by L. G. Davis
I glance at the phone, cold fingers of dread closing my throat. What if I call someone and they walk in here and think I did it?
The butler who brought us food last night, would quickly be able to confirm that there was tension between us. What if the cops find evidence to prove I did it? What if the knife has my fingerprints on it?
For the first time, I notice small stains of blood on the fabric of my wedding dress. How did I not see them before?
You did it.
“No.” I spring up from the floor and run past my vomit into the bathroom, shove my hands under hot running water. Red liquid stains the tempered glass basin before disappearing down the drain.
I use a lot of soap, scrubbing my hands until they feel raw. But even after my hands are visibly clean, they feel dirty. In my mind’s eye, I still see the smears of red.
I know I didn’t kill him, but the police might not believe me. No one else was in the suite with us last night. I was the last person to see him alive.
A nagging thought claws its way to the forefront of my mind. My entire body stiffens.
What if I sleepwalked last night? What if I killed my husband without knowing I was doing it? What if my sleepwalking history is all the evidence the cops need to arrest me?
Right now, everything points to me being the murderer. The knife under my pillow, the stains on my pajamas, the argument we had last night, my sleepwalking episodes.
Dylan was a wealthy man and I’m buried in debt. All it would take is for one person to believe I killed him for his money and the whole country would believe it.
I can’t stay here. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes to our suite. Shaun is staying in the hotel, as well. He might decide to come up and find his best friend dead. I can’t be found in here with blood on my clothes.
Nothing but escape on my mind, I pull off my bloody dress and change into a pair of jeans and a big, white T-shirt. Then I reach for a wide brim hat I’d planned on wearing on our safaris in Africa.
I grab a small bag and stuff my wedding dress into it, only to yank it out again.
Giving myself no time to think about my actions, I pull the murder weapon from underneath my pillow and clean the handle as I often saw criminals do in films. Am I a criminal? I don’t plan to stay long enough to find out.
I’m about to leave the suite, when I stop with my hand on the doorknob. I can’t leave him without anyone knowing. But I also can’t make a call from here.
Every second I spend in the suite is a second closer to my arrest. The idea of being thrown into jail paralyzes me.
The justice system is not perfect. Many innocent people are found guilty and thrown behind bars all the time. Due to my unlucky streak, the chances of me being added to the list are super high.
I pull my hat low on my forehead, bow my head, and run.
I take the emergency exit staircase instead of the elevator.
It’s only once my feet touch the cool tiles of the steps when I notice I’m not wearing shoes. Too late now. There’s no way I’ll go back there.
Barefoot and terrified, I make my way through the lobby, expecting someone to stop me, to call out my name. I must look crazy walking around with no shoes, but I don’t look up to see who’s watching. I don’t stop walking until I’m through the rotating doors and out onto the street.
Fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder, I pick up my pace.
A few blocks away from the hotel, I break into a run, ignoring the grains of sand digging into the soles of my feet, jumping over cracks in the sidewalk, ignoring the stares from people around me.
The sounds of a police siren followed by that of a dog barking bring me to a screeching halt. My chest burning with exhaustion and panic, I search my surroundings but don’t see the police car.
Relief rushes through me as I continue to run, my feet pounding the ground hard.
When I come across a telephone booth, I slip inside and make the call, I hold my nose to make myself sound different and tell the woman on the other end that someone is dead in the presidential suite of the Brookside Hotel. I hang up before she can ask any questions.
Outside the phone box, I hail the first taxi that approaches me.
The address I give the driver is that of my old apartment. I still have a few things there.
As the taxi pushes through the six a.m. rush hour, the rational side of me takes over.
Paige, what you’re doing is stupid. Running from a crime scene confirms your guilt.
Emotions rage through me as I contemplate what to do. Should I return to the hotel? But I can’t do that. For all I know, the place is already swarming with men and women in uniform and paramedics.
The taxi comes to a halt outside the building of my old apartment, which I haven’t given up yet in case a miracle happens and Ryan comes home while we’re in Africa. I planned on handing over the keys after our return.
I ask the cab driver to wait outside for me and I run into the apartment, grab a pair of shoes, and rush into the kitchen. The shoebox of money is hidden at the back of a cabinet.
Right now, I don’t care where the cash came from, who it belongs to. The money Ryan left behind, is my only ticket out of this nightmare.
If I’m going to run, I have to do it right. I’ve already worsened my situation as it is.
Chapter 24
I lower myself onto the squeaking motel bed. I have chosen a cheap motel on the outskirts of town, far from where I lived, a good distance from the Brookside Hotel.
As I sit on the lumpy mattress, my hands wedged between my trembling knees, doubts assail my mind. I’m in such a trance I can barely feel my feet on the threadbare carpet.
I should go back, turn myself in. If I killed Dylan, even if I can’t remember doing it, I deserve to go to prison.
My mind pleads for my body to move, to do the right thing, but it stays put.
