What could Sadie be playing at? Maeve lingers in the silence, trying to recall her own emotions, her mindset when she was twenty-three. Jealousy, ambition, insecurity—nothing fits. What Dan does with Anna is no business of Sadie’s. Maeve can’t think of how skulking around in the dark, peeping in doorways, would serve her.

Unless—is it possible she was there not for herself but for Karo? To check up on another employee?

It’s all a little more than Maeve bargained for when she signed up for this retreat. So much for a relaxing soak. Maeve lets it go, glad to be going to bed alone. She’s tired, and she wants another good workday tomorrow, as good or better than today. Best to focus on herself.

She’s relieved to find her door still properly latched this time. Before turning off the light, she digs out her phone and turns it over in her hand. No new voice mail, but her mother has sent a photograph, meant to be a salve, Maeve thinks, or, more likely, a negation of the tearful message from earlier in the evening. In the picture, Talia and Rudy are hard at work, decorating cookies with Popsicle sticks, Talia with blue and pink and white icing streaking the tips of her hair, Rudy with his tongue out in concentration.

She’s sorry that they are not here. That there’s no way to do both at once. She misses the heat of their bodies cuddling in next to her, the smell of their skin. As love goes, she feels this one physically. It hurts like hunger.

She takes a breath, plugs in the phone, and puts it facedown on the nightstand.

But you don’t miss the guilt, she reminds herself. It’s true: she doesn’t miss the harsher feelings, when she just wants them to leave her alone, give her some space. Fuck off for a bit so she can be Maeve again.

Outside, the blizzard has only gained momentum; there’s a slam as the wind buffets the window glass. She turns out the light and lies there, listening to the rhythm of her own breath, her muscles tired and sore.

She can still picture Sadie, crouched low. Watching.

Maeve gets up in the dark and peers through the peephole at the vacant hall. She unlocks the door, then locks it again. Listening for the dead bolt to catch.

When it comes this time, she can see it.

Its dark fur. Maeve is sure she must be awake. First, the smell of it, wetness and musk, a bog smell, a sex smell, washing in like a heavy wave. And then it’s already there, coming at the window. She can see the blackness in its eyes.