The Widow's Cabin

by L. G. Davis

  We have stayed indoors for three days with nothing out of the ordinary happening, but we’re running out of food. We have no choice but to get out there again and stock up.

  Clark is overjoyed when I tell him about our trip to the grocery store. Everything goes smoothly. I stuff a bag with canned foods, rice and pasta, and anything with a long shelf life.

  We’re at the cash register when Clark decides to be difficult. He’s angry because I refuse to buy him a superhero toy.

  We can’t waste the little money we have, not when I don’t have a job to bring in more.

  I place my hand on his head, trying to calm him, to prevent him from throwing a tantrum. He has been doing that a lot lately as the stress of being cooped up inside the cabin has gotten to him. I’m struggling as well.

  He knows I’m not well. He knows I’m afraid. On more than one occasion, he woke up in the middle of the night to find me looking out the window, or saw me jump when he walked into the room. I’m stressing him out. If only I knew what to do about it.

  “How about I get you this instead.” I reach for a less expensive toy race car.

  People are watching. We need to get out as soon as possible.

  At first, he protests, then he throws up his arms in defeat. “Fine,” he mumbles and folds his arms. “Can I get the other toy next time?”

  “Maybe.” Maybe one day I’ll be able to buy him what he wants, but right now, I cannot spend fifty dollars on a toy. I toss the new toy into the cart and wheel it forward to pay, satisfied that we’ll have enough food to last us a while.

  The plan is to hide out until I can decide where to go from here, how to keep us safe, now that my photo is all over the news and papers.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I try not to stare at the newspaper on the stand with a small photo of me in one corner of the cover. When I was a kid, I wondered how it would feel to be famous, to grace the covers of magazines. Now that I’m in the limelight, I know that it’s definitely not what it’s cut out to be.

  I pay quickly and rush Clark back to the car, but as soon as I shut his door, the feeling of being watched arrests me. My skin prickles as I freeze in place, not daring to turn around, afraid of what I might see.

  Then I take a deep breath, hold it, let it go, then I look.

  My feelings were right, Ronan is still in town. My body is tight with tension as our eyes meet from across the parking lot. He’s inside his pickup truck, staring blatantly at me, his eyes digging daggers into my skin.

  I want to charge toward him and demand he stay away from us, but it’s better to keep a distance. I only hope that he does not come to the cabin again. I haven’t gone to his mother’s house, so he has no reason to want to harm me.

  Unless he’s found a different one.

  I take another breath and hold it. My eyes are still on him as I slide behind the wheel. My palms are slick against the old leather of the steering wheel.

  Ronan doesn’t have to worry. I only need a few days to come up with a plan, then I’ll leave Willow Creek behind to start over someplace else, maybe a big city that will enable us to merge with the crowds.

  Clark says something from the backseat, but I cannot hear his words. Through the rushing in my ears, his voice sounds distant.

  I watch as Ronan drives away, his truck disappearing around the corner.

  I let out the breath I was holding and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.

  “Are you okay, Mommy?” Clark asks and I swallow hard before I turn to look at him.

  “Mommy is just tired, baby.”

  “Is it because you don’t sleep?” he asks. “You went to the window again. I saw you.”

  Oh, my God, what am I doing to my son? It’s not only me waking up in the middle of the night, I’m waking him as well. “I’m sorry that I woke you,” I say.

  “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t feel bad. You should drink warm milk.”

  He has no idea that I feel like I’m the worst mother in the world.

  “That’s a good idea. Maybe I will.” I ignore the tears threatening to fall.

  Without another word, I pull out of the parking lot and drive back to the cabin, glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure Ronan is not behind us. I don’t see his truck.

  But what about Cole? Is he out there hiding in plain sight? Or does he have someone doing his dirty work for him?

  My phone rings. It’s her. She already called several times today.

  I don’t pick up Mrs. Foster’s call. Our phone conversations are always about the same thing. She’s still desperate to see Clark. When she called last night, she begged me to take him to her.

  I reminded her again that I’m terrified that Ronan will harm us if we don’t keep our distance.

  She assured me again that he has left town.

  Maybe she really believes it. It could be that he had left town, after leaving me the note, and decided to come back to haunt me. Now that I have seen him with my own eyes, I need to do what’s right for us. I can’t speak to Mrs. Foster yet, but there’s someone else I need to call.

  On our way to the cabin, we drop by a public phone. I park as close to it as possible because Clark refuses to get out while playing with his new race car.

  With my eye on my car, I dial the number I found in the Fort Haven online directory.

  When the phone starts ringing, nervous butterflies erupt in my belly. I haven’t spoken to Denise for years.

  After she stopped working at the hotel, I tried to call her several times, but she never answered or returned my calls. Not long after, her number went out of service, so I gave up and went on with my life.

  But now, she might be the person with the ammunition I need to fight Cole. I need to know why she left the hotel. It could be the same reason the other employees left as well.

  Since Denise’s cell number still doesn’t exist, I’m calling her mother’s house phone. I knew Denise said at the time that she lived with her. She could have moved out, of course, but her mother might be able to give me her new contact details.

