Against all reason, I return to work. The thought of downtime just makes me more nervous. Work, at least, feels like normal, like things are okay. I stand on the street in front of my office, taking deep breaths and trying to slow my galloping heartbeat. I’ve done all that I can do. I walk inside and finish my workday with a moderate hum of anxiety buzzing behind every moment and spiking every time my eyes fall on the torn red envelope peeking slyly out of my bag.
At 5 o’clock, I gather my things and get back in my car. Driving home, my mind is swirling with speculation. Who could the blackmailer be? How did they get their hands on this picture? If the person who took the picture is also the blackmailer, then did we go to school together? And if the photographer and blackmailer are one and the same, why did they wait 10 years to blackmail me? Pulling into the driveway, I cut the engine and make my way to the front door. Moving like a sleepwalker in my preoccupation, I turn the key, not realizing at first that the door is unlocked.
Putting my keys away, I turn the handle and step inside thinking it strange that I forgot to lock the door this morning. I always lock the door. It’s habit. The hallway is dark, but I can easily find my way from memory and shadow. Once I reach the kitchen, I flip on a light, the bright fluorescents bouncing off the tea kettle and the hanging stainless steel cookware. I see a flash of something out of the corner of my eye and stagger in shock. There’s a dead man lying on the kitchen floor. His slumped shoulders and light brown hair are visible behind the island and what caught my eye was the knife sticking out of his back.
Before I can form a coherent thought, I see blue flashing lights through the kitchen window. A moment later, I hear heavy footsteps in the hallway heralding the arrival of two burly police officers with guns drawn. In stunned disbelief, I raise my hands above my head as one of the officers holsters his weapon and puts me in handcuffs. I am charged with the murder of the private detective that I hired only 5 hours earlier.
At the police station, I am allowed one phone call. I call Matt, the same friend I spoke with earlier today. He is also a lawyer and I trust him to be discreet. He arranges bail for me and I am released temporarily. Hailing a cab, I return home. The police have finished their initial processing of the crime scene but there is caution tape blocking off most of my kitchen. Good thing I’m too freaked out to be hungry, I think grimly. Retreating from the kitchen, I switch on the hall light for the first time today and notice a red envelope wedged under the front door. It must have been there when I came home, I just didn’t notice it in the dark.
Bending down, I lift the envelope delicately in trembling fingers. Taking a deep breath, I pull out a typed letter:
Hannah-
Do you know where Chloe is? I do. She is an unhappy guest of the Visalia Police Department. Poor Chloe. You will find her there and you will help her to escape. Or she will die.
I need to go find Chloe. Wait, think think, I tell myself. It’s late. And Visalia is 3 hours away. By the time I get there, it will be the middle of the night. No police officer in their right mind would trust me if I show up looking haggard in the middle of the night. Though every cell in my body is screaming to get in the car and go to her, to make sure that she is alright, I know that I must wait until morning. I will think this through and leave at dawn. I toss and turn, trying not to watch the clock or think about Chloe spending the night locked behind bars. Is she lying on the floor? Is she sharing the cell with violent criminals? Is she cold or scared? She gets cold so easily. I always teased her about that, “I’m going to start melting butter to sneak into your food. You need some body fat, girl!”
As morning approaches, I watch the clock and, at 5 A.M., I spring out of bed, pulling my jeans on in the dark. I grab my wallet, a coat, and a bottle of water and head north. The thought of Chloe in jail, and her life threated on top of that, makes me furious and scared. She’s not as tough as she looks; and she doesn’t look all that tough. She’s basically a heart with legs, I think ruefully and blink away tears as I lower my foot on the gas pedal. These are tears of anger, I tell myself. There are almost 200 miles between Los Angeles and Visalia and I delineate every possibility I can think of on the way. To start with, the letter might be lying. It’s possible that Chloe is not in jail or, even if she is, that she will not be harmed if I do nothing. But I cannot take that risk. Not with Chloe.
