Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Is this what Sweet Lies wants? Is this what I want?
The truth is, I don’t know. I want the money, but I want to win, too. I want to show up to that cabin and be more than what the client expects.
I stand in the dark, letting Marta’s warnings echo in my ears, but it’s the sound of my own heart that drowns them out. It pounds, fast and unsteady, like a drumline counting down to whatever comes next.
I picture myself on the mountain, serving coffee to a famous stranger, reading his secrets and maybe learning to write my own. I imagine learning from a bestselling author and then becoming a bestselling author myself. Both options sound good.
I take off the heels, set them carefully in the closet, and climb back into bed. I promise myself I’ll text Marta tomorrow, every day if I have to.
I close my eyes and drift, already dreaming of who I’ll be on the other side.
4
CHAPTER FOUR – ARRIVAL AT THE CABIN
Kat
The town car’s leather seat cradles me with a tenderness that feels almost medicinal after years of bus vinyl and lumpy thrift-store couches. The ride hums with the subtle, constant vibration of wealth: a suspension so perfect it erases every pothole, even as the roads get rougher and more remote. My luggage—one suitcase, one battered laptop bag, both stuffed to bursting—rests beside me. I run my fingers over the embossed logo on the seatbelt and glance out the tinted window. Suburbs have given way to an endless run of dark green pines and gray-brown sticks, the kind of forest that eats sound and sunlight.
The driver hasn’t spoken since “Good morning, Miss Vreeland.” He’s not exactly ignoring me, but his eyes in the rearview are quick, bland, and very professional. Every so often he asks if I need anything, but it sounds less like a question and more like a prompt from a script. I say “No, thank you,” every time, just to hear the shape of my own voice in the car’s dead-silent interior.
My phone sits in my lap, screen unlocked and open to the signal bars, which are fading like a dying star. Three dots. Two. I text Simone (“Still not kidnapped, heading north now”) and Marta (“This car is nicer than my entire childhood, will update when I arrive”), but both messages get stuck on “sending.” I watch the bubbles twitch, then flatten, as if the words are evaporating before they even reach our destination. I guess it’s good that I already told Thistle Cafe that I need to take a leave of absence. Not that they were surprised, since turnover at almost all dining establishments is near a hundred percent. The work just doesn’t pay enough, so when employees get another opportunity, they tend to jump with little notice.
I twist a strand of my hair around my finger and bite my lip while staring out the window. The road narrows, and the car’s navigation system says in that weirdly mechanical voice, “Prepare to turn left in 200 feet.” The driver eases the car off the main road and onto a gravel path so suddenly it feels like falling. The suspension does its job, but my stomach doesn’t get the memo; it flips, and for a second I imagine the headlines: Local Woman Hired for Mystery Job Vanishes in North Woods, Leaves No Clues.
The trees press in, branches overhanging the dirt lane and scraping the roof in soft, rhythmic swishes. It smells like sap and cold air, with a faint tang of something mineral beneath it—rock, maybe, or the memory of a river. The sky is the color of wet clay, clouds so thick they flatten the sun to a dull disc. The further we drive, the more my body feels the isolation: the phone, now at zero bars, is dead weight. My breath fogs the glass even though the car is climate-controlled. I pull my jacket tighter and think about what it means to be unreachable, to trust that whatever waits at the end of this road is worth what I’m giving up to get there.
Camille said I’d be working for “a prominent author with exacting standards and an urgent deadline.” His name is allegedly Sam Smith, but obviously, that’s fake. There’s a real Sam Smith, who’s a British singer, and whom Google returned about a million hits. The name is too common, otherwise, and I couldn’t find anything.
But Camille said my employer wanted “a fresh, smart, adaptable presence who can work alone and respect boundaries.” I don’t know if that’s actually me, but I do know that if I can hold this job for even a month, I can clear my tuition balance and maybe take the next semester off the clock. The Sweet Lies NDA is still burning a hole in my brain, and the three thousand dollars currently floating in my checking account makes me giddy. I already feel rich, to be honest.