The mere thought of being thrown behind bars makes me feel sick to my stomach. Visiting my father in prison had been one of the worst experiences of my life. I’m not about to end up in the same situation he did. This is no family tradition.
Tears come again at the same time fresh bile pushes its way up my throat.
This time I make it to the bathroom, but nothing except saliva, tears, and snot plop into the cracked toilet bowl.
I grab a wad of tissue paper and press it to my nose.
The sound of ice cream truck music drifts in through the window. It brings with it memories of childhood. However painful my childhood was, this situation is so much worse.
The ice cream music fades into the distance, and I jump when the sound of my cellphone ringing seeps through the thin wall.
My body is lethargic as I step back into the room and watch an unknown number flashing on the screen. It could be the police, so I don’t answer.
I throw myself onto the bed and fold myself into a fetal position, my eyes still on the phone, which has finally gone silent after five missed calls.
An overwhelming feeling of loneliness washes over me. I don’t think I can handle this alone. I need to talk to someone even for a few seconds, someone who cares about me, someone who knows I’d never kill anyone.
I dial Thalia’s number.
She picks up before I have the chance to change my mind and end the call.
“Paige? Why are you calling me the morning after your wedding night? Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating with your new hubby?” Her words are laced with a touch of humor.
Instead of joining in her humor, I weep, crying harder than I’d ever done in my entire life.
“Oh no,” Thalia says, breathless. “What happened?” A rustling sound comes through the line. She must be sitting up in her bed.
“Something ... Something terrible.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, which is now slippery with sweat and tears. “I ... Thalia—”
“I’m here, sweetie. Did Dylan do something?”
I swallow hard. “Yes. No. Dylan ... Oh my
God, Thalia, he’s dead.”
Everything goes quiet. Silence floods the line connecting us. It crackles.
“Paige, what are you talking about?” Thalia asks in a broken whisper.
As excruciating as it is to recall the scene I woke up to this morning, I tell her everything. She’s my best friend, and I can trust her completely.
“What if I did it? What if I killed Dylan?” I grapple for air. “I can’t remember anything. I can’t remember anything that happened after I went to bed.”
“Paige, you have to calm down. Try to breathe.” She pauses. “Where are you? Are you still at the hotel?”
I shake my head. “I had to get out of there. I can’t go to prison,” I whisper. “I have to go … away.”
“No. Don’t do anything you might regret.” She inhales sharply. “Come to my place. Let’s get through this together. We’ll get a lawyer to help you.”
“I can’t. I’ll be found guilty. I know it.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand.
“No, you don’t. You don’t know that for sure.”
“I do. I feel it.” Air whooshes out of my lungs. “Nothing ever works out for me. I’m cursed.” Ryan was right when he said happiness is for other people.
Silence stretches between us again, and I hear the sound of the TV blaring on Thalia’s side.
“Thalia?” I call and when she doesn’t respond, I pick up the remote and flick on the tiny TV in my room. I switch from one channel to the other until I find what I’m looking for.
A bright-eyed local news reporter with a shock of red hair is standing in front of the Brookside Hotel, reporting the tragic story of Dylan Baxter’s death, just months after his father died. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen are five words, the final nails on my coffin.
New wife wanted for questioning.
“Could Dylan Baxter’s new wife have something to do with his death?” The reporter glances behind her at the hotel. “Keep watching. We’ll have more news as events unfold.”
My eyes are glued to the screen, gazing past the reporter to the covered corpse being wheeled through the doors of the Brookside Hotel.
I switch off the TV and push a fist into my mouth, rocking back and forth.
“Paige, honey, please listen to me—”
“Bye, Thalia,” I say before she tries to talk me into turning myself in. “I love you.”
There’s only one thing left for me to do, and it has nothing to do with handcuffs snapping around my wrists.
Chapter 25
The last traces of copper hair dye first color the rust-stained basin, then disappear down the drain. They remind me of how Dylan’s blood had looked in the hotel basin, three days ago.
Three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes. But it feels to me as though I’ve been hiding for a year.
I meet my hollow, blue eyes in the foggy mirror above the basin, studying the shadows around them, the pockets of exhaustion underneath.
The past days and nights have taken such a toll on me, I wonder if I’ll make it through the next days, weeks, or months?
A lot has changed since I talked to Thalia. As soon as I’d ended our call, I’d gone out and bought a week’s supply of food and drinks as well as hair dye and some toiletries. Then I took a bus to Wellice, a sleepy town forty-minutes north of Corlake.
Before heading to Wellice, I had discarded my cell phone in case the police are using it to track me down. I bought a secondhand phone and a cheap laptop from an electronics store close to where I boarded the bus.
As I’d expected, the news of Dylan’s murder is now spread across the country and being the last person who saw him alive, I’m officially the number one suspect.
The photo making rounds all over the news is one taken by one of the reporters we encountered in the lobby of the hotel.
