Page 2 of Forever Gone

MONTGOMERY PROPERTY

PRIVATE ROAD

Older lettering remained visible beneath the brown paint: CABIN TO LET.

Relief loosened her grip on the wheel.

Karen turned onto the track. Loose stones struck the underside of the car as it descended between low banks and crossed a narrow wooden bridge over a stream.

Beyond it, the meadow opened fully.

At the bottom of the slope stood the cabin.

It was smaller than the photographs had suggested, though perhaps every vacation rental was. Dark timber walls rested beneath a sloping metal roof dulled by rust. A shallow porch ran along the front, supported by posts that had once been painted white. Two square windows reflected the sky. The woods gathered behind the building, close enough that branches hung above the roof.

No other houses were visible. The nearest neighbor, according to Hannah Montgomery, lived a little over a mile away.

Karen stopped beside the porch and switched off the engine.

Silence settled around the car.

Not complete silence. The stream moved behind her. Insects clicked in the grass. A bird called from the woods and received no answer. Yet the absence of traffic, voices, lawnmowers, televisions, and doors closing made the place feel farther from the world than it was.

She studied the cabin through the windshield.

Three months of solitude had sounded romantic in the rental listing. A peaceful writer’s retreat on private land. No interruptions. No distractions. No excuses.

The real place stirred something less certain.

Karen opened the door and climbed out.

At forty-one, she had spent most of her life among people. She knew the names of neighbors three streets over, spoke to strangers in grocery-store lines, and had once made a friend during a delayed dental appointment. Even during the worst months of her marriage, the possibility of conversation had been only a phone call away.

Here, the trees seemed to absorb her arrival.

She turned, taking in the meadow, bridge, and track rising toward the road. Nothing moved near the cabin.

The unease remained, but excitement pressed against it.

“This is what you wanted,” she said.

Her voice carried farther than expected.

Karen retrieved the keys from her purse. Hannah Montgomery had mailed them with a handwritten note apologizing for not being able to meet her. She managed several properties across the county and would call later that week to make sure everything worked.

The key resisted before turning in the front lock. Paint flaked beneath Karen’s fingers, and the bottom of the door scraped across the floorboards when she pushed it open.

Closed-up air met her inside. The cabin held the odor of old timber, fabric, and moisture trapped through a humid summer. Dust filmed the floor near the doorway. A stone fireplace filled one wall, its grate swept clean but flecked with rust. The furniture appeared to have been gathered across several decades: a brown sofa with flattened cushions, two mismatched lamps, a dining table scarred by hot pans, and an armchair upholstered in faded green cloth.

“It needs airing.”

Karen forced up the nearest window. The cabin’s layout matched the online photographs. A narrow hall led toward a kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. The main room would serve as both living space and office. Electrical outlets ran along the wall beneath the windows. Hannah had promised reliable power and internet that worked when the weather allowed.

Internet that worked when the weather allowed had sounded charming when Karen booked the place.

Now it sounded like a warning.

She opened the second window.