  The phone rings five times with no answer. I’m about to hang up when someone picks up.

  “Hello?” The woman has a raspy, tired voice. “Who is this?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m an old friend of Denise. I’m unable to reach her on her cell. Is she in?”

  Silence.

  “What do you want from my daughter?” She sounds both curious and annoyed.

  I rub the back of my neck. “We haven’t spoken for a long time and I just wanted to get in touch.”

  “I’m sorry.” She cuts me off. “You can’t speak to my daughter.”

  My heart sinks. As I suspected, she moved out. It has been years, after all. Maybe she’s married and had another kid, in addition to the son she had when I knew her.

  But she had said at the time that her mother suffered from epilepsy, and was also dependent on a wheelchair to get around, so she needed constant care. All the same, maybe she’s better now and Denise was able to start her own life.

  “Would you mind giving me her new cell phone number? The one I have no longer exists.”

  “That’s because she doesn’t either. Denise is dead.”

  “She’s what?” My throat tightens. “How? When?” I sink against the dirty glass of the cubicle. My eyes are blurry as I stare at my car outside.

  “A year and four months.” Her voice is barely audible. “She was a good girl.”

  “Yes,” I assure her. “Yes, she was. How did she... How did she die?”

  I don’t want to put the woman through any more pain, but I need to know. I had not known Denise for long, but I had really liked her. While the other ladies at the hotel were distant and cold toward me, Denise had made me feel welcome.

  “The cops said she killed herself, but I don’t believe it. My baby would never do that.”

  “No,” I murmur, my fingertips touching my parted lips. “No, she wouldn’t.”

&nbs
p; 22

  Clark is eating his fries and roasted chicken while I move my food around the plate. The news about Denise’s death has hit me really hard, and I’m too preoccupied to eat.

  I don’t understand. If she died a year and four months ago, her death has to have happened around the time Brett was diagnosed with cancer.

  Why would she kill herself? She was struggling financially and often told me how hard it was to care for both her mother and her three-year-old, but she was optimistic that things would get better. She was one of the most positive people I knew.

  She was the kind of person who spent her free time reading motivational books and had affirmations plastered to the inside of her staff locker. Even though, like me, she didn’t finish school, she was determined to create a better life for herself and her child. Working as a maid was only temporary. Her dream was to start her own wire-wrapped jewelry business. She showed me a few pieces. She was talented.

  Now it’s all over. She died with her dream inside of her.

  I don’t understand how that could have happened. I don’t want to.

  After telling me about what happened to Denise, her mother was so distraught that she couldn’t speak anymore. I didn’t get any of the answers I needed.

  I wipe away the tears before Clark sees them. I’m tired of him asking me if I’m okay. I’m tired of stealing his childhood innocence, making him grow up before his time because he feels he has to take care of me.

  I need to get my life together before I destroy him completely.

  When Clark is playing in the living room after lunch, I go in there with my notepad.

  Something about Denise’s death doesn’t seem right. Like her mother, I don’t believe she committed suicide.

  A disturbing thought crawls into my mind. What if in some twisted way, Cole had something to do with it? What if Denise didn’t commit suicide and she was murdered? But that doesn’t make sense either.

  I massage my temples, ignoring the headache creeping up on me. I need a clear head, to figure out how much of a monster Cole really is.

  If it was really him who had killed Denise, what motive did he have? She no longer worked at the hotel.

  There’s only one explanation. Maybe she had something on him. It was no secret that she disliked the man, everyone did.

  I need to speak to her mother again. I hate to bring back the memories of her daughter, and I would definitely hate for her to think that someone hurt her, but what if I could help bring her some kind of closure?

  The idea of going out there again gives me stomach cramps. I need to use my phone. Denise’s mother didn’t know who I was, so she wouldn’t contact the cops.

  I remind myself that prepaid phones are hard to trace. When I bought mine secondhand, I didn’t need to offer much personal information. For the cops to trace me, they would also need to know what name I’m using. If they did, they would have revealed my new identity to the press already.

  I bring out the number and call again. She doesn’t pick up, so I try again ten minutes later.

  I’m surprised when she recognizes my voice. “What do you want this time?”

  “Mrs. Sanchez, I’m so sorry to remind you of what happened to your daughter. I can only imagine how hard it must be.”

  “No, dear,” she says. “You can’t. No one can imagine the pain a mother feels after losing a child. No one will understand how deep that pain is.” When she utters the last words, she sounds as if she’s talking to herself and no longer to me.

  I swallow a sob. “She was my friend and I don’t believe that she did it. I don’t believe she took her own life. She loved her child, and she loved you. She would never willingly leave you.”

  “But what if she did it and I refuse to accept it because it hurts too much? My daughter was in pain,” Mrs. Sanchez blows her nose. “I don’t want to think that she did it, but since she started working at that hotel, she changed.”

  “In what way?”

  “She had the most beautiful smile and she stopped showing it. She cried every night. We needed the money, but I told her to leave that job. When she did, I still didn’t get her back. My happy Denise was gone forever. I lost her even before she died.”

