How many times had she weathered storms with Ruth, who had taken them all in stride? When other families had evacuated, Ruth sent Ivy with the Manchesters and always promised to follow. But she never had. She’d stayed in this cottage, keeping a watchful eye on her hotel. Her stubbornness had confounded local authorities, who’d reminded her repeatedly that if it got really bad, they couldn’t save her. She understood, but she’d held her ground right up until that last December night, when the sheriff had threatened to arrest her if she didn’t leave.

The curtains slid from Ivy’s fingers as she retreated back to her couch. She slipped on her shoes and set her purse and keys beside her just in case. Cell phone in hand, she switched her pillow to the opposite end of the couch, lay on her other side, and stared out the window toward the storm. Driving now would be more dangerous, but if the storm worsened and the house became unstable, she would leave.

Leave. Right. Who was she kidding? If the storm grew in intensity, the road would not be drivable. Hell, the bridge might be closed. And she would be screwed.

“Wouldn’t that be the perfect ending?” Ivy muttered. “The cottage and I get taken out in the storm.” The dark rafters exploded with another jab of lightning sizzling through the room. Rain pelted the gabled roof, tumbled down the chimney, and seeped through the closed flue onto the fire grate.

“Ruth, if you’re there and this is a test, it’s really not funny. It’s been a hell of a year already, and I don’t need this.” She drew her knees up into a fetal position. “And if this isn’t you and you have some pull wherever you are, I could use a little help here.”

CHAPTER SIX

IVY

Wednesday, January 19, 2022, 7:00 a.m.

Sleep came and went with each crack of thunder, which did not ease up until four o’clock in the morning. By then Ivy was so tired of worrying if the cottage would fall down that she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep—a rarity for her.

She might have slept the morning away if not for the bright light streaming through the open curtains of the sleeping porch. She opened an eye and glanced at her phone. Seven a.m.

“Too early. More sleep.” She yanked the covers over her head, determined to stay hidden until she’d logged at least three more hours. She would make up the lost cleaning time in the afternoon. It had been years since she’d slept late. No harm, no foul.

The engine of a dozer, no, two, roared outside her window. Their engines groaned as their metal belts dug into dirt and rolled forward, while another vehicle’s beep, beep signaled it was backing up. “Of course. The construction site.”

Ivy rose up off the couch. The air in the cottage was cold, so she moved to the thermostat and realized the room was fifty degrees. “Please tell me I have electricity.”