The Widow's Cabin

by L. G. Davis

  My heart lifts when I hear news about Ronan’s departure. I let out a breath and nod. “I’ll bring Clark by tomorrow.”

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Foster pushes back her chair and rises to her feet.

  “You’re leaving already?” I ask.

  She smiles. “I have intruded long enough.”

  “No, please stay. Have breakfast with us.” Since Ronan is not a threat anymore, why not?

  She accepts the offer and spends the entire time telling stories of her childhood.

  Finally, she leaves, and the day crawls to an end.

  In the evening, while Clark is watching TV, I step out onto the porch. I need some space to plan my next move to expose Cole. Then, a note on the porch swing catches my attention, a stone keeping it from being blown away by the wind. The words on the piece of stained paper leave me cold.

  Stay away from her or something bad will happen.

  Ronan lied to his mother. He’s not going anywhere.

  19

  Tasha takes Clark to a children’s table in a corner of the restaurant and puts coloring pages, puzzles, and books in front of him. He brought his own coloring pencils with him.

  Tasha has agreed to let me work half the day because I had to bring Clark with me. It was either that or I couldn’t come at all. After Ronan’s warning on the porch yesterday, I couldn’t risk taking Clark to Mrs. Foster’s.

  When I called Mrs. Foster about the note, and the change of plans, she sounded hurt, but said she understood.

  Tasha walks off and returns with a plate of eggs, toast, sausages, and pancakes. She puts the food in front of a delighted Clark.

  “What do you say, Clark?” I remind him.

  “Thank you, Tasha.” He pushes aside his papers so he can start eating.

  “That’s all right, little man.” Tasha pats him on the head. “If you need anything else, let us know, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I mouth to her and walk away from the table, but I’ll be keeping my eyes on Clark the entire time I’m working. I’ll also watch the door in case Ronan shows up.

  Tasha pulls me aside. It’s a slow morning so we can afford to have a brief chat.

  “Zoe, talk to me. I know you’re going through something.”

  I want to, so much it hurts, but what would be the repercussions of doing that? If she believes I committed the murders, she would feel obligated to turn me in. It’s hard to know who to trust when you are accused of killing someone. I wish we could be friends, but letting her get close could be dangerous.

  “Thank you for caring.” My gaze moves to Clark. “You saying that means a lot.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll always be here when you’re ready to talk.”

  After leaving her hanging one too many times over the last couple of days, she should have fired me. She doesn’t need me. She could hire someone more reliable than I am right now. I know some of the staff complain about me. They have to pick up the slack when I don’t show up at work. But Tasha is a good person. She’s helping me without prying into my business. For that, I will forever be grateful.

  During work, we take turns going to check on Clark or to play a quick game with him.

  I’m sitting with Clark at one point, both of us busy completing an ocean puzzle, when Tasha comes to the table with a bright red train.

  “Clark, your Mommy said you like trains.” She puts it in front of him. “I hope you’ll like this one.”

  “It’s mine?” Clark runs his small hand over the back of the brand-new train.

  “If you want it to be.” Tasha winks at him and walks away. I stand up to follow her.

  “You didn’t have to do that. You’ve already done so much for us.”

  “I would do more if you let me.” She pauses. “I understand that you’re not ready to share your problems with someone else. But you know what, maybe I understand you more than you think.” She starts cleaning a table that has become empty. While she’s wiping it down, I stand by the grandfather clock and watch her. What did she mean?

  We work side by side in silence until most of the breakfast crowd trickles out and we have time for a short break. Tasha continues the conversation as if we never stopped.

  “I was wrong,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re going through. It was wrong of me to imply that I did. I’m sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine,” I respond, but I wish she would continue. A part of me is yearning to know her more.

  As if reading my mind, she continues, “You might not know this, but I was once a single mother. Jack has not always been in my life.”

  “Really?” I didn’t know that. Whenever he came to the restaurant with the twins, he treated them like his own. I never once suspected he was not their biological father. “I–”

  “My late husband died a month after we got married. I was pregnant. We were already struggling financially before his death. When he died, I had nothing to give my kids. The little money he left me went toward the debts he left behind.” She sighs. “I struggled for a long time as a single parent. I stayed in a shelter once and worked jobs I hated. Then Jack came along and helped me rescue myself.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Without giving it much thought, I draw her into my arms. She’s as surprised by the hug as I am. After an awkward moment, I pull back again, and she smiles.

  “The one thing that helped me through rough times was talking about those rough times, especially with someone who cares.”

  I give her a nod and we stand in silence, staring at each other. She’s waiting for me to open up as well. It doesn’t happen. It can’t.

  When two guests enter the restaurant, I hurry to them, grateful for the distraction. I hope she won’t pursue the topic later.

  The guests are two women in their twenties. One of them is staring at me in a way that makes me shift with discomfort. She should be flipping through the menu, but instead, her eyes are fixed on my face.

  I push back my shoulders and put on my brightest smile. “What can I get you?”

  “Oh, sorry.” The woman peels her gaze from my face and reaches for the menu. They order pancakes, sausages, and orange juice.

