The Widow's Cabin

by L. G. Davis

  “Looks can be deceiving. The inside isn’t so bad.” Only if I invite him in will he get to see the chipped bathroom tiles, the discolored walls, or the missing baseboards. I’ve done a lot in the past months to make it more comfortable for us, but what really matters is that it’s private and the price is right. For that we’re grateful.

  In another life, I’d probably invite him in, so I can make him the coffee he missed at his lunch break, but that would be asking for trouble.

  My phone is ringing inside my bag. It has to be Tasha wanting to know what’s going on with me.

  Guilt stabs me when I think of what I did to her, leaving her hanging when she needed me most.

  What would she do if she found out that I’d been lying to her for months about who I really am? She would probably fire me if she hasn’t already.

  Officer Roland attempts to make small talk, but he soon figures out that I’m not in the mood to chat, so he gives me a small nod and gets back into his car.

  Before he drives off, I do come to my senses and thank him for his help.

  “No problem.” He sticks his head out the window. “It’s my job to serve and protect.”

  I smile and turn to the cabin, but he calls after me. When I turn back to him, he grins. “Your new hairstyle is nice.”

  My hand goes to my head. I totally forgot that the last time he saw me I had a different look. And yet he recognized me immediately. That cannot be a good sign.

  I breathe life back into my numb body and force myself to act normal. After all, people change their looks all the time.

  “Thanks.” I give him a wave as he drives away.

  I pray that he will not return to check up on me.

  Safely inside, I return Tasha’s call and apologize.

  “Zoe, that wasn’t okay.”

  “I’m truly sorry.”

  “I get that you’re not feeling well, but for you to run out like that? You could have just rested in the office.”

  I press a hand to my forehead. The headache I lied about having is slowly becoming real. “I couldn’t stay. I’m sorry.”

  “Something is not right with you,” she says. “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

  “No.” The word comes flooding out. “There’s nothing. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “You can trust me, Zoe. I hope you know that.”

  She has a good heart, but I can’t trust her. I can’t trust anyone at this point. I’m desperate to lean on someone, but what I want and what I need to do are in conflict.

  I cannot let my mask slip under any circumstances.

  After a short silence, she speaks again. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but when you said you had a migraine, it didn’t seem like you were telling the truth. Seems like you’ve got something more going on, something emotional.”

  I have to give her something, something she can hold on to so she doesn’t continue digging.

  “Being a single mother is tough sometimes,” I say. It’s as close to the truth as I’m willing to get. I can’t tell her that being a single mom and on the run is even harder.

  “I know it is.” She pauses, then sighs. “You know what, go ahead and take a few days off. We’ll manage.”

  I swallow the tears lingering in my throat. “Thank you.”

  When we hang up, I run to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. My throat is parched.

  I should go and pick up Clark, but it’s not safe for me to drive again, and I don’t want him to see me in this state.

  I need to be alone, to think.

  Instead of sitting idle, I sit in front of the TV and flip through the channels. Sooner or later, Brett’s murder will be reported again. Forty minutes pass before one of the news channels features it.

  According to the reporters, the police department in Fort Haven has been getting calls from people who claim to have seen me. They don’t elaborate, so I can’t tell if the callers are from Willow Creek or another town.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  There are many people who would lie for a reward of $20,000.

  Since I don’t have to go to work for a few days, I’ll avoid going out.

  Desperate to bring my body back from its numb state before Clark comes home, I run myself a bath. I fill the tub with cold water and sink into it, submerging my head and face.

  What if I just eliminated myself from this world before the cops or Cole find me?

  But how could I do that to Clark?

  It’s not the first time I’ve thought of suicide. It was a constant thought growing up in the foster care system, but also throughout my marriage when Cole made my life a nightmare.

  When my lungs start to scream for oxygen, I emerge from the water, splashing it everywhere, gasping for air.

  As soon as my breathing finally gets back to normal, the doorbell rings, and goose pimples erupt on my skin. Cold fear sweeps through me.

  I almost slip as I climb out of the tub and shrug on a bathrobe.

  After debating on what to do for a few painful heartbeats, I open the door, thinking it might be Officer Roland again. He knows I’m home.

  It’s not him. It’s no one.

  All I find is a single, pristine white feather lying on the wooden porch. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I live in the woods, after all. But what about the doorbell ringing? Was that real, or am I hearing things? To avoid going crazy, I convince myself that the sound was all in my head.

  13

  Burying my head in the sand won’t get me anywhere. It’s time to take action.

  Cole is the key. My gut tells me he not only killed Janella, but also his own son. I need to prove his guilt before the police catch up with me. I need to gather evidence that would prove my innocence.

  Instead of running from my past, it’s time I face it head-on.

  I grab one of the notepads lying around the cabin and a pen. Then I sink onto the couch and write down everything that pops into my head about the night that my life changed forever.

  Brett had clearly told me that the medication he wanted me to inject into his veins would not be detectable during an autopsy. I still don’t get why it was. Unless he lied to me. It doesn’t make sense.

  I suddenly remember that I heard sounds that night and thought it was the branches outside the house.

