been thinking just moments before—how lucky I was to be living in a whole new world. What did it matter to me, really, if my house had burned to the ground? I had no plans to go back there. I had left my life in Chicago willingly, gratefully. The person who lived in that house didn’t exist anymore—why should I be upset that the house didn’t exist, either?
But I knew I was grasping at straws. I had indeed chosen to take Adrian up on his offer for me to disappear, but I didn’t bargain on this. My whole body tightened as I wondered exactly what offer I had accepted.
EIGHT
I’m not quite sure how I got through breakfast with Mrs. Sinclair that morning. She was chattering away about something or other, and I was nodding and responding to what she was saying, but I wasn’t there with her, not really. All I could see in front of my eyes were flames, and I needed answers about who set that fire.
After we finished our meal and Mrs. Sinclair retreated for her morning quiet time, I rushed back up to my room and began fumbling through my things. Where had I put Adrian’s business card? I finally found it in the top drawer of the dresser—I hadn’t remembered putting it there, but whatever—and dug into my purse for my cell phone. I stopped cold when I remembered I had left it, along with every piece of identification I had, at my house, which was now gone. And so was I. Julia Bishop was well and truly dead.
I sunk into the chair by the window and stared out at the snow. What was I supposed to do now? I needed a plan, but my mind simply couldn’t formulate one.
I really didn’t know anything about Mrs. Sinclair and Adrian other than the fact that she was a famous novelist, and he was… what? Her son. That was about it. They could be a pair of psychopaths for all I knew. And here I was, living in their home. I couldn’t believe how monumentally foolish I had been to give up everything, my entire identity, and come here. I briefly thought of gathering my things and slipping away before anyone realized I was gone.
But as I gazed out into the wilderness beyond the house, I knewI couldn’t do that. I had no idea how to get to town. One wrong turn and I’d be lost in the woods with goodness knows what kinds of animals at my heels, just as Adrian had warned. No, like it or not, I had to stay where I was.
I turned Adrian’s card over and over in my hands. I needed to talk with him, not just about the fire, but about my prescription as well. Maybe he had a personal doctor on staff—wealthy people had that, didn’t they?
I looked around my room and only then did I realize there was no phone. I supposed that wasn’t so odd. Old houses like these didn’t exactly come with telephone jacks in every room. But there was probably a phone on my floor, I reasoned, so I pushed myself out of the chair to go on a hunt for one.
I poked my head out the door and peered up and down the hall. The grand staircase was to the left. I shut the door behind me and set off in the other direction, where I hadn’t yet been.
The hallway was dark despite the light of day, and I walked by closed door after closed door. Guest rooms? Most likely. I turned this way and that and finally spied one door that was ajar. I pushed it open gingerly and found that it was just what I needed: a small study with a desk in the middle of the room and a couple of armchairs facing it. I was delighted to see a telephone—an old-fashioned model with a heavy black handset and a rotary dial—sitting on the desk. I pulled the door shut behind me and sat down.
I picked up the receiver and realized I had no idea what I was going to say to Adrian. “Did you burn my house down?” isn’t exactly an easy line of conversation to initiate. But I wanted to get to the bottom of it, so I took a deep breath and dialed the number on his business card.
This is Adrian Sinclair. I’m sorry I’m not here to take your call right now…
I should have known. Of course he
But I knew I was grasping at straws. I had indeed chosen to take Adrian up on his offer for me to disappear, but I didn’t bargain on this. My whole body tightened as I wondered exactly what offer I had accepted.
EIGHT
I’m not quite sure how I got through breakfast with Mrs. Sinclair that morning. She was chattering away about something or other, and I was nodding and responding to what she was saying, but I wasn’t there with her, not really. All I could see in front of my eyes were flames, and I needed answers about who set that fire.
After we finished our meal and Mrs. Sinclair retreated for her morning quiet time, I rushed back up to my room and began fumbling through my things. Where had I put Adrian’s business card? I finally found it in the top drawer of the dresser—I hadn’t remembered putting it there, but whatever—and dug into my purse for my cell phone. I stopped cold when I remembered I had left it, along with every piece of identification I had, at my house, which was now gone. And so was I. Julia Bishop was well and truly dead.
I sunk into the chair by the window and stared out at the snow. What was I supposed to do now? I needed a plan, but my mind simply couldn’t formulate one.
I really didn’t know anything about Mrs. Sinclair and Adrian other than the fact that she was a famous novelist, and he was… what? Her son. That was about it. They could be a pair of psychopaths for all I knew. And here I was, living in their home. I couldn’t believe how monumentally foolish I had been to give up everything, my entire identity, and come here. I briefly thought of gathering my things and slipping away before anyone realized I was gone.
But as I gazed out into the wilderness beyond the house, I knewI couldn’t do that. I had no idea how to get to town. One wrong turn and I’d be lost in the woods with goodness knows what kinds of animals at my heels, just as Adrian had warned. No, like it or not, I had to stay where I was.
I turned Adrian’s card over and over in my hands. I needed to talk with him, not just about the fire, but about my prescription as well. Maybe he had a personal doctor on staff—wealthy people had that, didn’t they?
I looked around my room and only then did I realize there was no phone. I supposed that wasn’t so odd. Old houses like these didn’t exactly come with telephone jacks in every room. But there was probably a phone on my floor, I reasoned, so I pushed myself out of the chair to go on a hunt for one.
I poked my head out the door and peered up and down the hall. The grand staircase was to the left. I shut the door behind me and set off in the other direction, where I hadn’t yet been.
The hallway was dark despite the light of day, and I walked by closed door after closed door. Guest rooms? Most likely. I turned this way and that and finally spied one door that was ajar. I pushed it open gingerly and found that it was just what I needed: a small study with a desk in the middle of the room and a couple of armchairs facing it. I was delighted to see a telephone—an old-fashioned model with a heavy black handset and a rotary dial—sitting on the desk. I pulled the door shut behind me and sat down.
I picked up the receiver and realized I had no idea what I was going to say to Adrian. “Did you burn my house down?” isn’t exactly an easy line of conversation to initiate. But I wanted to get to the bottom of it, so I took a deep breath and dialed the number on his business card.
This is Adrian Sinclair. I’m sorry I’m not here to take your call right now…
I should have known. Of course he