the lake. Their laughter flutters over to me, but it’s the silence of last night’s storm that echoes in my mind—the shadowed face at the window, obscured by rain and darkness, staring right into my soul.
"Here you are, ladies," I say, my voice steady despite the shiver that threatens to unsteady my hands. But as I reach for a glass, a rogue gust of wind catches a napkin from the tray, sending it fluttering toward the chiseled features of a woman clad in a swimsuit that probably costs more than my monthly pay. Startled, I fumble and the glass tips, a waterfall of lemonade cascading onto her lap.
"Oops! Oh, I'm so sorry!" The words tumble out, tripping over each other as I set down the tray with a clatter that draws every eye. My cheeks flush hotter than the summer day; I can feel them, crimson flags announcing my mortification. With a trembling hand, I offer a towel, trying to mop up the mess, my apologies a litany as plaintive as the call of the loons on the lake.
"Never mind, Em," Lauren murmurs, but her eyes, though sympathetic, hold a glimmer of impatience. She's accustomed to seamless service, a life without the inconvenience of accidents.
"Must be a thrilling job, tending to Lauren." The voice drips with sarcasm, and I look up into the bored eyes of a woman whose skin is as flawless as porcelain. The others, an array of perfect figures and immaculate attire, watch with a mixture of amusement and disdain. They're exotic birds, all bright plumage and sharp beaks, ready to peck at anything less dazzling than themselves.
"It’s honest work," I reply, the words a tightrope walk between deference and defense. "I enjoy it."
"Can't imagine being someone's servant all day," she says, flicking her sun-bleached hair over a bronzed shoulder. Her lips curl into a smirk that doesn't quite reach the cool detachment of her gaze. "I'd go mad having to live under someone else's roof, catering to their every whim."
"Everyone's different, I guess," I say, forcing a smile as I pick up the now half-empty tray. A bitter taste lingers on my tongue, the sweetness of the lemonade soured by the condescension that hangs in the air like a heavy perfume. I glance at the women lounging across the Hollingsworth deck, their laughter as hollow as the clinking of ice cubes in their glasses. Their perfection is intimidating, but it’s their indifference, the ease with which they dismiss the lives of others, that grates against my conscience. For them, people like me are part of the scenery, as interchangeable as the potted plants lining the veranda.
"Excuse me," I murmur, my voice barely a ripple against the tide of their chatter. "I need to check on something in the kitchen."
With a nod that no one sees, I slip away, clutching the tray like a shield. My feet carry me swiftly through the French doors and across the polished floors, each step quickening as I put distance between myself and the laughter that echoes behind me. I feel a pang of guilt for abandoning my duties, yet relief washes over me as I set the tray down in the kitchen, then head for the sanctuary of the service corridor that leads to the back entrance.
I push through the door, the sunlight harsh after the dim interior. The gravel of the driveway crunches underfoot, a staccato to the rhythm of my racing heart. I draw in a breath, the scent of the lake mingled with pine offering a momentary calm. But as I near the gate, the growl of an engine breaks the tranquility.
A sleek car winds down the path toward the mansion. The silver paint gleams in the afternoon sun, a machine engineered for power and grace. It stops and, for a fleeting second, I expect Christopher to emerge, his presence as commanding as the vehicle itself. Instead, another man steps out, a man I recognize from that get-together Christopher held here a few days ago.
Aiden something-or-other. He smiles warmly, catching me off guard. "Emily! It's good to see you again." His voice carries an ease that feels out of place in the meticulous gardens of this Oregon estate.
"Hello, Aiden," I reply. My gaze lingers on him, taking in the sharp cut of his suit, a contrast against the wildness of the surrounding pines. "I didn't expect to see you here today. Business or pleasure?”
“Business, unfortunately,” he says, glancing sourly at the house. “Christopher wants to talk about a recent housing development that’s going up in the area—he wants to get in on the action.”
I nod, pretending to be interested, though in truth my mind is elsewhere.
“What about you?” he asks. “Going for a pleasant stroll?”
