“Of course, it is. As long as you promise to keep the doors locked and your phone right beside you so if you need me you can call me. I'll be back to you in a second.”
“I know you will. It won't take me long to get my things from the cabin. I'll be back soon.”
“Do you need any help?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I lean forward to brush my lips across his.
“No. I'll be fine.”
I stand up from the couch, and he gently tugs my hand to stop me from walking away. Pausing, I look down at him.
“Be careful.”
I nod and leave, feeling like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, knowing I don't have to carry all of this on my own. I'll still have to come clean to Jake about who I really am and why I came here, but for now, I don't have to think about that. I've been honest with him about part of what's happening. That's a start.
Caution makes me drive slowly up the long driveway to cabin number 13. I want to be aware of any movement around me or anything that might be amiss before something can go wrong. Everything seems exactly as it was when I left. I walk into the empty cabin and feel the heavy warmth pumping from the furnace. It's finally cozy and relaxing inside, and I'm leaving. Sighing, I walk back into the bedroom and drag my bag out from under the bed. I fill it with a few sets of clothes and my toiletries. Though I'm tempted to just go ahead and bring everything, that feels too extreme. I'm not giving in to him. I'm not abandoning the cabin and cowering. Going to Jake's house is a precaution and also a way to make him feel better, which will help ensure he doesn't bubble over and blow the progress I've made.
I'm gathering up my notes and pictures when my phone rings. I glance at the screen before answering.
“Hey, Eric,” I say.
“Hey, yourself. Are you close to your computer? If not, you can see this on your phone, but it will be better on a bigger screen,” he starts.
“Yeah. Just give me a second.”
I sit down on the edge of the couch and open my computer. It takes a second for the screen to come up, and I open my email inbox.
“Alright. Go ahead. What's going on?” I ask.
“I did what you asked and looked into that guy. Turns out you were right. As far as I can tell, his name is not Ron Murdock,” Eric continues.
“I can't believe I didn't tell you. I went to the hotel and looked at his registration card. The address he has listed comes up as …”
“The Field of Dreams? I know. I found that, too.”
“How did you find that? Never mind. Doesn't matter. What else?”
“Turns out, winding up around you was no coincidence. I'm pretty sure he wasn't intending on dying, but he was definitely trying to get to you. I'm sending you a message. Tell me what you see,” he says.
“Alright. Go ahead.”
An instant later, a new email pops up in my inbox, and I click on it. There are no words, only an image. It takes a second for the entire thing to appear, and when it does, my breath catches in my throat.
“Is that…?”
“That would be your Mr. Not Ron Murdock with your parents,” Eric tells me.
It confirms exactly what I thought I was seeing, but part of my brain convinced me I had to be wrong. The picture is old, showing my parents years younger than they even were when my mother died. They're smiling, their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as they stand with their arms around a man standing in the middle of them. He's huge and hulking, but the smile on his face is genuine. His face is smooth, and he doesn't have the streaks of gray through his hair, but it's unmistakable. That's the man who fell dead on my front porch.
“What is this? Where did you find it?” I ask.
“I'll admit it took a little bit of doing. It doesn't seem our elusive friend wants to have much of a presence in the world. I'm not even sure what his real name is or where he comes from. For all intents and purposes, he doesn't exist. But I found this picture in a deep archive related to your father. This is Florida, April 1998,” he says.
“1998? I remember being in Florida then. It was one of the few instances we stayed in place for long enough; I really remember it. I wonder where I was when they were taking this picture.”
“I don't know. It seems you would be with them. It says they're at the opening of Disney World Animal Kingdom.”
“The opening of Animal Kingdom? I don't remember going to that.” What he said suddenly sinks in, and a strange feeling roils in my stomach. “Did you say 1998?”
“Yes. April twenty-second,” Eric confirms.
“And that was the opening? Of the whole park? Not just a ride or attraction or something?” I ask.
I hear clicking and know he's looking the information up on his computer just to make sure.
“Yep. That's the day the entire park opened. Why?”
“Did you find out anything else about him? How my parents know him? Why he was following me?”
“No, not yet. I'm working on it, though,” he says.
“Keep me updated. I'll talk to you soon.”
“Is there something wrong, Emma?” he asks.
“Just let me know if you find out anything else. And since I know you'll be talking to her, save me the third degree from Bellamy and let her know I'm fine,” I add. “Thanks for doing all this for me. Call you later.”
I hang up before Eric says anything else and immediately dial Jake.
“Did you change your mind about needing help?” he asks by way of greeting.
“Can you explain to me how you went to a theme park five years before it opened?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What?” Jake asks.
“You told me you remember going on vacation with your family to Florida when you were seven years old. You went to Animal Kingdom and loved watching the elephants because you didn't realize how big they actually were,” I say.
“Yeah, it was an amazing trip. Some of my favorite childhood memories with the entire family. I don't understand why you sound so upset,” he says.
“Because none of those memories can be real,” I explain.
“What are you talking about? I can show you the pictures.”
“The park wasn't open, Jake. The park didn't open until 1998. You were twelve years old. You couldn't have gone there when you were seven. Why did you lie to me?”
There's a long pause.
“What happened between the last time we spoke and now?” he asks.
“I found out you lied to me about these precious childhood memories you supposedly have with your family. If you lied to me about those, what else are you lying to me about?” I ask.
“I'm not lying to you, Emma. Those memories are real.”
“They can't be. I thought I could trust you.”
I hang up the phone, shaking and fighting the feeling of tears stinging in the back of my eyes. I don't want to think about why those tears are there. There are too many emotions that could create them, and I don't want to deal with any of them. Grabbing my bag, I carry it back to my bedroom and angrily start unpacking and shoving everything back in the drawers and onto shelves. I'm still fuming when my phone rings, and I don't even bother to look down on it. I don't need to. It's Jake calling me, and I don't want to hear his voice.
When everything is back in place, I go into the living room to bury myself back into the case. I can't focus, and after more than half an hour passes, I realize it's because the spare key Jake gave me is still sitting in the bottom of my pocket. Usually, he doesn't lock his door, but he insisted on me bringing the key with me and to lock the door behind me when I left to come to the cabin. I don't want it anywhere near me. I impulsively grab my coat and head out to my car. He's probably at the bar by now. I can go up there, leave his key, and be back in less than 20 minutes. Then I'll have nothing left to distract me from getting this done and moving on.