I should have listened to my instincts and not married Dylan. Of course, I would never have imagined that my wedding would end in such a tragedy, but I should have known that happiness is not for me, that every time I try to be happy, something terrible happens.
Many residents of Corlake have been interviewed. Most of them have dubbed me the monster bride. Even if I chose to go back now, to try and prove my innocence, it’s too late. Everyone in my hometown hates me. Dylan’s death is sure to disrupt their lives and put their livelihoods at risk. Businesses will probably be shut down and jobs will be lost. If I return, I’ll be a pariah in my own home.
What’s shocking and even more heartbreaking is how the media has uncovered the story of Ryan’s disappearance and possible death, and are hinting at the fact that I might not have only killed my new husband, but also my brother, who had been a burden to me.
It would be hard enough to prove I didn’t kill Dylan. Proving I didn’t kill two men would be almost impossible. I’m bound to end up in prison for one of their deaths.
Tears seep into the corners of my eyes as I watch my crumbling reflection in the mirror. I look different and not only because my hair is now red. Sadness is written all over my face, and it’s no surprise. To lose two people I love in the space of just a few weeks is torture. I struggle to keep it together, but every time an image of Ryan or Dylan crosses my mind, tears come. Will I ever get over the pain?
I turn off the faucet—which continues to drip—and place both palms on the cool mirror. I close my eyes.
If only I could share my burden with someone. Thalia is the only person who comes to mind, but I care too much about her to put her in a difficult position. The police have possibly already questioned her. The less she knows about my whereabouts, the better.
I square my shoulders. “You have to be strong, Paige. You’re all you’ve got now.” Only I can help myself out of this situation.
In two days, if I’m still free, in order to save myself, I will be responsible for a death. The death of Paige Wilson.
I’ve spent hours working out a plan of how to disappear. I’d intentionally checked into a motel with free Wi-Fi that enables me to do research online. My searches have yielded information ranging from how to change my appearance to how to get a new identity.
When I wasn’t rocking back and forth in a corner of my bed while staring at the door—expecting it to be kicked down—I planned my escape.
I have no idea how far I’ll get before the cops catch up, but I’m willing to try. Maybe luck is on my side this one time in my life.
I push a hand through my new hair. No one would be able to recognize me with red, much shorter hair and glasses.
My plan is to cut all ties with my old life and start from scratch. I see no other way out.
When my hair is dry, I exit the bathroom and pick up the disposable camera on my bed. The room no longer makes my stomach churn. Mildew on the peeling walls, old carpet smells, and the slimy shower curtain are a small price to pay for safety.
Half an hour after I leave the bathroom, I upload my photo to a secret website.
Forty-eight hours later, I get a knock on the door.
Beads of sweat pop through the skin of my upper lip as I stand in front of the door, afraid to open it. The person on the other side might not be who I’m expecting. For all I know, it could be a police officer here to arrest me.
“It’s me,” the man says in a low, smoker’s voice. “Should I push the documents under the door?”
My shoulders sag with relief. “Yes.”
A white, fat stained envelope slides through the crack under the door and appears at my bare feet.
“The money,” the man says, but I ignore him. I have to be sure I’m getting what I’m paying for, that I’m not being scammed.
I rip open the envelope and pull out the social security card, amazed at how real it looks. Everything else looks just as real—the passport and driver’s license. I try not to think of the crimes that might have been committed for my freedom.
My breath hitches as I read the name in the passport. “My name is Caitlin Borgen,”
I whisper to myself.
“The money … now—” His voice is drowned out by a toilet flushing in the room next door to mine.
“Yes.” I stuff the documents back into the envelope. “Please, hang on a second.” I take a step toward the bed and pick up a bulging envelope. I slide it through to the other side.
“Thanks,” I whisper but I’m not sure he hears me.
I stay by the door until his footfalls become faint down the hall.
Holding on to the envelope filled with the keys to my new life, I slide to the floor.
My stomach is clenched with nerves from fear of what I’m about to do. But this is the only way out, a chance for me to leave my cursed life behind and start afresh.
Of all the decisions I’ve made over the years, this might finally be the right one.
On the other side of the door is a new life, a new me.
Before fear paralyzes me completely, I grab the backpack with the rest of the money, pull on my baseball cap, and catch the last bus out of town, walking out of Paige Wilson’s life forever.
I’m done giving fate another chance. It’s time to create my own luck.
The only thing I take with me to remember Paige by are the scars on my heart.
As the bus pulls out of Wellice, an image of Ryan flashes across my mind. Before I can blink away the memories, I remember his threat.
I’ll make your life a living hell.
END OF BOOK 1
Thank you for reading The Girl in the Rain. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review.
Paige Wilson’s journey is not over yet. If you would like to know how her story ends, sign up for L.G. Davis’s newsletter to be notified when The Girl in the Storm (Deep Waters Book 2) is published (February 2018).
About the Author
L.G. Davis is an emerging author of psychological thrillers. She also writes books in other genres under the name Liz Grace Davis.
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