I laugh. "I wish. Actually, I'm escaping Lauren and her coterie. I managed to spill lemonade on one of her friends, and I don't think it improved their opinion of me."
Aiden's laughter is light, unforced. "Who cares about the opinion of a bunch of rich, stuck-up socialites?”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised by this comment. But I also find it disarming. “Maybe I should’ve spilled a little more lemonade,” I say.
He grins. “That’s the spirit.”
A breeze picks up, and we both fall silent, watching the ripples drag out along the lake. Aiden's gaze scans my face, and I can feel the weight of his attention, probing and searching. "You look troubled," he remarks softly.
I hesitate, the words coiling in my throat like smoke—should I let them out? How much can I trust a man I hardly know? Then again, what harm is there in telling him?
"Last night," I begin, the confession spilling from me like the lemonade on the sun-kissed patio tiles, "during the storm, I saw someone outside the window. Someone watching."
"Probably just Oliver," Aiden chuckles, the sound grating against my nerves, "trying to get a peek at Lauren, no doubt." The joke falls flat, and I am not amused.
"No," I reply, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. "It wasn't Oliver. He’s not sneaky like that." I know Oliver's presence; it's assured, not skulking.
Aiden's laugh disappears, replaced by a thoughtful hum. "Don't be so sure. Oliver is a man of many secrets. Then again, that’s the cost of forcing yourself into social circles like these.”
“Forcing?” I ask, puzzled.
“I’ve known Oliver for a number of years. He’s always had an eye for the finer things.” He leans in, lowering his voice. "His obsession with wealth isn't just admiration. People like him, they want a taste of this—" he gestures broadly to encompass the grandeur of the Hollingsworth mansion— "and sometimes they'll do anything to get it." There's a hint of disdain in his tone, a window into his worldview that I didn’t see before.
My mind whirls, grappling with Aiden's insinuations about Oliver. Can the man who always seems so genuine and friendly really be cloaked in deceit? The notion unsettles me like a stone in my shoe, constant and nagging. I'm still turning over the possibilities when the heavy oak door of the Hollingsworth mansion swings open.
"Mr. Bell!" Christopher's voice slices through the silence, imbued with an impatience that feels like a physical force. "We haven't got all day."
Aiden's eyes flicker toward the sound, and he rolls them with a theatrical weariness that speaks volumes about his true feelings for Christopher. His suit, impeccably fitting, seems to armor him against such intrusions as he offers me a wry smile. "Duty calls," he says with a sigh, the jest tinged with resentment.
"Of course," I murmur, my own voice sounding distant to my ears.
With a nod that feels too formal for our shared moment of candor, Aiden pivots on his heel. His stride is assertive, betraying none of the irritation that flashed across his features just seconds before.
I watch him go, the back of his dark jacket retreating into the opulent shadow of the mansion's foyer. Alone now, the chill from earlier returns, wrapping around me like the fog that clings to the lake in the early morning. Is it the breeze off the water, or the icy fingers of doubt?
Do I truly know the people within these walls, or have I been naive, blinded by the beauty and status that surround me here?
And is there anyone who is not harboring secrets?
CHAPTER TWENTY
As I sweep the porch, a blissful silence cocoons me, broken only by the soft swish of the broom and the distant call of a loon. My thoughts drift back to the storm last night, lightning splintering the sky above the Hollingsworth mansion. I remember the figure at the window, features obscured by rain and shadow, watching me. I think of the old shack nestled in the pines, a shack I didn’t know existed.
What might I find there in the daylight? What clues to the identity of the trespasser?
There’s only one way to find out, I think.
As I return inside, the house feels larger, emptier. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the underlying sting of disinfectant—Lauren's relentless war against the erosion of time. I find her in the sitting room, ensconced in her favorite armchair, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the lake. The afternoon sun casts her in a harsh light, illuminating the delicate lines she fights so hard to erase. Lauren looks up from the glossy magazine in her hands, her gaze dull from painkillers, but she still manages a practiced smile.
"Emily," she begins, her voice softer than I expect. "Do you need something?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you needed anything?" I ask, my fingers twisting the hem of my apron, betraying my nerves.