  What if it wasn’t? What if it was someone else in the house aside from me, Brett, and Clark?

  What if it was Cole? Maybe he had brought his own deadly cocktail to kill his son with. I write everything down.

  Another question that lingers on my mind is why Cole would want to kill his son. They didn’t have much of a relationship. He loved Brett for the mere reason that he derived power from controlling him and making him feel small. But I don’t think he would have wanted him dead.

  When my head is empty, I flip through the channels again, but there are no more reports on the murder.

  I need more information to help me put the puzzle together.

  I need the internet, but I can’t go back to Lemon. There is a library a few blocks from where Mrs. Foster lives with computers that people can use.

  I’ll stop by before I buy groceries and pick up Clark.

  Before I leave the cabin, I dress in black jeans, a black T-shirt, a cap, and sunglasses.

  It’s a relief to find that there’s only one other person at the library. I still go for a computer at the back of the room.

  At first, I read the articles, noting any information I deem important. Then I start watching videos of news snippets.

  I stumble upon a video of a Fort Haven reporter interviewing Marjorie Smith, our neighbor who was standing in her garden the morning I drove away with Clark. In the video, she claims to have been with Cole when they found Janella’s body. It’s the first time I’m hearing of it, and I find it suspicious.

  I remove my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose. This new information makes everything much more complicated. The more people that are involved
in this web, the harder it will be to uncover the truth.

  Either way, I jot everything down, wondering why Marjorie didn’t come forward earlier.

  The only explanation is that the cops are becoming suspicious of Cole’s version of events and he found an alibi to support his story. It made sense that he’d choose Marjorie. The woman had always had a crush on him. Every time Cole showed up at our house, Marjorie found a reason to drop by with some sweet treat for him. When Cole didn’t visit for a while, she would ask Brett when he would come again. She hardly ever spoke to me.

  “Finding a dead body is the hardest thing I have ever experienced. I still haven’t recovered from the trauma.” She pats her perfect updo. Her bright smile contradicts the words coming from her mouth.

  Something is different about her, but I can’t figure out what it is.

  “Cole is a kind and wonderful man. I was glad to be by his side during that difficult time.”

  “In your opinion, do you think it’s possible that Mr. Wilton’s wife killed her own husband and the–”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind. She married Brett for his money. Everyone knows that. She used to work as a maid at Mr. Wilton’s hotel. Did you know?”

  Anger pounding through me, I close the video. The torture is too much for me to handle.

  Marjorie had once made a casual comment that her daughter and Brett had been friends for years and she always thought they would end up becoming more. It’s clear she wanted Cole for herself and Brett for her daughter, and I had just stepped in and destroyed that dream for her.

  But right now, she might be the only person who can give me the answers I need.

  Without wasting time, I type in the Fort Haven town website address.

  The site boasts the local attractions, yearly events, and even a phone directory that enables locals to stay in touch in order to strengthen the bond of the community.

  I click on the phone directory page and scroll to the letter S.

  I don’t know yet what I want to ask Marjorie, but I feel as though she’s an important key in this whole mess.

  When I recall her petting her perfectly coiffed hair during the interview, an idea hits me.

  Instead of calling her on my phone, I drive to the nearest payphone. I’d gotten rid of my old cell when we went on the run and picked up a prepaid phone. It’s hard for burners to be traced, but it’s not impossible. I don’t want to take chances.

  Ignoring the stench of urine in the little cubicle, I slide a coin into the machine. I don’t recall the last time I used a payphone and it feels strange.

  As soon as the phone starts ringing, it’s picked up. “Marjorie Smith at your service. How can I help?” She has clearly rehearsed on the off chance that the press will contact her.

  “Hello,” I say, holding my nose to disguise the real sound of my voice. “My name is Linda Simone from the Fort Haven Tribune. I was informed that you are willing to answer questions pertaining to the murder of Mr. Brett Wilton and his housekeeper.”

  “That’s right,” Marjorie chirps. “I will do anything that assists in the capture of the murderer.”

  I’m silent for a moment, the back of my throat aching with rage. “Ma’am, I will not waste your time, so let’s jump right in.”

  “Perfect,” she says. “Would you mind it very much if at the end of the interview you give me an email address? I’d like to send you the photo I want you to use. I got some new headshots.”

  I have never met anyone who loves themselves so much, aside from Cole, of course.

  “Sure, no problem.” It’s a struggle to keep calm. But this is my chance. I can’t blow it. “Will you please explain to me exactly what happened that day.”

  She clears her throat. “Well, as I told the police and other reporters, I was in my garden, tending to my plants, when I saw Mrs. Wilton driving off in a hurry. At the same time, I saw Mr. Wilton, the deceased’s father, arriving at the house. I remember thinking it was strange that his daughter-in-law would leave when he was coming over. I’m positive that she saw his car.”

  “What do you believe the reason was?” I ask.

  “The woman is guilty of murder and she felt uncomfortable coming face-to-face with her father-in-law. Only a guilty person would run.”

  “And do you believe that Meghan Wilton also killed the housekeeper?”

