Page 32 of Wrong Cabin, Right Time
Even though Travis is a public figure, I don’t find much about his family. I have to scroll for a while until I find an obituary for Leah Blacksburg. My heart stills as I click on the link and skim through the article, searching for the cause of death.
A car accident. Travis was in the car with her when it happened, and he survived. Leah didn’t.
I feel a tear come to the corner of my eye, and I’m not sure if it’s sympathy for Travis or relief that he didn’t have anything to do with her accident. Even though I know he’s innocent of that, I can’t stop thinking about everything else. Once the thought takes hold of my mind, it’s like an infection I can’t shake off.
Every interaction we’ve ever had replays in my head as I carefully analyze each moment to figure out what it is. I sit up, wrapping the covers around my shoulders to stave off the evening chill while I think.
The first time we met, our meet-cute, he told me about Ryan as if he knew him, and Ryan had no idea who Travis was. Okay, that’s a little strange, but in Travis’s defense, he is a very wealthy public figure. It’s beneficial for him to know who he surrounds himself with—personally and geographically.
After we got off on the wrong foot, I brought him cookies, and I saw an awful lot of bleach in his house. Now, his houseisimmaculate, but it was already squeaky clean when I saw it for the first time.
Then there was the night he almost killed me with his car. He was wearing leather gloves, dressed in all black. He looked like a sexy cat burglar.
A chill runs down my spine as I think about the footage I have of him standing behind me and watching while I filmed. I grab my phone and look for it, zooming in on his face once again as he watches me closely.
“I was there to strangle you,” I whisper, remembering what he said to me when he found me on his fence after I asked why he was sneaking around Ryan’s house. I jump to my feet and shake my head.
This can’t be true. What are the odds I meet a possible serial killer in person, really? They can’t be that big.
I think about all the cases I’ve listened to on the true crime podcasts I love. My blood runs cold when I remember thePretty Grimpodcast about Lake Lure and all the missing people.
“What the fuck?” I say to myself as I pace back and forth in the room. “Missing people in a small town, large quantities of bleach, breaking into Ryan’s house, and a perfect kill outfit. Oh my god.”
I run my fingers through my hair as I tiptoe out of the room. The evidence is already astounding, but it’s human nature to try to make connections where there may not be any. There could be perfectly logical explanations for all these things that I just don’t see. I need more evidence.
The Travis I know wouldn’t do anything like this. He’s helped me many times already. Hell, he could have killed me at any moment since I’ve been here, and he hasn’t.
All the lights are off throughout the house, and Travis’s bedroom door is closed. I assume he’s in there sleeping, and I’m careful to be as quiet as possible. The last thing I need is to wake up the person I suspect of being a serial killer while I’m snooping for evidence. That’s bound to go well.
I start in the kitchen, not finding anything of use aside from the extremely sharp knife set. For someone who’s not a big fan of cooking, that is a little strange. The living room is a wash. It barely looks like Travis even uses it, so I don’t find anything there.
Eventually I tiptoe my way into the garage and start looking around. Of course, it’s a big garage. Travis has two cars here, one small and environmentally friendly electric car and an oversize SUV—notably the one he was driving when he almost ran over me.
Along the side of the wall is a stack of something covered with a gray tarp. Everything in here is as clean as the rest of the house, which would strike me as odd if it were anyone but Travis I was snooping on.I hold my breath as I approach the tarp, carefully pulling it off the pile to reveal countless bottles of bleach stacked up near each other.
“Why would anyone need this much bleach?” I ask. The question is rhetorical because I already have a good idea. Next to the bleach are bundles of rope and packs of zip ties he’s purchased in bulk.
I turn my attention to the SUV, which I’m almost positive he was planning something nefarious with the night he almost hit me with it. In the back, lining the trunk, is plastic sheeting that I have no doubt is specifically there to make his life a little easier. At least, it’ll be easier for him to dispose of evidence.
I got what I came here for, but I still don’t understand. A stone forms in my chest before it plummets into my stomach, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
How could I have been so wrong? I’ve put so much trust in Travis, and he’s not who I thought he was.
My eyes widen at the idea of him coming in and spotting me, knowing he needs to get rid of me before I cause a problem for him. I cover the bleach as quickly as I can and turn off the light to hurry back to my bed. I don’t exactly feel safe right now, but I need to play along with the status quo until I can get away. He can’t know that I know anything about this.
As soon as I close the garage door, the lights in the hallway turn on, and I freeze. I turn around to see Travis staring at me with his arms folded in front of him. By the panicked look that is no doubt on my face, he has to know exactly what I just saw.
I take a deep breath and prepare for the worst.No use sugarcoating this now.“Are you a serial killer?”
The words are out, and there’s no way to take them back. I’m suddenly acutely aware of how much larger he is than me and how I’m standing in the middle ofhishouse, which he knows like the back of his hand. How could I be so stupid?
“And what if I am?” Travis says as he slowly steps toward me. His face is completely calm and stoic, unbothered by my discovery.
“Are you going to kill my stalker?” My heart is pounding in my throat, and I flex the muscles in my arms to keep them from trembling.
“Yes. I’m planning on it.” Once again, his voice is emotionless. He just confessed that he’s planning a murder, and there isn’t a flicker of regret or even excitement on his face.
The next question I need to ask is difficult. I feel the words bubbling in my chest, and I struggle, pulling them free. Travis watches me, waiting for me to say what he knows is coming, but I can’t bear to ask.
