Ray — Wednesday, November 18, 2026, 7:10–10:35 a.m.
Ruth had written the cupboard measurement twice, once on the list and once in a message correcting the list. Ray stood in the kitchen after he got home, working out which was the one she'd meant to change.
She came down before he'd finished. Her hair had gone flat on one side. She put a hand over her eyes against the light he had turned on.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It's fine. I'm up.”
“You wanted the short one changed?”
She looked at the list. “That one. I measured from the wrong place.”
“I've got it.”
“You don't have to go yet.”
“Might as well.”
He was hungry again, though he'd eaten toast at the cabin. Ruth put bread in their toaster, the one that worked, and he watched it lower itself without anyone holding the lever. She asked whether he wanted a proper breakfast. He said this was fine. They stood together at the counter while it browned.
“Jamie asked about Friday,” he said.
“He sent me a message.”
“We're eating on our knees, apparently.”
“I'm taking something. He says he doesn't need anything.”
“He fed me last night.”
“He's got to get better chairs if we're going to make a habit of it.”
She smiled. Ray looked at the top of her head, the flattened hair, her hand reaching past him for a clean plate. He wanted breakfast to take longer. At the same time he couldn't bear the thought of still being here when Nadia got back to the cabin and found nobody to meet her.
His phone rang. Nessa, checking about the police contact and the woman in the appeal. He said he'd told them what he knew. No, he hadn't heard that she'd been found. Nessa was quiet, then spoke about an ordinary work matter, where she'd left a message, which day they'd next need to get hold of him. She did not ask him to give his week away. He told her he'd call if anything changed.
When they ended the call the battery was low. He plugged the phone in beside the papers Ruth had left for him. She asked him to take an empty box through to the back room while she cleared the counter. He picked up the box. By the time he came back she had moved the corrected list onto his coat, where he couldn't miss it.
He found the pickup keys in the pocket. The phone stayed beside the outlet.
At eight he went out. Ruth called after him about the storage boxes. He held up the paper to show he had it, heard the door close and drove away.
The shopping was ordinary enough to keep him occupied. A board, the cut length, the boxes she wanted with lids. There were too many sizes, too many things almost the same. He unfolded the list at the counter, smoothed it with his hand and read what she'd actually written. By the time he had everything in the pickup he was late enough to imagine Nadia waiting.
At ten thirty he turned into the track. No borrowed car. He drove the last part slowly, watching for it beyond the bend, and saw a vehicle he didn't know parked off to one side.
For a moment he thought Alma had come with her. He could already hear the explanation Nadia would have to make, how she had needed somebody to drive. He eased past the place where the track narrowed. A man stepped out beyond the parked vehicle, one hand held up.
Ray stopped.
The man said his name. Not a question. Another officer was coming from the cabin. Ray could see the strip of his uniform between the trees.
“Put it in park. Turn the engine off.”
He did that. The board moved a little behind him. He reached toward the ignition again, meaning to take out the keys, and the officer told him to keep his hands where they could see them.
“All right,” he said. “I'm not doing anything.”
“Keep them there.”
The officer came closer and told him to get out slowly. Ray looked at the cabin door. Someone was standing near it with a bag on the ground beside him. He couldn't see through the doorway.
“Is she here?”
“Out of the vehicle, Mr. Mercer.”
He had meant Nadia. He wanted to ask again and didn't know how to make it sound like anything except what it was. He opened the door. His foot caught the edge of the mat; the officer moved toward him and he said, “I'm coming,” much too loudly.
Outside, the air smelled of wet leaves and the pickup's exhaust. It seemed he had left it running. He looked back, but the engine was off. The officer turned him away from the door and told him he was under arrest for confining the women. The words came separately, with questions about whether he understood the directions he was being given. He said yes. He could hear his own breathing between the answers.
He had known Nadia might tell. At the town edge he had watched her stop at the corner, had felt the distance growing and let it grow. Now he searched the track behind the officers for her car, unable to keep himself from wanting the sight of it. She should have been there to see what she had done. There was no car.
An officer asked whether he had anything on him that could hurt someone. He said no, then remembered his pocketknife and said where it was. The man took it. They searched him and held his arms while the cuffs were put on. Ray looked down at the mud beside the tire. His keys had fallen there when he got out.
“Those are mine.”
“We'll take care of them.”
“I need—”
He stopped. He didn't need them now. He wanted to bend down and pick them up himself, his own hand closing around the keys to his pickup, and the officer was already doing it.
They walked him toward the other vehicle. At the corner of the cabin a strip of pale window frame showed between two people. He could not tell whether the window was open. He tried to slow enough to see, and the hand on his arm tightened.
“Where's June?” he asked.
The officer looked at him. “We're going to ask you about June.”
“She's hurt.”
“We know.”
He wanted to say how hurt, that she could stand if she held on, that she had eaten this morning. The officer was opening the rear door and telling him where to put his head. He obeyed because he had no room to do anything else. When he was seated, he could see the back of his pickup through the glass. The boxes Ruth wanted were nested together. He had checked that the lids fit before he paid.
He had left his phone at home. Ruth might be calling it now from her own phone in the next room, hearing it ring beside the outlet and getting angry with him for not answering. He imagined her lifting it, seeing whatever was on the screen. She had the corrected measurement; he had the correct board. He had pictured carrying it into the house, having to angle it around the hall, Ruth moving things out of his way.
The officer in front spoke into his radio. Ray heard his name, then that they had him. They had him. The words were so small for where his body was, his knees pressed against the partition and his hands trapped behind him. He shifted and couldn't find a position that would last.
“Can you tell my wife?”
“She's being notified.”
He looked at the back of the man's head. He hadn't been asked for a number. Of course they had a number. He'd given Lena Ortiz his license at the table, had watched her write, had thought how patient she was when she wanted something. She might be here. He turned toward the cabin again, looking among the people for her, but the car had started to move and a branch hid the door.