A Stranger on the Beach(61)

I stared at my cell phone in dismay. No reception. And we hadn’t bothered installing a landline. Not only was I trapped, I was cut off from all help.

I rifled through my bag until I found the kitchen knife. It gave me the comforting illusion that I could defend myself if Aidan jumped me. I hurried through the living room to the kitchen, my eyes sweeping left and right as I took inventory of the damage. A vase had been knocked over on the kitchen table. A pile of newspapers sat on the white marble top of the kitchen island. What the hell? I hadn’t left those there.

And then I saw them—and froze. Muddy footprints on the white-oak floors. No footprints had been visible on the living room rug, which was itself muddy and soaked from the storm. But here in the kitchen they stood out in terrifying relief. The prints were large and serrated. A man’s footprints, made by heavy boots. The wind didn’t do this. A person did. A man. Aidan had been here. He might be here still. I felt sick realizing it.

I followed the footprints, clutching the knife in my sweating hand as they led me toward the terrace door. Was he outside? I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. Something was moving around, low to the ground, out on the terrace. Heart pounding, I raised the knife and moved toward the French doors. I squinted out but couldn’t see clearly through the glass, which was fogged with rain and condensation. If Aidan was out there, I could surprise him. I could attack him with the knife. Did I have the nerve? I was reaching for the door handle with my right hand, holding the knife in my left, when a thick, dark thing crashed against the glass and fell to the ground.

“Aagh.”

I staggered backward, the knife slipping from my hand and clattering to the floor. I grabbed it up again, panting with fear. But when I peered through the glass, I saw only a cushion from the chaise longue, lying on the ground. That thing had hit the door—it wasn’t Aidan. The terrace furniture was blowing around like so many matchsticks out there, and the cushion had knocked up against the glass, terrifying me so much that I felt my heart would come through my chest.

Nobody there, nobody there, calm down.

Maybe he’d left. Maybe he’d gone out through the terrace door. I was shaking so hard. I had to get ahold of myself or I wouldn’t be able to continue. I went to the cabinet and grabbed the bourbon Lynn had brought me that night when I despaired over my marriage. That worry felt so quaint to me now. I took a swig right from the bottle. It burned going down, warming my blood, stilling the trembling of my hands. I left the bottle out on the counter and set off to search the rooms.

The first floor consisted of the enormous great room that combined kitchen, living room, and dining area, a powder room, a laundry room, and a media room. The overhead lights were on in the great room, but I walked the perimeter of the cavernous space, turning on every lamp, even switching on the gas fireplace to illuminate shadowy corners. I threw open closet doors and pawed through to make sure nobody was hiding inside. I tiptoed to the powder room, yanked open the door, and switched on the lights. Nothing. In the media room, I hunched down to see under the seats, but Aidan wasn’t hiding there. Everywhere I went, I saw Aidan’s muddy footprints, but they grew fainter the farther I walked from the kitchen. That didn’t mean he wasn’t here. It simply meant the mud had worn off his shoes as he walked. I crept up to the second floor and searched all the bedrooms. The whole time I was clutching my kitchen knife, mentally preparing to defend myself, but I checked room after room, and there was nobody.

Aidan had been here. I was certain. Now he was gone, and I was alone, but I didn’t feel safe. He might come back. I had to do what I could to prevent him from getting in again. I went downstairs. I stripped off my wet raincoat, which I’d been wearing all this time. I felt so weak. I stood at the kitchen island with some crackers and a jar of peanut butter and wolfed down a makeshift dinner, eating until I felt my strength coming back. Then I went around and checked the locks on every door and window and pulled all the shades. It was the best I could do, but it wasn’t much. He’d broken in through the same security before. I’d just have to pray that he was done terrorizing me for the night, that he would wait out the storm before trying anything more.

I grabbed the bourbon and the knife and went upstairs to change out of my wet things. The wind was so strong that my brand-new, supposedly hurricane-proof bedroom windows rattled with every fresh gust. I propped myself up against the down pillows, bourbon in hand, and clicked on the TV for a weather report. The screen lit up for a second, then displayed a floating graphic saying NO SIGNAL. Between that and my phone not working, I had no way to monitor the storm. I went to the window, looked out at the beach, and gasped. In the lurid light, the surf was higher than I’d ever seen it. It crashed against the dunes that formed the last bulwark sheltering the house from the ocean. And the dunes looked smaller than before. Hours ago, the Weather Channel people were projecting landfall at midnight along Maryland’s Eastern Shore or even as far north as Delaware or New Jersey. If the storm turned sharply north, Long Island and the Hamptons could take a devastating hit. This was just the outer edge of the storm, and things were bound to get a lot worse before they got better—a terrifying thought.

As I contemplated that, the lights in the bedroom flickered—once, twice, three times—and went out. I gasped. Now I was alone here in the dark. Was it possible a breaker switch had tripped? I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and flicked on the flashlight, sweeping it around the room jerkily. The furniture took on lurid shapes, and seemed to lurch at me like an attacker. I cowered in my bed, too afraid to go downstairs and look for the breaker box. I couldn’t remember where it was, and I wasn’t handy anyway. I pulled the covers tight around me. The bottle of bourbon was on the bedside table. I could see its outline in the watery light shining through the windows. I downed what was left in one gulp and reached out to touch the handle of the kitchen knife, reassuring myself that it was within easy reach. Then I closed my eyes and surrendered to exhaustion.