I don’t know why it’s so hard for him to wrap his head around this. I mean, Ethan has met every member of my family—even my great aunt Bertha, who is ninety-nine years old, was at our wedding. And I have met nobody from his family. Not even one person.

Is it so wrong to be curious where he came from? After all, he’s going to be the father of my child.

“I don’t want to talk about my parents.” His voice is quiet now, but firm. “It… it brings back bad memories, okay? I want to move forward… with you. I don’t want to look backward.”

“Okay,” I say. “I understand.”

Ethan carries the plates containing our turkey sandwiches to the kitchen table. I join him, but I’m still feeling wary after that outburst. The two of us eat our sandwiches, but we’re quieter than we usually are during meals. Obviously, there are some topics that Ethan feels he can’t talk about with me. But he’s wrong. I need him to see that he can tell me anything. Anything.

Although perhaps not at this very moment, when we’re trapped in an isolated house with no way out in the foreseeable future.

“How are we going to get out of here?” I blurt out.

“Good question.” Ethan glances out one of the picture windows. The blanket of white is still unblemished. “I would have thought Judy would try to send somebody for us by now.”

“What if she doesn’t realize we’re here?” I chew on a lump of the turkey sandwich. The microwave dried it out, and the mayonnaise doesn’t help that much. “Maybe she texted to tell us she wasn’t coming, and she just assumed we didn’t show either?”

He rakes a hand through his golden hair. “Yeah, that’s a possibility. But by Monday, people will start missing us. Your family, my coworkers… They’re going to figure out we’re gone.”

“Monday!” I burst out. “You mean we have to stay here another night?”

“Is it that big a deal?”

Last night, I got about three hours of sleep, broken up into chunks of thirty minutes. So no, I’m not excited to spend another night here.

And then Ethan makes it way worse when he adds: “After all, we’re going to be living here soon.”

I cough into my free hand. “Um, about that…”

His eyebrows fly up. “What?”

How can I tell him? How can I shoot down his dream house? But I can’t live here, can I? I’d have nightmares every night until I’d eventually be murdered in my sleep—strangled to death by a white cashmere sweater.

“There are so many other houses out there,” I say. “I just don’t want to jump at this one and miss out on something better.”