At the next break in the trees, the only indication of a road nestled in the forest, I turned left and drove through a dense thicket of trees that clearly hadn’t been trimmed for a long time. Branches and leaves swatted at the windshield like an automated car wash. Suddenly, I came to a clearing with a small wooden cabin. I stopped the car and squinted out the windshield. It looked like the cabin from the photograph. It appeared to have been kept up, the windows were intact, the roof looked relatively new, and the area around the cabin was clear of major debris. Just a sprinkling of leaves and small twigs littered the walkway.

My nerves prickled just under the surface of my skin like electricity rolling over me. What would I find here? An empty cabin? Two dead women? Shaking off the ominous feeling, I pulled the key ring out of my purse and opened the car door. When I stepped out into the crisp mountain air, I zipped up my thin jacket, the fall temperatures significantly cooler than back home even though it was only a few hours away. A breeze ruffled my hair, the smell of trees and chirping of birds feeling foreign to me after waking up that morning in the concrete and steel framework of New York City. Had I been here under different circumstances, I would have enjoyed its natural beauty. I slammed the car door shut and waited for a minute, listening for the sounds of a car. If Cris had followed me, surely he wouldn’t be too far behind. Since I was in the middle of nowhere, I could hear every little sound coming from the trees and wind but no engine.

I turned and ran up the short path to the doorway, turning the keys over in my hand. My palms were slick with nervous sweat. I rubbed them quickly on my jeans. I pulled one key out from the ring and inserted it into the lock but it didn’t turn. Frustration and worry simultaneously ballooned in my stomach. What if I just drove all this way and the keys weren’t even for this cabin? I looked over my shoulder but there was still no other car. Then I glanced at the window next to the door, contemplating if I’d be able to jimmy it open and crawl through if none of the keys fit. The window looked pretty secure and I wasn’t keen on breaking it. I turned back to the door and tried a few more keys. On the fourth key the lock turned. Excitement and dread mingled in my mind. Warily, I inched into a rustic kitchen, the air stale and dead. To the left was a small, dark living room, bare except for an old recliner and a single end table set up facing a vintage boxy television.