  I knew Denise was not happy at the Black Oyster, but I had no idea how deep her unhappiness was.

  “Did she explain why she was so unhappy?” I ask gently. “Did someone hurt her?”

  “I need to go. I’ve said enough.” Mrs. Sanchez’s voice has hardened.

  “Mrs. Sanchez,” I am almost begging. “If somebody hurt your daughter, you need to tell someone. We don’t want the same thing to happen to anyone else.”

  The phone goes dead.

  She told me enough. I’m certain now that Cole is responsible. It’s time for me to speak up. I don’t have evidence to support my accusations, but I’m hoping that my words could at least plant a seed into the hearts of those that can provide justice.

  Before I lose my courage, I change the sim card in my phone, replacing it with a different one. Then I make an anonymous call to the police department in Fort Haven. I use the non-emergency number to make it less likely they’ll trace the call.

  “I would like to report Mr. Cole Wilton for the sexual assault of his employees at the Black Oyster Hotel.” I beg them to start an investigation.

  “Do you have proof to back up these claims?” the policeman asks in an urgent tone.

  “I know Cole Wilton is sexually molesting his employees because he did the same to me. He threatened to kill me if I told anyone.” I sniff as memories flood back. “If you don’t do something about it, I’m going to the press.”

  “Could you tell us your name?”

  “No.” I hang up quickly. I replace the sim card with the old one in case Denise’s mother or Mrs. Foster want to reach me.

  Burying my head into my hands, I weep as I relive every second of that painful night. I should have spoken up before now. Maybe I would have stopped the chain of events that followed, the deaths. But I didn’t, and now it feels like it’s too late.

  For years I have lived with my secret, not even telling Brett because I knew it would destroy him. I didn’t want to risk losing him over it, because I loved him so much. At the same time, I hated myself every day for keeping such a secret from him.

  I probably dug my own grave by calling the cops. But it’s time. Cole needs to pay for what he did, especially now that it’s no longer just about me. He lives in a luxury suite at the Black Oyster. God only knows what he’s up to in there when he’s not working. He’s a monster and the world needs to know.

  I meant what I said about contacting the press, too, if the police don’t take action. I cannot prove that Cole killed his own son and the housekeeper, but maybe a sexual harassment investigation will help uncover the truth.

  The doorbell rings while Clark and I are watching TV after dinner. Panicking, I draw him closer to me. “Go to the room and put on your pajamas, and don’t come out until I say so.”

  When Clark is in the room, I tiptoe to the front door and peer through the peephole. My head snaps back.

  It’s Ronan.

  “I know you’re in there,” he barks in a slurred voice. Something hard hits the door and I jump back as I hear glass shattering. Probably an empty beer bottle.

  I didn’t hear his truck. He must have parked a distance away and walked. “Get the hell out of my cabin,” he continues when I don’t respond.

  I cover my hand with my mouth as a piece of the puzzle slides into place. That’s it. That’s why he’s been after me all this time. Before he went to prison, he probably lived in the cabin, and now his mother is renting it to me.

  “I don’t know what you’re hiding, woman, but your eyes have a story to tell. You’re hiding something and I will figure you out. I’m a criminal and I can sniff out another criminal from miles away. A little bird told me you’re running from the law, that’s why you’re hiding out here in the woods.”

  While I’
m struggling to figure out what to do, the distant sound of police sirens cuts through the silence around me.

  He already knows who I am. He called the cops on me.

  It’s game over.

  Clark appears in the living room. I feel him before I see him. I turn around and run to him, clutching him to my body. “Mommy loves you. I love you so much.” I press my lips on top of his head. “Please forgive me.”

  “Did you do something bad, Mommy?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, then I bite hard into my bottom lip.

  I wait inside the cabin as the sirens grow louder. I’m afraid to open the door. These might be the last moments I have with my son.

  And then, raised voices, followed by a gunshot.

  Someone starts shouting. It’s Ronan’s voice.

  Confusion clouds my mind. The only thing I can do is hold on tighter to Clark, waiting for the police to break down the door.

  But they don’t. After what seems like forever, there’s only a knock.

  “Miss, this is the police, are you all right in there?” It’s a woman’s voice.

  I blink away tears. “Yes.” My voice is too low for the policewoman to hear me. I try again. “I’m really fine.”

  The policewoman orders me to open the door.

  I’m terrified, but I do as I’m told, still clutching on to Clark’s hand. She sounds more concerned than angry, but if I don’t let her in, she might use force.

  The woman looks from me to Clark. “Are you or your son hurt?”

  I shake my head as my eyes zoom past her shoulders to see Ronan’s figure inside the police car. They didn’t come to arrest me; they came for him. I don’t know what for, but the relief I feel to see him being taken away is enormous.

  After asking me a couple of questions, they drive away. I’m still free, but for how long? Ronan could very well tell them what he knows about me in return for lighter punishment.

  23

  They didn’t come for me. It was Ronan they wanted.