  I hurry away from the table, my stomach churning. I’m used to people talking about me when I walk by, whispering behind my back about the eccentric lady living in a cabin in the woods, but this time is different. The woman is looking at me as if she knows me from somewhere and is trying to figure it out.

  It’s nothing, I tell myself. I want to believe it with all my heart.

  When I serve their food, she gives me a sweet smile and thanks me.

  “I was wondering,” she says before I leave them. “Do I know you? I’m really good with faces and you look really familiar. I feel like we’ve seen each other before.”

  “No.” A nervous laugh spills from my lips as blood rushes to my brain. “I mean, I don’t think so.” I force a smile. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”

  The two women shake their heads and I hurry off, almost tripping.

  “Are you all right?” Tasha asks me at the bar.

  “No.” It’s probably the most honest I’ve ever been with her. “Can we talk in private?”

  Tasha suggests we go to her office, but I don’t want to let Clark out of my sight. We take a seat at one of the empty tables.

  Her eyes are filled with questions and her hands are clasped on the table. “You can tell me anything.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but I can’t work here… not anymore.”

  The woman with the pancakes might watch the news tonight and see me on TV. If she figures out who I am, she might return with the cops. Even if she doesn’t, Lemon has regulars. If they see me often enough, and they keep seeing my face on the news, they will identify me as the woman who’s wanted for murder.

  “I don’t understand. Why?” Tasha narrows her eyes. “Did you find another job?”

  I shake my head. The tho
ught of having to look for another job elsewhere and starting from scratch makes my insides burn with anxiety. Tasha has come to a point where she only wants to help me and she’s not pushing to know who I am or where I came from. Another employer might want to know more and they will not be as understanding when I mess up.

  As much as I hate it, in the next few days, we might have to leave town, to go to another place where no one knows me. It was a mistake to stay in Willow Creek for this long.

  I gaze at Clark and tears fill my eyes. I hate to drag him away again now that he has come to know Willow Creek as home.

  “Is it about what I said?” She places a hand on mine. “I hope I didn’t overstep. I only wanted to understand you more so I could help better.”

  “You don’t want to know me,” I say to her. “I’m too much trouble. Thank you for what you’ve done. I’ll never forget it. And I’m sorry to leave you like this.” In spite of myself, I squeeze her hand tight, taking all the comfort I can get.

  Before letting us go, Tasha packs up some lunch for us on the house and gives it to me with confusion in her eyes. Five minutes later, Clark and I are back in the car. He’s as confused as Tasha was about us leaving so soon.

  He doesn’t say a word to me all the way to the cabin. I try everything, even ask him to sing with me to the radio. I get nothing back.

  “I’m sorry we had to leave, but baby, sometimes parents have to make decisions that kids don’t understand.”

  Still, he says nothing.

  The moment the car stops in front of the cabin, Clark gets out and slams the door hard. I watch him stomp toward the front door, clutching his train. He comes to a screeching halt at the porch swing and stares down as if something interesting has caught his attention.

  He calls me and I jump out of the car. There’s panic in his voice.

  “Are you okay, baby?”

  “There’s blood here.” He points to a spot on the floor.

  He’s right. There’s a puddle of blood right in front of the swing.

  I bite back a scream before it explodes from my lips.

  Pulling myself together, I unlock the door and gently push him inside. “An animal must have injured itself.”

  I wish I could believe it too. I doubt it though. The blood was put there by someone, someone who’s sending me some kind of warning. Someone dangerous.

  20

  “One more time, Mommy,” Clark begs when I finish reading his favorite bedtime story, The Goose Prince, a second time. I’m exhausted and ready to drop, but after dragging him out of Lemon today, I owe him.

  “One last time.” I give in. “Then you have to sleep, okay?”

  He gives me a bright smile and curls up next to me on the bed.

  While reading, my body is lying next to him, but my mind is drifting to the blood on the porch. I haven’t stepped out of the cabin since we saw it, but once Clark is in bed, I need to do something about it. I still can’t figure out whether the person who put it there is Cole or Ronan. If Ronan really killed his brother, he’s just as dangerous as Cole.

  Why would Ronan come back if I’m keeping my distance from his mother, though?

  As questions scramble for space inside my head, I read to Clark on autopilot. I’ve read the book so many times that I no longer have to read every word.

  When I finally reach the end and close the book, I’m relieved, and I hate myself for it. “Time to sleep, little man.”

  “I’m not a little man. I’m a big boy.”

  “All right then.” I smile and kiss his forehead. “Close those eyes. There’s something I need to do outside, then I’ll come to bed.”

  “But I’m scared.” He pulls the comforter to his chin, his eyes wide. “Don’t go.”

  “You don’t have to be scared, baby. I’m just going outside, and I’ll be right back.” I continue to lie in bed with him, my arms around his body. He probably senses that danger is close. If only my hugs and kisses could erase his fears. I feel like a fraud telling him not to be scared when I’m terrified as well.

  I breathe in several times to try and calm both of us. Finally, his breathing evens out and he places his hands underneath one of his cheeks as he slides into sleep.

