Page 14 of The Man in the Cottage

Not on the husband this time—Travis fixed that problem, even if he doesn't know how much. The husband is creepy now in all the right ways, charming on the surface with these little cracks showing through that the wife notices but doesn't let herself examine. No, the problem now is logistics. The wife needs to find evidence, something concrete that proves what her husband is, but I can't figure out where he'd hide it.

I've been staring at my laptop for two hours, typing sentences and deleting them, getting up to make coffee and then forgetting to drink it. The mug is sitting next to me, cold, with a film forming on top. Outside the window, the sky is the same gray it's been for days, and I'm starting to understand why people in places like this get seasonal depression.

The husband is careful. That's the whole point. He's been doing this for years and no one suspects him because he doesn't make mistakes. So where does someone like that keep his secrets? Not in the house—too risky. Not at work—too many people around. A storage unit feels cliché, and a safety deposit box is too hard to access for dramatic purposes.

I need him to hide things somewhere the wife would never think to look. Somewhere that's technically accessible to her but that she'd have no reason to check.

My phone buzzes. Nicole again.

How's the masterpiece coming?

Slowly, I type back. I'm trying to figure out where a serial killer would hide evidence and I'm coming up empty.

That's a concerning Google search history you're building.

I haven't Googled it yet. I'm trying to figure it out logically first.

Kelly. You're writing a thriller. Google "where do serial killers hide trophies" like a normal person.

That feels like cheating.

It's called research. Writers do it all the time.

She's probably right. But something about Googling the answer feels like admitting defeat. I want to figure this out myself, want the solution to come from the story instead of from some Wikipedia rabbit hole.

I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house settling. I've gotten used to these sounds over the past two weeks, learned to read them like a language. This creak means the wind shifted. That groan means the temperature dropped. The house is old and vocal and full of opinions.

Through the window, I can see the cottage. Travis's truck is gone—he left early this morning, before I was even up. I've noticed he keeps a schedule, out by six or seven, back by mid-morning, then sometimes gone again in the afternoon. Whatever he does for work, it involves a lot of coming and going.

I should stop paying attention to his schedule. I should stop noticing when his truck is there and when it isn't, stop listening for the sound of his engine in the driveway, stop thinking about the way he laughed at dinner the other night when I called him a fixer-upper.

I should do a lot of things.

I grab my cold coffee and dump it in the sink, then stand there looking out the window at the backyard. The garden is still dead, but I've been thinking about planting something when spring comes. Tomatoes maybe, like my grandmother used to grow. Or herbs, something practical. The raised beds are still there, just waiting for someone to care about them again.

That's when I see Travis's truck pull into the driveway.

I watch him park in his usual spot by the cottage, watch him get out and grab a bag from the back seat. He's wearing athletic clothes today—joggers, a hoodie, sneakers instead of his usual boots. His hair is damp, like he just showered somewhere that isn't here.

He looks up and sees me in the window.

I should look away. Pretend I wasn't watching. But I don't. I just lift my hand in a small wave, and he waves back, and then he's walking toward the main house instead of the cottage.

My stomach does something annoying.

I meet him at the back door, trying to look like I wasn't just standing at the window tracking his movements like a creep. "Hey."

"Hey." He's slightly out of breath, like he walked fast to get here. "You busy?"

"Extremely. I've accomplished almost nothing today."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "The book?"

"The book." I step back to let him in, and he ducks through the doorway, bringing cold air and that clean soap smell with him. "I'm stuck on a plot thing. It's driving me crazy."

"What kind of plot thing?"

I hesitate. The last time I told him about my book, he solved a problem I'd been wrestling with for months. Part of me wants to see if he can do it again. Part of me feels weird about using him as a sounding board when I barely know him.