Ethan Plumewood was being driven insane.
Another spider crawled across the nightstand he was using as a desk, and he jumped back. He ripped yet another page out of a notebook and slammed it onto the spider. He crumpled it up and threw it over his shoulder. It landed on the floor with all the other torn and discarded and ruined papers.
He needed to write. Ethan had holed himself up here, in a tiny motel out in the middle of nowhere, to try and focus on nothing but his novel. The ancient clock on the wall was missing its tock sound, reminding him of the ticking time bomb that was his wallet. Ethan had been here for nearly a month. If he didn’t finish soon, he wouldn’t get paid. And if he didn’t get paid, well, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Ethan walked to the window and opened the blinds. He cracked open the window to get a few breaths of misty, moon-soaked night air. He should’ve just stayed in his cramped apartment in the city. It wouldn’t have helped him finish on time, but at least he wouldn’t have been so alone.
He returned to his nightstand. He flicked yet another spider off his notebook, cracked his knuckles, and placed his fingers on the keys of his typewriter. They sat there for several more ticks of the clock, and he sighed. Ethan couldn’t see what he was writing, but that was probably for the better. He just needed to get something down. Anything. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and started writing.
He heard a car approaching the motel. Probably someone new checking in for the night. It was late. Ethan checked the clock. Nearly midnight.
The stairs outside creaked, and he heard a rustle. Oh no, not mice. Not now.
He stood again and readied a pen as if he might stab something with it.
It wasn’t a mouse. It was an envelope.
A thick, cream envelope had been slipped under his door. Ethan put down his pen and went to pick it up.
There was no paper inside. He shook it, and something hard and cold fell out into his palm.
Ethan held it up to the watery moonlight. It was a ring.
Made of silvery metal and inlaid with three stones, two blue and one green. Or at least he thought so. He had run out of candles a long time ago, and there was no electricity here.
This was definitely not meant for him. What was he going to do with a ring? He could sell it, but someone would probably come looking for it. And why would they deliver it like this?
He flipped over the envelope, but there was no name written. With no idea who the intended recipient was, what could he do with it?
Ethan walked back to the window. He wanted to catch a glimpse of whoever had left the ring. See if there was still time to get it back to them.
A dark, luxury car was parked next to the lone streetlamp, a silhouette walking toward it. That kind of car, all the way out here? The silhouette wore a coat with a tie belt and a wide-brimmed fedora. Ethan squinted to see if he could make out any features to remember them by. No such luck.
They opened the door and got in. The streetlamp lit up their face, and Ethan’s blood turned to ice.
No. It couldn’t be.
The light had caught her eyes for just a moment, those steely gray eyes that narrowed in fury whenever they met his. They would pair with her voice that sneered, that said “Plumewood” like it was an insult.
Ethan held the ring tighter. How had Florence found him all the way out here?
What did it mean? Was it a peace offering? What was he meant to do with it? Was someone going to come looking for it?
The car started and drove off. He looked down at the ring in his hand.
Another spider crawled across the nightstand he was using as a desk, and he jumped back. He ripped yet another page out of a notebook and slammed it onto the spider. He crumpled it up and threw it over his shoulder. It landed on the floor with all the other torn and discarded and ruined papers.
He needed to write. Ethan had holed himself up here, in a tiny motel out in the middle of nowhere, to try and focus on nothing but his novel. The ancient clock on the wall was missing its tock sound, reminding him of the ticking time bomb that was his wallet. Ethan had been here for nearly a month. If he didn’t finish soon, he wouldn’t get paid. And if he didn’t get paid, well, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Ethan walked to the window and opened the blinds. He cracked open the window to get a few breaths of misty, moon-soaked night air. He should’ve just stayed in his cramped apartment in the city. It wouldn’t have helped him finish on time, but at least he wouldn’t have been so alone.
He returned to his nightstand. He flicked yet another spider off his notebook, cracked his knuckles, and placed his fingers on the keys of his typewriter. They sat there for several more ticks of the clock, and he sighed. Ethan couldn’t see what he was writing, but that was probably for the better. He just needed to get something down. Anything. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and started writing.
He heard a car approaching the motel. Probably someone new checking in for the night. It was late. Ethan checked the clock. Nearly midnight.
The stairs outside creaked, and he heard a rustle. Oh no, not mice. Not now.
He stood again and readied a pen as if he might stab something with it.
It wasn’t a mouse. It was an envelope.
A thick, cream envelope had been slipped under his door. Ethan put down his pen and went to pick it up.
There was no paper inside. He shook it, and something hard and cold fell out into his palm.
Ethan held it up to the watery moonlight. It was a ring.
Made of silvery metal and inlaid with three stones, two blue and one green. Or at least he thought so. He had run out of candles a long time ago, and there was no electricity here.
This was definitely not meant for him. What was he going to do with a ring? He could sell it, but someone would probably come looking for it. And why would they deliver it like this?
He flipped over the envelope, but there was no name written. With no idea who the intended recipient was, what could he do with it?
Ethan walked back to the window. He wanted to catch a glimpse of whoever had left the ring. See if there was still time to get it back to them.
A dark, luxury car was parked next to the lone streetlamp, a silhouette walking toward it. That kind of car, all the way out here? The silhouette wore a coat with a tie belt and a wide-brimmed fedora. Ethan squinted to see if he could make out any features to remember them by. No such luck.
They opened the door and got in. The streetlamp lit up their face, and Ethan’s blood turned to ice.
No. It couldn’t be.
The light had caught her eyes for just a moment, those steely gray eyes that narrowed in fury whenever they met his. They would pair with her voice that sneered, that said “Plumewood” like it was an insult.
Ethan held the ring tighter. How had Florence found him all the way out here?
What did it mean? Was it a peace offering? What was he meant to do with it? Was someone going to come looking for it?
The car started and drove off. He looked down at the ring in his hand.