  I wait a few minutes until he releases the first snore. Then I get out of bed and go to the kitchen. I already have a bucket waiting with water and a rag.

  Under the porch light, the blood has dried into a dark stain. I glance around me, making sure nobody is around. It might be best for me to stay indoors, but as long as there’s blood on my porch, I won’t be able to sleep. I also don’t want Clark to see it again. Or maybe I secretly want to prove to my tormentor that I’m not afraid of him.

  Cole draws his strength from other people’s weaknesses. Bullies always feel more powerful when they see the fear in their victim’s eyes. I may be trembling inside, but I’m going to do my best not to show my fear.

  It takes a while to wash away the blood. Once I’m done, part of the dark wood is pale from being scrubbed so hard. There’s a can of varnish in the cabin. When I get the chance, I’ll cover up the scar so Mrs. Foster won’t become upset about it.

  I throw a look over my shoulder again and push to my feet. My heart is slamming against the inside of my chest as I stare into the dark trees, but my face is stoic and my normally hunched shoulders are pushed back.

  I make it back into the cabin without being attacked. I lock and bolt the door and all the windows. The cabin is old and frail. If someone wants to break in, they can easily do so, but I’ll be able to hear them.

  I take a broom and a knife to the bedroom and lean the broom against the wall on my side of the bed. The knife goes under my pillow, wrapped in a kitchen towel. I’ll get rid of it before Clark wakes up and starts asking questions.

  I still can’t sleep. My heart refuses to settle, even after several calming breaths.

  I get out of bed again and head to the kitchen, knife in hand. I can’t leave it in bed with Clark.

  Since I don’t have anxiety meds, I boil myself a cup of chamomile tea. After a few sips, I feel the urge to step out of the cabin again. The walls are closing in on me.

  Before I know it, I’m standing on the porch again.

  My fingers are still tight around the knife in case I need to protect myself.

  The crickets are especially loud tonight, and their chirps mixed with the sound of the babbling creek is more calming than any tea. I lower myself onto the side of the porch swing furthest away from where the bloodstains were, place the tips of my toes on the wood and rock back and forth.

  That’s when I see it, a bundle covered with a muslin kitchen towel. It’s tucked in one corner of the porch, behind a dead potted plant. I get up from the swing and brace myself for whatever I’m about to find.

  When I lift the cloth, I gag.

  It’s a dead squirrel with eyes wide open, its little body lifeless and stiff. The dried blood on its coat tells me what I need to know. If it weren’t for the fact that it was covered up, I would have told myself that it got injured and hopped onto the porch to protect itself from scavengers.

  Forgetting how to be brave, I rush back into the cabin and slam the door shut, my back pressed against it.

  I slide to the floor, my arms around my trembling legs.

  I feel cold and I’m shaking all over. I cannot go to bed, not this way. Clark would notice me shaking next to him.

  One of the men hunting me is out there, probably right now in the bushes, watching the cabin, waiting for the perfect time to attack.

  He’s a cold-blooded killer. What would stop him from hurting Clark? Losing my son would be a fate worse than death itself.

  Too weak to get up, I crawl to the couch and cry myself to sleep.

  When I open my eyes again, it’s 4:00 a.m. As much as I hate going out there again and seeing the dead squirrel, I need to get rid of it. Clark loves animals. He’d be devastated to find a dead squirrel on the porch.

  Since we arrived i
n Willow Creek, Clark has been begging me to get him a dog. It disappoints him when I refuse, but I can’t afford a pet. Being on the run with a small child is hard enough. Right now, though, I’m wishing we had a dog to warn us when danger is close by.

  I take a garbage bag and hold my breath as I drop the squirrel into it. The rotting smell makes my stomach turn.

  I’m about to throw the bag into the outside bin when a glint catches my eye. It’s the blade of a small knife with a bloody tip.

  It has to be the weapon my tormentor used to kill the squirrel. He knew I would find it. He wanted me to. I drop the squirrel inside and throw up next to the bin.

  “Are you okay, Mommy?” My world spins when I turn to find Clark standing on the porch. Vomit is still trickling down my chin and my eyes are wild with horror.

  I quickly slam the lid onto the trash can and wipe the vomit from my chin with the back of my hand.

  I take his arm and hurry him to the door. “Let’s go inside.”

  “What is it?” he asks, his voice still sleepy.

  “Mom is not feeling that well.” This time it’s the truth.

  I don’t want Clark to be out here again. I don’t want him to be in the line of sight of a murderer.

  If it’s Cole, he’s giving me a clear message. He killed before and he can do it again.

  I can’t let that happen.

  21

  My mind is yelling for me to run, to take Clark and the few belongings we have and get out of Willow Creek. But I can’t be impulsive. I can’t run blindly without knowing where I’m going, and my mind is too disturbed to come up with a plan.

  It’s clear now that no matter where I go or how far we run, Cole will find us eventually.

  Leaving the cabin, our only home, could be a mistake. We have nowhere else to go.

  The best thing to do right now is to stay put and calm down enough to come up with a plan that makes sense, instead of running blindly toward some other town where more danger could be awaiting us.