Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Just before I hit the remote final stretch to my destination, I stop for supplies that include a protein bar and a cup of strong coffee. Locked and loaded for the reminder of my travels, a hint of logic pops into my mind. Disappearing won’t create peace of mind if I don’t find it elsewhere first.
I pull my phone from my purse and dial “Hulk,” otherwise known as Adrian Miller, a PI I employed to work on Jeremy’s case. He answers on the first ring. “Congrats, counselor.”
“What if he’s not innocent?” I blurt, appealing to the ex-cop in him that only supported Jeremy after an insider in the DA’s office pretty much told him Jeremy was an election-year fall guy.
“You’re asking this now?” he demands, and he does not sound amused.
“Something about him after the verdict. I can’t explain it, but he disappeared after the trial. Find him. Call me when you do. I’ll pay for your time.”
“He can’t be tried for those cases again. You know that.”
“Unless there are more victims. Find him before that happens, and I need to know the minute you do.”
He grunts. He’s always been a grunter, this man. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Find him,” I say, and then add a raspy, desperate, “please.”
He’s quiet several long beats in which I’m quite sure he’s contemplating the idea that we’ve worked together to free a killer. I hold my breath, gambling that he won’t like that idea any more than I do, and finally, he proves me right with a guttural promise of, “I’ll find him.”
He hangs up, but nothing except the connection has ended. In fact, I have this sense that something horrible is coming, and it hasn’t even really begun yet. I accelerate, eager to get to the cabin where no one else can get hurt. I blink at the odd thought that has no real origin. Hurt by what, though? Jeremy or me? I don’t know that answer. I just know that I have to get there. Just as I know that Jeremy is a killer who will kill again.
It’s a snowy dawn when I reach the cabin where my family and I spent many a weekend during my youth. “Cabin,” however, is actually an understated description, one my father favored—the truth of the matter is it’s a luxurious resort-style home and far more comfortable than my tiny apartment. I park around back under a covered parking area since the garage is locked and I can’t remember the code. I reach for my purse and contemplate removing my Mace, but decide against it. It’s peaceful out here. It always has been, and it is now as well. It’s a feeling—no, an absolute certainty—in my mind. I do not know how I know this any more than I understand what is happening to me, but something is happening to me.
I’m safe, though.
For now.
With my bag in tow, I head to the back door, where there is no coded entry, and locate the spare key hidden under a rock, thankful my parents never felt a need to install a security system in this secluded location. The key turns easily, and I enter a hallway that leads to several bedrooms. I flip on the light, turn up the heater on the wall, and set my things on the bed in the room to my left. Just to be safe, I walk the second and third bedrooms and then head to the basement gym, ensuring it’s empty. Next, I enter the main living area with an open kitchen and a huge hearth on the wall to the right, the light blue and cream color scheme, my mother’s choosing, warms me with happy memories. A time before I knew the likes of killers and monsters.
It’s chilly, so I hurry to the fireplace, throw in the logs from a well-stocked pile, in the silver pan beside it, and stoke the flames until its flickering hot and wide. Just for good measure. The seclusion of my location hits me hard and fast, and double check myself, ensuring I locked the door, and just for good measure, check the backdoor and windows, finding the cabin to be secure. All is well, I tell myself again, even though all is not well.
Considering sleep is the last thing on my mind, I brew coffee and sit down at the ridiculously expensive round dining table, a tree trunk design in the center of darker wood. A bowl filled with small wooden designer balls sits as a centerpiece, and a smile tugs at the corner of my lips with a memory of those wooden pieces I used to count, what I’d called “marbles” as a kid, laughing as my mother bet me I’d get a new number every time. She was right. I did. If only there were more of those good memories, but their scattered and random, at best.