Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
It takes almost an hour, the winding road climbing higher and higher into pine country. I half expect to hear banjos when I open my door, but there is only silence. The overwhelming, deafening kind.
Once again wondering just what the hell I’d gotten myself into, I look up at the Morrison family cabin, a small, sturdy structure that sat back from the road, with smoke stains on the stone chimney and a porch swing creaking in the breeze.
I grab my things, juggling as much as I can at one time, and with as much trepidation as relief, I walk up to the front door. The keys are hidden at the top of the frame, just like Madison said, and the lock turns more easily than I’d expected.
Inside, the scent of cedar and dust hangs thick enough to choke me as I run my gaze across a fireplace, a sagging couch, and a kitchen straight out of the seventies. I drop my things at the door, double back for the last of the groceries, and then turn in a slow circle once I’m back inside.
“Home, sweet serial-killer hideout home,” I mutter out loud, not sure I’ve ever heard silence so complete.
There is no traffic even in the distance. No music. No sirens. Just trees whispering in the breeze outside and the occasional crack of a branch.
The groceries don’t take long to unpack, but even by the time I finish, my fingers are cold. Not freezing, but that kind of chill that makes me want a blanket and a hot shower at the same time.
One look outside tells me that it’s getting late, the sun is starting to dip low in the sky. Crap. I’d better figure out how the heat works.
I go looking for the thermostat, checking the walls, the hallway, and even behind a crooked picture of a moose, but there’s nothing.
Moving back to the kitchen, I fill a kettle and set it on an old gas stove, then pull out my burner phone and hit speed dial. She picks up on the second ring. “Tell me you made it.”
“I did,” I say. “Barely. That bus trip is not for the faint of heart, I’ll tell you that much. Question, though, how do I turn on the heat?”
There’s a pause, then she bursts out laughing. “I didn’t tell you? Fire, babe.”
I blink at the stone fireplace. “No, you didn’t tell me. You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. What were you expecting? It’s an old-school cabin. If you’re cold, you build a fire. There’s wood chopped out back and matches in the drawer by the sink.”
“Girl Scouts was a long time ago and I never even got my fire-making patch.”
“You’ll figure it out,” she tells me. “It’s not that hard.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s about to face frostbite if you don’t become the ultimate pioneer woman.”
She laughs again. “It’s not frostbite cold yet, Rox. You’ve got a couple of months before you’ll be in any danger of that. If you’re even there that long. Text me when you’ve got the fire going and don’t burn the place down, okay?”
“Scout’s honor,” I reply dryly. “Just remember how long it’s been since I was a scout.”
She giggles then we say our goodbyes and I stand there, staring at the cold fireplace. I finally sigh, roll up my sleeves, and mutter to the empty room.
“All right, Smokey the Bear. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
6
BOONE
From my office window, I catch a wisp of smoke curling over the ridge. At first, I figure it’s just someone burning brush. That happens this time of year, but then the plume thickens, the color darkening, and the source is closer than I’d realized.
It seems to be right over where the old Morrison cabin sits, and that means it is less than a mile from us as the crow flies. My gut tightens.
That place has been empty since we’d bought our land years ago. Dillon, Chance, and I made a point of learning every property line and getting to know every neighbor.
Word around town is that the current owners are a pair of brothers who talk about selling every few years but never follow through. The locals think one of them got too sentimental at the idea since their great-grandfather had built the cabin with his bare hands.
Or something like that. Sentimental or not, nobody has lived there for years. Wherever that smoke is coming from, the fire is unattended and much too close for comfort.
I push back from my desk and am halfway to the front door before I even realize I’ve moved. “Chance! Dillon! We’ve got smoke coming from the Morrison cabin. Let’s go.”
Chance comes sprinting up the stairs from the gym, his shirt and skin damp with sweat and his dark blonde hair sticking up in all directions. Dillon pokes his head out of the kitchen, holding a spatula in one hand and reaching around his back to untie his apron with the other.