I’m not overly worried about Aren causing damage to me, but it bothers me that when he calls, he keeps mentioning Elise. How she’s a cunt, and she got his cousin arrested back when that airport task force shit went down. He keeps asking me if I’ve fucked her—maybe to make himself feel better about his own sketchy FBI-agent fuckery? The last time he called, he said something that scared me shitless.
He said, “I hope she has protectors for her.”
The worst part was, I couldn’t even tell him that he better goddamn not or I’ll feed him his fucking dick—because I can’t let him know I care.
I had Soren’s PI buddy track Elise starting that morning after Aren called me in the middle of the night. How do I know Aren isn’t doing the same thing? Someone could be waiting for her in that little cabin. I didn’t pass anybody as I zoomed toward her, but you never know; if it were me, I’d lie in wait. It’s not rocket science to guess where she’d be going on a Friday if Aren was having her tracked and she was pointed up this way.
As I pass signs for Saranac Lake, I think what I really need to do is get Soren’s friend to track Aren and his top guys. Then I’m at the dirt and rock road, and there’s no more thinking. Just the dark, thick woods and ice sheets on the road, shining bright white in the moonlight. I can smell the water and the dirt and feel the breeze that’s trembling through the trees. When I kill the bike’s engine in a snowless patch near the mouth of her driveway, I hear nothing. Nothing.
Fuck, I love the winter.
There are no tracks to her house, so I assume I’ll find the place empty. And it is. Covering my own tracks is a pain in the ass, but it’s worth it. I sit on a tree stump in some woods along the property line, watching as she parks and goes inside. Half an hour later, I wind up walking back over to be sure things are still okay. I catch a glimpse of her through the kitchen window, all dark hair and narrow shoulders. Then I tromp back through the snow to my place—the cabin next door.11EliseIt’s a frosty morning, so Mary Oliver is what I have in my lap. Mary Oliver atop a heavy blanket I spread over myself from neck to ankles. My legs are swinging over the frigid, teal boards of the porch, swinging in socks, and I’m reading the line, “I have a lot of edges called Perhaps/ and almost nothing you can call/ Certainty” and sort of smiling to myself.
It’s not really a smile, because I’m not happy. But I’m okay. I’m thinking. About a lot of things. I’ve found that when I’m the most upset, that can be the best time to think.
I reach for my mug and swallow a long, warm sip of English breakfast tea. Then I set my book on the cold porch swing beside me.
I love reading, but I want to move. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’ve got snowshoes just inside the front door. I pull on my tall snow boots—the ones that go up almost to my knees—and look down at myself, deciding I don’t really need my snow pants since I’ve got on a slouchy sweater, pink silk long johns, and my thickest pair of flannel PJ pants.
I grab my blanket-like burgundy down coat, my favorite gray scarf and silly unicorn beanie, gloves, and my phone. Then I sit on the screened-in porch’s little stoop and strap the snowshoes on, blinking around the snowy forest. Absolutely gorgeous—and dangerous, if you’re not properly dressed. My phone’s app said nine degrees when I woke up. I bet it’s no more than fifteen right now.
I grab one of the poles I keep leaned against the porch and start toward the grove of conifers that dot the lawn between the back of the cabin and the lake.
I’m sure snow’s been on the ground up here for weeks and weeks. The blanket of white around the cabin is hard-packed and undisturbed. I can sink my pole nearly a foot deep, so I’m grateful for the snowshoes, strapped to the underside of my boots like little boats to keep my feet from sinking.
I could veer left along the tree-line, venture into thicker woods between this cabin and the chalet-style lake house four acres over. Or I could hang a right and head toward the second fishing cabin, which my dad sold sometime in the last few years. It’s tucked close to my place, separated by only an acre or two. To the right of that cabin, through another copse of trees, is the big, white-washed lake house. Since that’s the place that houses all my childhood memories, I decide to go that way. If it hurts to see, maybe it needs to hurt. Sometimes life can’t offer anything but pain, and pain is what you need to get to happiness.