Time screeches to a stop. He’s onto me. “I noticed,” I say smoothly. My voice gives no hint of the panic inside me. “I need to clean the coffee pot. I’ll run some vinegar through the machine.”
He nods, distracted, takes another gulp. He puts the mug on the table and snuggles against me. “I need a nap,” he says, yawning. “Damn, it’s still early.”
“You didn’t get enough sleep last night.” I try to peer into his mug. Did he finish the coffee? How much did he drink?
“Come back to bed with me.” He pulls me close. How long is this going to take? What if the pills don’t work? We sit this way for a while, for far too long. Finally, he hoists himself to his feet, swaying a little. “Whoa, maybe I’m getting the flu, too.”
“You don’t feel well? Are you okay?” A sudden wave of guilt washes over me. He seems somehow vulnerable. What if he falls asleep and never wakes up? But this man has lied to me every day since we got here. Every minute.
He gives me a quizzical look. How long is he going to stay conscious? I follow him to the bedroom. He’s staggering. He flops onto the bed on his belly. His eyes are closed, his breathing labored.
I prod him. He doesn’t move. He’s still breathing, but he appears to be out cold. I reach into his pockets. The truck keys are not there, where I’ve always seen him keep them. They’re not in the dish in the hallway. They’re not in the kitchen, next to his wallet. They’re not anywhere. I check his mug. He drank less than half his coffee. The pills must be stronger than I thought. But how much time do I have before he wakes?
I grab my backpack from the closet, slip out into the hall. Jacob’s drawing jagged, uneven breaths. The truck keys are not on the ring of keys on the entry table by the telephone. Where are they? No dial tone again, either. Who could get here in time, before he wakes? What would he do? Throw me off a cliff? Bash my head in with the ax?
I go into the garage, taking my time closing the heavy door, so it doesn’t make a sound. The truck is locked. Where are the damned keys? I hear a noise and the door to the hallway swings open. Light floods into the garage. I crouch by the wetsuit hanging on the wall, hiding behind the truck.
“Kyra? Looking for these?” The keys jingle in his hand.
How did he wake so quickly? He knew about the pills in the coffee. I don’t answer. Please, go away.
“Where are you?” he says.
I hope he can’t hear me breathing. He’s between me and the garage door opener.
“Seriously, did you think I wouldn’t be onto you?” he says.
Again, I don’t answer.
“You shouldn’t drive. You could lose your way or, who knows, steer into the ditch. In that wind, a tree could fall on the truck.”
Still, I say nothing. The blood rushes in my ears.
“You were in my office,” he says.
My heart nearly explodes in my chest.
“You shouldn’t have logged into my computer.”
Still, I say nothing.
“Look. Everyone has disagreements. All married couples have ups and downs. We’ll get through this.”
We’re not married! I want to scream. We never were. “How did you get me out of rehab and all the way here?”
“We came by boat, like I said.”
“Where was Aiden?”
“I don’t know where he was. Why are you bringing Aiden into this?”
“You lied to me—”
“I was protecting you. Poor Aiden. He got the worst of it.”
“You didn’t answer my question. How did you get me out of rehab while Aiden was still in a coma?”
“It wasn’t difficult. I visited you quite often, but then, you don’t remember.”
“They wouldn’t have let you take me! I wouldn’t have let you!”
“You shouldn’t work yourself up. You’re not feeling well.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Come in and I’ll make you some hot peppermint tea.”
“You’ve been telling me lies. Everything is a lie. Tell me the truth.”
“I’ve always told you the truth. I have nothing to hide from you. If we’re going to keep our marriage on a solid foundation—”
“We do not have a marriage.”
“You’re under stress. But I’m taking care of you.”
“What do you mean, taking care of me? You’re a liar and a kidnapper.”
“Kidnapper! That’s a strong accusation.”
“You brought me here under false pretenses.”
“I did not. I was hoping you would remember us. You started to remember, didn’t you? I was going to tell you everything, when the time was right. You jumped way ahead of me.”
“You were going to tell me everything, really? When, Jacob?”
“When you finally remembered you love me. You were getting there. You are getting there.”
“I was never in love with you.”
“Of course you were.”
“None of this is real.”
“You have your dream life here in the wilderness with your seashells and your books, away from technology. It was what you always wanted.”
“Away from technology. That’s convenient for you, not me. You’ve kept me away from my real life.”
“This is your real life—you even have your things from before.”
“How did you get my belongings? The books and shells and boxes of stuff?”
“We stopped by your house. But the important things were already here.”