  “Who else could have murdered that poor girl? Cole certainly didn’t do it.” It’s the first time I’m hearing her refer to him by his first name. She had always called him Mr. Wilton. They must have grown closer over the past year.

  “You mentioned that you and Mr. Cole Wilton found the housekeeper’s body. Am I correct?”

  “Yes. Cole was sitting in his car for quite some time, so I decided to go and see if he was all right. We are close friends, you know.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Cole couldn’t care less about her. She was too infatuated to see it.

  “No, I had no idea.” I mutter. “Did you suggest accompanying him into the house?”

  “I did. I understand why he found it hard to enter the house alone. It was the place where his son died. He was brokenhearted.”

  I release my nose and draw in a deep breath. No more beating around the bush. “Miss Smith, there are speculations that you received compensation in exchange for being Mr. Wilton’s alibi. Do you care to comment on that?”

  Silence.

  “Miss Smith, are you still there?”

  “What exactly are you accusing me of?” The charming voice is long gone.

  “Lying.” My tone is firm. “Were you paid to lie?”

  “How dare you!”

  The phone goes dead.

  It’s fine. She answered my question without saying a word.

  14

  Taking matters into my own hands gives me a burst of energy I haven’t felt in a while.

  When I arrive at Mrs. Foster’s house to pick up Clark, the anxiety that had loomed over me earlier has dimmed. I’m still terrified of the police catching up with me, but I won’t go down without a fight. And I’ll make damn sure that Cole is not painted to be the innocent man they all think he is. He deserves to be behind bars.

  The loss of his freedom could lead to me getting my own back.

  Mrs. Foster is not out on the porch with Clark like she normally is.

  I get out of the car and walk up to the door, ringing the bell twice. It takes a while for her to come to the door. When she does, she’s all smiles.

  “Sorry, darling, I didn’t hear the bell. We were out in the back, planting marigolds.”

  “I have my own flower bed, Mommy.” Clark emerges from behind Mrs. Foster.

  “Is that so?” I throw her a quick smile. “That sounds like fun.”

  “So much fun! Mrs. Foster said she’s going to get more seeds for us tomorrow.”

  “But we’re celebrating your birthday tomorrow, Superboy. We’ll be spending the day together, remember?” Clark’s birthday was actually three months ago, but I was going through a severe bout of depression at the time and was unable to give him the attention he deserved. It was his idea to pretend it’s his birthday tomorrow.

  Clark’s face crumples, but only for a second before he perks up again. It would have crushed me if he would rather spend time with Mrs. Foster than with me. I wouldn’t have blamed him, though. She’s the person he spends the majority of his time with.

  “Why don’t you do something different today?” Mrs. Foster rests a hand on top of Clark’s head.

  “What do you mean?” I tilt my head to the side.

  “Instead of rushing back to the cabin, I was thinking maybe the two of you could have an early dinner with me. It’s been a while.”

  “I’m not sure.” I shift from one foot to the other. Although I appreciate her invitation, I was looking forward to being alone with Clark. “We kind of have plans.”

  “Plans can be changed. I would certainly appreciate the company.” Her eyes are pleading.

&
nbsp; Mrs. Foster is such a lovely person and my heart really goes out to her. She lost her husband only three years ago, and she has no children to keep her company. That’s why she loves it so much when Clark comes to visit.

  I think of insisting that we have to go, but the weary look in the woman’s eyes makes me change my mind. How could I refuse her an hour or two of my time?

  “You’re right. Plans can be changed.” I step into the house that always smells of fresh laundry. “Have you already cooked something?”

  “Not yet.” She laughs. “Silly me. The idea to invite you to dinner just came to me now. I haven’t even given thought to what I will feed you. I’ll come up with something.”

  It’s already close to 6:00 p.m. and when Mrs. Foster cooks, she takes forever. We’ve been to her place for dinner four times before and we ended up staying for over three hours.

  As I’m closing the door behind me, an idea comes to me. “How about I cook us something? You relax.”

  Since I know my way around her kitchen already, it won’t be hard to find a few random ingredients and rustle up a quick meal.

  She lays a hand on her chest. “I can’t let you do that. You need to rest. You’ve been working all day. It must have been busy at the restaurant for Tasha to let you work longer than you’d planned.”

  Guilt gnaws at my insides like acid. She doesn’t know that I left work early.

  “That’s all right.” I wave a dismissive hand. “I have enough energy left.”

  “Can you cook lasagna?” Clark asks and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  “It depends on what Mrs. Foster has in the kitchen.” I glance at her again, questioningly. “And if I’m allowed to cook.”

  Mrs. Foster gives my arm a pat. “If it’s really no bother, I would appreciate that.”

  While Clark and Mrs. Foster are back in the garden tending to their flower beds, I rummage around in the kitchen in search of ingredients. I don’t find anything for lasagna, so I decide to cook fried rice with vegetables and chicken instead.

  While I cook, I try to clear my mind of everything that happened earlier. I also make myself a promise that when I’m with my son, I’ll do my best to be present. It’s going to be hard, but I’ll give it my all.