Assuming Chloe is in jail, the big question is, why? Last night, I was framed for the murder of the private investigator. Did something similar happen to Chloe? Does that mean that another innocent person has been killed? Why jump from blackmail to murder, without even allowing time to exploit the victim? My would-be blackmailer has yet to ask for money. There is no discernable coherence to these actions. Incoherent behavior drives me crazy. I analyze it over and over again, but it never makes sense.
Driving into town, I spot the Visalia Police Department and park around the corner, out of sight of the entrance. I take a moment to fix my hair and face before striding resolutely into the police station, every inch the lawyer that I am. I am met by a tall, swarthy man in his early sixties. His badge says “Sherriff Gregory Kean.” I extend my hand to introduce myself, deciding at the last minute to use my real name in case he decides to check whether or not I’m really a lawyer.
“Sherriff Kean, my name is Hannah Jaffe. I am here to meet with my client, Chloe Portman.”
He nods, shaking my hand. “Of course, Ms. Jaffe, please follow me. As I’m sure you know, Chloe Portman is charged with first degree murder.”
Without another word, he leads me through a door, down a corridor with bare, white walls, to a short row of cells. I follow close behind him, digesting the fact that Chloe, too, was framed for a murder. I don’t even consider the possibility that Chloe actually killed a man. She would never do that. Two innocent men dead. Both of us framed. Why? It makes no sense!
The moment I see Chloe behind bars my resolve hardens. My heart is pounding, but I know what I have to do. Before Chloe can see me and do anything to blow my cover, I pull Sherriff Kean’s service revolver out of its holster. Before he can do more than turn to me, startled, I have it pointing right at him.
“Unlock the cell, Sherriff Kean.”
He hesitates and I remove the safety with an audible click. He unlocks the cell. Chloe’s eyes are enormous with fear and uncertainty, but she pushes the cell door open and steps out. I gesture for Sherriff Kean to take her place inside the cell. Once he is in, I lock the door behind him.
“I am truly sorry to have to do this. But we are innocent! Someone out there is trying to frame us and we need to find out who it is and stop them. I don’t expect you to believe me. But that’s exactly my point. Nobody will. That’s why we have to do this ourselves.”
Chloe
My mind is skipping and starting like a scratched record as I hurry with Hannah towards the back of the police station. Do police stations have back doors? I’m praying that at least this one does! We certainly can’t stroll out the front. I came in the front only two days ago, charged with murder; they don’t see a lot of murder cases around here. No one will be forgetting my face for quite some time.
What is Hannah doing here anyway? My ex fiancé just busted me out of jail like some kind of superhero. Hm, I’d like to see her dressed in a skin-tight Wonder Woman costume. If we survive this, maybe…No, stay focused. I have so many questions, I ask none because I can’t choose where to begin. All I know is that everything is changed and Hannah is the one thing I still trust. There’s no going back now to regular lives and respectable behavior. So, we scurry together like a pair of rats through the police station, looking for an exit.
Yes! There is a back door. We slip through it, easing along the side of the building as we edge towards Hannah’s parked car. I recognize it from a block away and across the street, a white Camry, no frills or bumper stickers, spotless inside and out. But as we approach the car, I notice something new; a blood red envelope stuck under the windshield wipers. Hannah grabs it
and viciously tears it open. No, I think to myself, she was never the type to pussyfoot around. If something unpleasant needed to be done, Hannah would do it. She pulls out a scrap of paper. I read it over her shoulder:
The plot thickens.
Hannah stuffs the note in her bag. Before her bag closes again, I notice another red envelope already there. That means that whoever tried to blackmail me has also been toying with her. Quickly, we get into the car and start driving, heading away from the police station, the site of our most recent alleged crime, though this one is real. We decide to head up to my cabin where we’ll have access to a change of clothes, a laptop, and a shower. My skin is crawling from being locked inside a dank cell for 2 days. Hannah makes herself comfortable on my bed while I enclose myself in the bathroom with the intention of showering off the fear sweats from 2 nights in jail.
