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Sully nods once. “What if what she did was also part of the plan?”
“How twisted can this woman be?”
“I think we already have our answer,” he replies, glowering at the journal in my hands.
“If she has been planning this,” I say, “then there’s a purpose to it. Planted evidence?”
“Probably, yes.”
Which means Cynthia expects this diary to be found by the local authorities. She probably wanted Selina to find it first, though. It doesn’t matter. Any woman that stayed in that bedroom this winter would be treated to the same work of disturbing fiction. Cynthia wanted to make sure that nobody else would find peace in our arms, ever. Her showing up when she did was planned. It was timed to match our arrival, with Selina’s presence.
Shaking my head slowly, I look to Sully again. “Cynthia is playing a dangerous game, Sully. And something tells me she’s going after Selina.”
“Ah, guess we’re gonna find out,” he replies as his phone rings once. “Video files and snapshots, hold on,” he mutters as he flips through the media files. I watch his expression grow darker as he scrolls. His lips move, curled around whispered curse words as the glimmer of sinister recognition lingers in his dark eyes. “Oh, shit.”
“What is it?”
He turns the phone around and shows me footage of Cynthia behind the wheel of a dark blue SUV. “She’s in Providence,” he says. “Three different traffic cams caught her.”
“Jason!” I call out. He rushes downstairs, his blond hair frazzled and bouncing with each step. “We’re heading out. Now.”
“Our flight doesn’t leave for hours,” Jason reminds me with a confused frown.
I give him a slight nod. “True, but Cynthia is already in Providence.”
Nothing more needs to be said at this point. Jason understands precisely what’s going on, and as soon as Sully shows him the diary, he starts putting two and two together. It’s impossible not to notice Cynthia’s carefully timed visits, the jabs and the subliminal prods used to chip away at each of us. She intentionally left behind false words for Selina to read through. She had our traumatic past together to feed off of, to poison and use against us. She had everything she needed to destroy our relationship with Selina, and she wasted no time in doing so.
We served ourselves up like prized chunks of beef over the fire. Cynthia barely moved a finger as we played ourselves right into her long con. But the stakes have climbed much higher, now. There’s a target on Selina’s back, and I know she won’t be safe unless we step in and pull Cynthia away from her. She’s got Selina right where she wanted her—out of Aspen and out of our reach, where we are unable to protect her.
I hate what is about to happen. As much as I told myself that Cynthia would stay in the past, she has clearly expressed her determination to haunt us deep into the present and well into the future. I can’t allow that. I want Selina back more than anything, and I will do whatever it takes to make that happen. Whatever it takes.
27
Selina
It’s early Christmas morning. My eyes peel open to a sea of white outside, visible through the half-shuttered window. My body feels heavy as I roll out of bed and head to the bathroom. It takes a while to pull myself together, but I manage to brush my teeth, then wash and moisturize my face before changing into a pair of jeans and a dark gray sweater. There’s a slice of apple pie left on the kitchenette table, along with the extra pancakes I got from the diner last night. I’m hungry, starving. Starving and nauseated at the same time, two sensations that are equally overwhelming but difficult to reconcile. This baby is already doing quite the number on me, and it’s only a few weeks in. I dread the day my ankles swell and I start waddling. It’s only a matter of time.
I barely slept. Maybe it was the stark loneliness or the exaggerated silence of my hotel room, but either way, keeping my eyes shut and my mind turned off was a veritable challenge. Judging by the dark shadows under my eyes I failed miserably. My phone screen shows a number of notifications for messages and calls, but I have yet to check any of them. I guess I’m afraid of what I’ll find. More heartache and misery. More empty apologies and excuses.
“Christmas breakfast, here I come,” I mutter as I sit at the kitchenette table and flip open the pie box.
It still smells fantastic, and it looks wonderful even a day after it was removed from its display. The crust is perfectly soft and flaky, the filling gooey and sweet, the tartness of apples mingling beautifully with the heftiness of cane sugar and a plethora of spices. The cinnamon hints are the best, smoothly balanced with the faint whiff of vanilla beans. Each bite feels like a Christmas party unraveling in my mouth, and I welcome every morsel while trying not to cry again.
I know I need to move on. I try to keep my chin up and my eyes to the sky, but the solitude and the longing are too much to bear. I’m crushed by the weight of my own choices, emptied by their absence, and depressed by the idea of a future that doesn’t have Matthew, Jason, or Sully in it. That’s not a life I’m interested in, yet it’s pretty much the only one that’s left. At least I’ll have their baby. It doesn’t even matter who the father is—what matters is that I have a chance to be a better parent than my own.
My child, my living situation, my career. I will do better, I will be better, aiming high and preparing myself to be strong and brave. I will do whatever it takes to be successful and raise this baby in the best way possible.
A knock on the door startles me. I freeze in my seat, absently humming to the Christmas carols playing on TV. I can’t even remember turning it on. The volume is low enough to create a nice background noise. Sighing deeply, I get up and turn the TV off, then head for the door. The second knock has me sucking in a sharp breath.
Who could it be? Nobody knows I’m here. Maybe it’s the hotel manager. Or somebody who got their room wrong. My heart is beating faster than usual. My instincts are heightened. It’s a rather unusual sensation, but it quickly makes sense as I open the door and see Cynthia standing before me with a smug smile and a bottle of white wine.
“Darling, it took me forever to find you,” she says.
I stare at her with a mixture of dismay and disbelief. I have absolutely no desire to see her or to be around her, least of all on Christmas. “What are you doing here, Cynthia?”
“That’s no way to greet a friend,” she quips and lets herself in, walking past me with swaying hips and an extra bounce in her perfect brown curls. “I bring a gift, it is Christmas after all. A lovely Italian vino to sip on later tonight.”
“I’m sorry, I just… why are you here?” I ask her.
