Page 6 of The Man in the Cottage

"This is good news, buddy. This is what we've been waiting for."

Is it? I look out the window at the main house, at the kitchen light where Kelly is probably still sitting with her coffee, trying to figure out who I am.

"When?" I ask.

"Two weeks. They want you back in two weeks."

"I'll think about it," I say.

"Think about it? Travis, this is your career. This is everything you've worked for."

"I said I'll think about it."

I hang up before he can argue and set the phone down on the counter. My hands are shaking. I haven't noticed them do that in a while.

The quiet I've been hiding in is about to get very loud.

Chapter Three

Kelly

I've been here four days and I still haven't unpacked the boxes in the living room.

They're sitting there in a stack by the fireplace, labeled in my own handwriting: BOOKS, OFFICE STUFF, RANDOM CRAP I COULDN'T THROW AWAY. The moving truck came yesterday, two guys who didn't speak much and worked fast, and now my entire New York life is scattered around my grandmother's house in cardboard containers that I can't seem to make myself open.

It's fine. I have time. That's the whole point of being here—I have nothing but time.

I'm at the kitchen table with my laptop, trying to work on my book. The thriller. The one I've been outlining for three years in the margins of meeting notes and the back pages of my journal, the one I used to daydream about while sitting in conference rooms listening to people argue about thumbnail images and autoplay settings. I finally have the space and the silence and the freedom to actually write it, and I've been staring at the same paragraph for forty-five minutes.

The problem is the husband. He's too obvious. Every time I try to write him, he comes out cartoonishly evil—twirling his mustache, practically wearing a sign that says I'M THE KILLER. Real people aren't like that. Real people hide their worst parts behind ordinary faces, behind charm, behind the things they do right. That's what makes them scary.

I delete the paragraph and start again. Then delete that one too.

My phone buzzes. A text from Nicole, my college roommate: How's the hermit life treating you?

Great, I type back. I've written almost 200 words today. Might crack 300 if I really push myself.

Wow. Inspiring. You're like a machine.

I'm going to pretend that wasn't sarcasm.

It was absolutely sarcasm. Have you left the house yet?

I look out the window at the gray February sky, the bare trees, the brown grass that won't turn green for another two months at least.

I went to the grocery store, I say. That counts.

Kelly.

What?

You moved to the middle of nowhere to "find yourself" or whatever. You can't find yourself if you never leave the kitchen.

She's right and I hate it. I've been using the book as an excuse to avoid everything—the town, the people, the reality of being here alone in a house full of ghosts. It's easier to sit at this table and pretend I'm working than to actually face any of it.

I'll go for a walk later, I tell her. Happy?

Ecstatic. Talk soon. Love you.