Unzipping my jeans and sliding them down my hips, I’m hyperaware of Hannah lying on my bed just 5 feet away with only this one door between us. I unbutton my shirt, shifting out of the sleeves, and pull my tee shirt up over my head. I’m small but sinewy. Turning to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I see a young woman with short hair, light hair who could pass for a pretty, teenage boy in dim light. I cup my breasts, hungry for the feel of another’s hands on me. It’s been months since anyone has touched me. I feel like an un-watered fern. Is Hannah lying out there thinking about me naked in here? I hope so. I hope she’s wondering what I’m doing in here, why I haven’t turned the water on yet. I try to telepathically project my thoughts through the thin barrier between us. I’m taking my sweet time undressing while thinking about your warm, soft hands on me. I turn on the water and wait for it to warm up, thinking about what I would do if I was out there and Hannah was naked in here. There’s no way I’d still be out there.
The steam feels so good on my tense shoulders. I lather my hands with the almond soap I know Hannah likes. It is incredible that I could be thinking about Hannah’s olfactory preferences at a time like this, with innocent men dying and both of us being framed for murder. Or maybe it’s normal. All of that fear and adrenaline make a person feel alive, revved up even. Who knows what tomorrow will bring: best to enjoy today. It feels so incredibly good to be clean, my skin soft and perfumed with soap and hot water, that I close my eyes and allow my hands to do as they will. When I slide my hands down, they are met with a slick wetness, musky and sweet where the soap trickled down. I widen my stance and commit to the moment, propelled by fear and uncertainty accumulated over the past 2 days. I am not uncertain now. My hands know exactly what to do.
I close my eyes and imagine I hear the bathroom door swing open. Light footsteps on the tile precede the rustle of the shower curtain as Hannah steps into the steamy alcove with me. In my imagination, it’s her hands on me, not mine. Just the thought of it makes me pant with need. I keep my eyes closed, lest I break the spell, and increase my efforts. In the weeks that I’ve been on my own, I’ve pursued this path several times, but it has never felt like this. Even from several feet away and with a wall between us, Hannah’s relative proximity turns me into a puddle of longing. My body responds to hers through such flimsy barriers. It’s a wonder to me that she’s not singed with the same heat on her side of the wall. Or, maybe she is…
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap my yellow towel snug around my bosom. Returning to my room to get dressed, I find Hannah stretched out on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Her clothing does look slightly disarrayed, but that might just be from laying on the bed. Her cheeks are a little bit flushed, too. For a moment, I am disoriented, remembering other times very much like this except that the circumstances were completely different. We were engaged, not broken up and afraid for our lives. My instinct is to approach the bed and open my towel, gathering her into the folds and inviting her lovely hands onto my damp almond-scented skin. She would smile and curl herself against me, delicately inhaling the scent, then kissing the places that she liked the best. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I pull my clothes out of the dresser and she politely turns her head as I drop the towel to pull a shirt over my head.
“I have something to show you,” I tell her once I’m dressed.
Hannah turns, a question in her eyes, and waits for me to elaborate. Opening my laptop, I pull up my email to show her the message I received 2 days ago. She reads it in silence. When she finishes, she stands up and goes to her bag where she had left it on my desk. She pulls out 2 red envelopes which she hands to me.
“I received this one first, in my P.O. Box yesterday.” She indicates one of the envelopes. Opening it, I see a photograph of a girl, maybe 18 or 19 years old, doing drugs. I squint at it, not understanding at first. “It’s not like I’m a crack addict. I only experimented for a little while in college. But if this picture were to get out, my professional career would be over. No one wants a druggie for a lawyer.”
She watches my face for a reaction. I’m shocked, but not because I think that experimenting with drugs is a moral failing. I just can’t imagine Hannah – sensible, disciplined, always logical Hannah – letting go of control. I love that she did this. I don’t love the circumstances in which we now find ourselves, but I love that I know this truth about her life that she kept buttoned up so well all the time we were lovers.
“I’m surprised, of course. But I certainly don’t think any less of you. You know, most mortals slip up sometimes.” I give her a sideways smile.
