Noah drifts off to sleep, but I’m having more trouble falling asleep. It seems like after how well I slept for two nights when I was on the ground, I would go to sleep instantly in an actual bed. But somehow, it doesn’t work that way.
After an hour of trying, I extract myself from Noah’s embrace and slip out of bed. We never ended up cleaning our clothing, so I may as well do that now
I gather up my shirt, shorts, and socks from the ground, then go to pick up Noah’s blue jeans. But as I’m pulling them from the floor, something falls out of the pocket. A glimmer of red.
I bend down to see what the object is. My fingers close around something cold and metallic.
It’s a Swiss Army knife.
Why does Noah have a Swiss Army knife? He never mentioned he was carrying a knife. It seems like the sort of thing you might say at some point. Like, hey, I’m not just happy to see you, I’ve got a knife in my pocket.
I can’t help but think about the stab wound in the chest of that man in the pick-up truck.
But Noah couldn’t have done that. How could he? He was with us the whole time.
Unless he snuck off while we were sleeping… No. He couldn’t have. It’s too far.
Although it wasn’t as far to the cabin from our campsite as I would’ve thought. Once we started traveling north, we hit the cabin pretty quickly. If he knew where he was going and walked briskly, he could have easily made it to the cabin, killed that guy, and returned to our campsite.
But why?
It couldn’t be because of me and Jack. I told him about it, and he wasn’t that angry. I mean, he wasn’t thrilled. But he didn’t seem like he was
in a crazy jealous rage.
I look over at Noah asleep on the bed. His lips are slightly parted and he’s snoring softly. I’ve known him for nearly half my life. I’ve been married to him for a decade. He wouldn’t do something like that. I know it.
I put down the clothing on the foot of the bed. I pick up the Swiss Army knife and stare down at it in my palm. I tug at the blade until it pops open. I run my finger along the metal, checking for traces of blood.
It’s clean.
I let out a sigh. I’m letting my imagination run wild. Noah is my husband. I know him. He would never do the things Jack accused him of.
But before I leave the room with our pile of clothing, I slip the Swiss Army knife into one of the dresser drawers and I cover it with clothing.
As I close the door behind me to the bedroom, the front door to the cabin swings open. I clutch the bundle of clothing to my chest as Jack stomps into the room. He raises his eyes to look at me in my bra and panties, and I do my best to conceal myself.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. My face burns. “Still.”
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Do you…” I cough. “Would you like me to clean your clothing too?” “Nah, that’s okay.” Jack plops down onto the sofa. “I want to be able
to make a quick getaway if I need to.”
I want to tell him he’s being silly, but it’s hard to say that with any conviction when there’s a dead man within throwing distance of the cabin.
“Listen, Claire.” Jack looks up at me with those brown puppy dog eyes that I thought I had fallen in love with. “If anything happens, scream as loud as you can. I’ll come help you.”
“Nothing is going to happen,” I mumble.
Jack rests the rifle down beside him on the sofa. “Damn straight.”