She waves a dismissive hand, which is adorned with slender rings. "No, darling. I'm fine here."
"Then, if it's alright with you, I'm going to take a walk along the lake." I try to keep my voice casual, hoping she doesn’t sense how tense and alert I am.
"Of course," Lauren says, turning her attention back to the pages of the magazine. "Enjoy yourself."
I nod, though she's no longer looking my way, and slip out. As I walk, I tell myself it's just curiosity drawing me toward the shack again. But deep down, there's a whisper of fear, a question of what—or who—I might find in the cold light of day.
The calm hush of the lake is like a gentle lullaby. I tread softly on the dew-kissed grass, away from the imposing majesty of the mansion and into the embrace of the forest that borders the lake. The trees sway in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets as the morning light filters through their dense canopy, casting dappled shadows that dance upon the ground.
As I navigate through the verdant thicket, the scent of pine and earth fills my lungs. Twigs snap underfoot. The forest feels timeless, untouched by the glamor less than a quarter mile away, a natural sanctuary from the world of beauty and status that Lauren inhabits so effortlessly.
Then, suddenly, it materializes from the surrounding vegetation—a desolate fishing shack, its wooden planks weathered from storms and neglect.
I knock. "Hello?"
No answer.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the creaking door, hesitating for a moment. The interior smells of mildew and old smoke. My gaze lands on the discarded cigarettes near the entrance—still fresh enough to have been used recently. Soda cans litter the dirt floor, their labels faded, yet not completely surrendered to rust.
My eyes scan the dim interior, uncovering more signs of habitation. An old bedroll lies crumpled in a corner, its fabric frayed and stained. A worn paperback, water-damaged and swollen, sits atop an overturned crate, marking this place as someone's refuge, perhaps even their home. It's unsettling how close this all is to where we live, where Lauren rests, oblivious to the possible danger lurking at the edge of her property.
"Who's been here?" I murmur to myself, the silence swallowing my words. Could the occupant of this forsaken shack be connected to the woman found dead in the lake? A fugitive could be hiding out here, a mere ghost's breath from where we sleep.
A shiver travels down my spine as I consider the foolishness of coming here alone, without leaving a word with anyone. I take a step back, intending to leave this place and its mysteries behind. But then my eyes catch sight of a narrow, beaten path leading deeper into the woods.
Curiosity tugs at me. Despite every fiber of common sense telling me to turn back, my feet disobey, drawn forward by the possibility of answers or the simple need to know. The trail beckons, a silent siren call through the trees, and I am helpless to resist.
The trail is a ribbon of disturbed earth, narrow enough that the brush occasionally snags at my jeans. I pause, twisted roots beneath my feet, and glance over my shoulder to see if the mansion's ivory silhouette pierces the tree line behind me. But it doesn't. The forest has swallowed me whole.
The rich scent of pine needles and damp moss fills my nostrils, a natural perfume that somehow sharpens both my anxiety and resolve. A woodpecker's staccato rhythm punctuates the whispering leaves, while somewhere deeper, a brook murmurs secrets to its banks. The sylvan symphony lulls my racing thoughts, and for a brief, reckless moment, the beauty of it all eclipses the shadows cast by my fears.
Should I turn back? It seems like the reasonable thing to do, but there's a tenacity within me, hardened like the knots in the trunks around me, urging me on. Lauren could be in danger if the person who's been lurking near our home means harm. And what if the barefoot stranger holds the key to understanding the tragedy of the lake? I can't ignore these possibilities; I have to know more—if not for myself, then for the sake of those I care for.
My heart pounds a steady counterpoint as I tread carefully along the path, eyes scanning the underbrush for signs of life or passage. Then, in a small clearing, I spot them—footprints pressed into the mud, stark and undeniable. Barefoot, just like the ones outside the window. My gut clenches. Is there a homeless person out here living off the grid?
"Okay, Emily," I whisper, steadying my breath, "just keep your wits about you." The prints lead on, and so do I, but now each step carries the weight of potential danger. If he finds me here, alone, would he flee, confront me?