“Right, well, it wasn’t my proudest moment. But thank you…for your understanding.” She looks almost shy. Hannah is rarely vulnerable. I reach an arm out to lay my hand at the back of her head and, leaning forward, I place a chaste kiss on her forehead.
“Now,” I murmur quietly, “what should we do. We probably shouldn’t stay here. The police will surely come looking for us here.”
“How about coming back with me to L.A.? We can figure out where to go from there. At least we have friends there who might help us if needed.”
“Okay. It’s as good a plan as any.”
As I pack some clothes, Hannah fills me in on exactly what happened in L.A. with the private investigator who turned up dead in her kitchen 5 hours after she hired him. The fact that, in the space of 42 hours, we were both framed for murder and blackmailed means that somebody out there is merciless and focused on manipulating us for some reason. Aside from our romantic relationship, our lives haven’t overlapped all that much. Professionally, we move in different circles. We don’t have the same friends. We haven’t dated any of the same women. How could anybody hate both of us this much? What’s the connection?
We head out of the cabin, still filling each other in on recent events. As we approach Hannah’s Camry, we see a red envelope lying on the dashboard. My heart sinks. What now? I pluck it off the dash and open it. The letter inside consists of only a single sentence.
Stay in the cabin or die.
Scared, we meet each other’s eyes over the letter. The crazy person threatening us has just escalated the danger; he’s not threatening to expose our secrets if we don’t do as he says. He’s threatening to kill us. And somebody, either him or a messenger, hand delivered that letter to this remote cabin while we were inside. Possibly while I was entertaining myself in the shower, I realize with shock. We return to the cabin, casting fearful glances back over our shoulders at the tranquil foothills as we go. I guide Hannah up the steps in front of me, wanting to put myself between her and whatever, or whoever, is out there.
As soon as we’re inside, I close the door behind us and lean against it. Somebody is imprisoning us inside the cabin and will kill us if we leave. Judging from the rise in crime over the past 2 days, it’s not an empty threat. How did we end up in this mess? Neither of us hurt anybody, that we know of. We don’t have sinister family backgrounds or evil friends. Or do we?
Hannah touches my hand lightly with hers, as though afraid to startle me. “We should close the curtains. I can’t stand the thought of some sicko hunkered down for the nigh
t watching us cower in our little cabin jail.”
The thought of it makes me gag. We rush from room to room closing curtains. I lock the front door, drawing the deadbolt as though that would make any difference. Whoever this person is, they’ve gotten past locks before. I have never been so scared in my life. We meet in the bedroom, closing the last of the curtains. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I’m startled by how big my eyes look in my white face. Hannah looks a little wild eyed too. She takes one look at me and beckons me over. I remember the gesture and go to her without hesitation. She sits on the bed and draws me up to lean against her so that we can comfort each other.
“I’m scared too, you know,” she confides, “but it makes me feel better to comfort you. It always has.” She draws me close, combing her fingers through my hair.
She takes my hand in hers and reminds me, and herself, that we must wait here if we wish to remain alive. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes look almost glassy. The electricity between us has always been instantaneous; it still is. She holds my hand in hers and lets her thumb gently stroke the soft, tender V between my fingers and thumb. The current between us makes even this seemingly innocent touch suggestive and I cannot help thinking of the damp triangle between my legs that so desperately yearns for her touch. Irresistibly, we lean towards each other again. Our heads are close together, cheeks nearly touching. She presses her lips lightly to my bare neck just behind my ear and I feel a spasm run throughout my body in response. She moves to kiss me again, letting her lips linger for a moment above my skin before touching. I can feel her breath moving the delicate hairs on my neck and collarbone.
The anticipation drives me wild and makes me ache all the more for contact. She shifts on the bed for better reach and, dipping her head, she kisses my throat. Pressing her full lips to me, she sucks the tender flesh of my throat between her teeth. She’s marking me, I think in a haze of longing, after everything she’s put me through. I was hers, completely, and she threw me away. I still love and desire her. But if we’re going down this road, it needs to be on my terms. I let her finish her branding, as turned on by it as she is but ready to shift the conversation.
Cabin In The Woods Page 120