Page 60 of The Man in the Cottage

It's not a lie, not entirely. I did sleep badly. I've been sleeping badly since his family showed up, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe this email is the shoe. Maybe this is what I've been waiting for.

"I should get back to it," I say, gesturing toward my laptop. "Deadlines and all."

"Okay." He sets down his coffee and crosses to me, pulling me into a hug. His arms are solid around me, his chest warm against my cheek. "I'm here if you want to talk. About anything."

"I know."

He kisses the top of my head and heads for the door. "I'll be in the cottage. Shower and some errands. Dinner later?"

"Sounds good."

I watch him go, the back door closing behind him, and then I'm alone with my laptop and Savannah's email and the question I can't stop asking myself.

What if he's not who I think he is?

I sit down and open the laptop again, rereading the email one more time. The words blur together, Savannah's voice mixing with my own doubts until I can't tell which is which.

He did it to our grandmother when she was sick.

But Travis told me he was there. He said he visited every day. He said he missed her death because he was in a meeting with lawyers, not because he ran.

Someone is lying. Either Travis or Savannah. And I need to figure out which one before this goes any further.

I close the email without responding and open a new document. The cursor blinks at me, waiting.

I'm supposed to be writing a thriller about a wife who discovers her husband's secrets. And here I am, living my own version of the same story.

The irony isn't lost on me.

I start typing, but it's not the book. It's a list. Everything Travis has told me about his family, his grandmother, his past. Everything Savannah claimed in her email. The places where the stories align and the places where they don't.

I need to see it clearly. I need to understand.

And then I need to decide what I believe.

Chapter Eighteen

Travis

Something's wrong with Kelly.

She's been off for a few days now—distracted, quiet, not quite meeting my eyes. At first I thought it was the book, the way writers get when they're stuck on something. But this feels different. Heavier. Like she's carrying something she doesn't want me to see.

We're at dinner—her place, pasta she made from scratch, candles on the table because she said it felt like a candle night—when she finally says it.

"I need to show you something."

She sets down her fork and pulls out her phone, scrolling for a moment before handing it to me. "I got this email a few days ago. From your sister."

My stomach drops. I take the phone and start reading.

The first email is short, apologetic, almost reasonable. I'm not like my mom. I just want to help. Classic Savannah—playing the good cop after Patricia played the bad one.

The second email is longer. And worse.

I read it twice, my jaw tightening with every line. The accusations. The lies. The careful manipulation designed to make Kelly doubt everything she knows about me.