Isolation: a gripping psychological suspense thriller full of twists
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Maybe Tobias is thinking the same thing. That this is a new beginning for both of us. We can redeem ourselves.
I don’t know if what Brenna said about Tobias is true. She was right about me. Maybe she was telling the truth about Tobias too. But something tells me Tobias won’t hurt me. He tried to protect Daphne from the virus, and he couldn’t bring himself to hurt Darren. He carried me across those fields so carefully.
Then again, I haven’t been the best judge of character lately.
And of course, he could be wondering the same thing about me. He’d have every right to, after what I’ve done.
We’ll have to trust each other if we’re going to get through this.
I can’t let any of that get in the way—not suspicions, not anger, and especially not grief. There’s no room for any of that now, because there are two children who need me. Need us—Tobias and me. I have to be strong and loving and good for them.
Children can recover from almost anything. I think I’m living proof of that, and hopefully Daphne and Felix will be too, one day.
There’s no time to look back. There’s only moving forward.
Epilogue
Six Months Later
Felix
I told the teacher I needed to use the bathroom. She let me go because she knows I’m not one of those kids who goes to the bathroom to goof around with their friends.
My new school isn’t as fancy as the one I went to when I was still Felix. After the fire, Margot and Tobias took us in Margot’s car—Tobias knew how to start it without the key—and drove for hours and hours. We didn’t see my mother, but I knew she was dead. I felt it, inside my chest like a fist clenching around the muscle of my heart and then releasing.
Tobias kept calling people and hanging up, and then calling them back until I heard him talk to someone about payments and papers. I thought maybe Tobias was checking about the horses, who were all safe in their stables—he made us look before we left—and waiting for someone to come get them. And maybe he did call somebody about the horses, some anonymous call to make sure they were taken care of, but most of those calls I think were about new names and identification and getting access to money he’d been saving for a long time somewhere secret. I remember he talked about insurance money from a woman named Colleen, who I think might have been his wife.
Margot drove and drove until we ended up in this little town where we rented a house, and then a few days later Daphne and I started school and we were supposed to call Margot “Mom” and Tobias “Dad” in front of other people, to go along with the story they were telling our teachers and our neighbors.
I don’t mind it so much. Margot and Tobias are really nice to Daphne and me, and they seem to like each other, although they don’t kiss or sleep in the same room. Sometimes I’ll come out after dinner, when all the lights are turned low in our little house, and see them sitting at the kitchen table, talking and smiling at each other.
Margot and Tobias told us we shouldn’t look it up, but I did anyway one day, when I was at the library after school—that way my searches wouldn’t be traceable, if someone did come looking for us in this tiny town with one stoplight and a postage-stamp-sized library. I searched for Granfield Manor, and then I searched for Brenna Stone. The first articles said that Granfield Manor had burned down and that it was believed to be arson. Everyone in the house was suspected to have died, although they only found the remains for three people. Everyone else supposedly burned up.
Before we left, Tobias set fire to the inside of the panic room. It burned extra hot, because it was so well insulated.
The papers had pictures of Tobias from a horse show he’d done with Jasmine, her mane all shiny and combed out, a few years ago. Margot’s nursing graduation photo was next to mine and Daphne’s school pictures from that year. Dad’s picture was the one from his company’s website. The fire made some of the bigger papers. The police suspected the Russian mob, because, the reports said, of ties to one of the workers at Granfield, Darren Stuyven.
When I searched my mother’s name, I only found a few articles about how her company was being taken over by her second-in-command, someone named Ivan Ratchkov. Dad’s company went into trust with his executive board. There was one line, at the end of an article, that mentioned the money. “If the Stones children had lived, they would stand to inherit almost $10 million in stock investments and other financial assets, not to mention the insurance money for Granfield Manor itself.”
I wash my hands in the sink and stare up at my face. We have to wear masks at school to cover our mouth and nose. I wear normal ones that Margot got for us at the grocery store. They’re all blue and make it hot to breathe in, but other kids wear the same ones too, so I don’t stand out for being weird or poor.
And we’re not poor. We’re just not rich either.
We’re normal, at least on the outside. I’m normal. I like being that, for now. I have a few friends in my class, and sometimes I go over to their houses to play video games or eat dinner. I have to wear my mask there too.
You get used to it.
It’s strange though, wearing the mask, because it makes you notice people’s faces in a different way from when you can see all of them. Daphne looks almost exactly like Mom, with the same blue eyes and soft pretty forehead.
When I look at myself in the mirror, at first I thought I looked like Dad, but then I remembered that Mom was the one who always told me I looked like him. And Mom was a liar. So I kept looking at my face, and I realized that I didn’t look anything like my father.
I’ve been practicing remembering him like he was, before he got sick and before he died in that room. Before my mother killed him, that is.
My eyes are dark and wide-set. My hair falls in a strange way across my forehead, and it’s darker than anyone else’s in my family. I was at home, staring into the mirror with my mask on, trying to figure out what kept bothering me when I’d see my reflection. And then I knew, all of sudden. Like when I finally understood that gravity accelerates rather than staying constant.
I remembered those eyes, looking at me and telling me that I needed to be safe. Making Margot and Tobias promise to give me a new life.
That’s when I knew that Daphne was the good child, and always would be. She saved us because she’s only half bad. She’s half Mom, sure, but she’s also half Dad. And Dad was a good person.
But me. I’m all bad. My mother only cared about herself, and my real father, Darren, was willing to burn my home—our home—down to the ground in order to get back at my mother. He was willing to lock us in a room with no air so he could be the hero himself.
I dry my hands on the disposable towels and push the door open with my foot, like my teacher taught me.
When I step out into the hallway, it’s deserted. I could go back to my classroom, and back to my lessons.
But what if I made a quick stop somewhere else—maybe the janitor’s closet or the teacher’s bathroom or my sister’s locker? What if I decided to stop fighting who I really am?
Because I’m not the hero of this story.
I’ll always be something else.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Bloodhound Books for seeing this project through to its final version. This novel began as a work of writing therapy for me during the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic. It grew into the novel it is today through the support of Bloodhound’s fantastic team.
Thank you to my writing friends, including J.L. Delozier and Brian Centrone.
Jen, thanks for always being the Thelma to my Louise (or am I Thelma?).
Brian, thank you for texting luxury fashion sale items to my phone. You’re right—fashion and friendship are life-affirming.
Thank you to my dear friend, Jennifer Crissman-Ishler, for being my best work buddy and all around go-to friend when anything is happening in life, good or bad.
Thank you to one of my first English teachers, Mrs. Lipiatt, for enco
uraging my writing from such an early age.
Thank you to my Mom for loving me, encouraging me, chatting with me on my walks, showing me great hiking trails, and just being an awesome mom and grandma.
Thank you to my late father, Stephen. I live my life each day trying to follow your example.
Thank you to my children for letting me be a part of their lives as they grow into young adults and get ready to explore the world.
Finally, thank you to my husband, Joshua, for all your years of love.
About the Author
Sarah K. Stephens is the author of four novels and a developmental psychologist at Penn State University. Her writing has appeared in LitHub, The Writer's Chronicle, Hazlitt, and The Millions. Aside from Isolation, her books include the psychological thrillers A Flash of Red, It Was Always You, and The Anniversary. Sarah lives with her husband and children in Central Pennsylvania.
Follow Sarah on Twitter (@skstephenswrite), Instagram (@skstephenswrite), or Facebook (@sarahkstephensauthor) and read more of her writing on her website (www.sarahkstephens.com).
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