Page 33 of Whispers of the Lake

Bats with crooked wings flapped around it.

“Keep walking. You’re close,” a voice whispered.

I walked faster, making my way down the hill. Someone appeared, standing on the edge of the platform dock. She was facing the water, her curly hair flowing down her back. She wore all white and had her arms out, like she was trying to keep her balance.

“Eve!” I called. She didn’t answer.

“Eve!” I called again, hurrying down the stairs and taking the path leading to the dock.

She finally turned her head a fraction. I kept walking, ready to meet up to her, to demand to know where she’d been all this time. As I approached and she’d turned fully to face me, her eyes were dark, hollow gaps and her lips were stitched together and bloody.

Eve dropped to her knees and stretched her mouth just enough to moan. Her face was tight and exhibited pain. Blood spilled down her chin as the flesh on her lips ripped apart. She tilted backwards and fell into the dark water. I peered over the edge, wondering how the water had become so silent after the splash. How not a single ripple was there.

But as I did, a withered, gray hand shot out of the water, grabbed my ankle, and snatched me down with it.

A sharp gasp split the air as I sprang up on the sofa. My phone clattered on the floor and my laptop careened to the left. I caught it before it could fall too, and set it down next to me. The cottage was darker now. My laptop screen was pitch-black. I picked up my phone and it was nearing six o’clock in the late afternoon.

“Shit.” How long had I been asleep?

I had come back to the cottage, had Nico run a check on Eve’s superfan that Zoey told me about, then decided to dive into my article about Robert Cowan. The rain was coming down hard outside, lightning strikes exposing parts of the interior. Thunder rumbled as I stood and stretched. I flipped a light switch on, opened the fridge, and reached for a bottled water.

As I cracked it open, someone pounded on the front door. I froze, listening to heavy footsteps thunder off the porch. Hurrying to the window, I saw someone in jeans and a black T-shirt running toward the main path, then disappearing between a line of trees.

What the fuck?

I immediately went for my gun and then my phone to punch 911 into the keypad. I took careful steps to the door, rising on my toes to see through the peephole. I didn’t see anyone, but there was something on the porch floor. With my hand holding the phone, I managed to twist the doorknob. The door creaked on its hinges and a strong gust of damp wind sprayed me.

I peered through the crack with my gun raised as I studied the surroundings. When I caught no one, I looked down. My breath hitched as I stared at the object. I yanked the door open wider before lowering to a squat in utter disbelief. It was an oversized beige Michael Kors bag. And not just any bag.

“Eve’s,” I whispered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Eve’s purse contained her wallet, a camera, an older model iPhone that she used for backup, and worst of all:her passport.How could she travel to Thailand without a passport? Or even her ID, which was still tucked away in her wallet. There was no more denying it now. Eve was in trouble. The biggest question though, was who the hell left it on the porch? Who was the person that’d just run away?

I tucked everything back into the purse and went for my gun again, clipping the holster to my waist before tossing on a cardigan to cover it. Outside, the rain had finally settled to a light drizzle. Water dripped from the copious number of leaves, landing in fat drops on my head and shoulders as I walked.

To my left, I spotted groves of trees. Mountains of them going farther than the eye could see. When I spotted the blue house ahead, I noticed the main door was open with a screen door attached. Three stairs led to a wraparound porch and if I took about five steps to my left, I could see a partial view of the lake.

Gathering the courage, I walked up the stoop and gave the doorbell a ring. It’d been a while since I went around knocking on people’s doors asking for things. My job should’ve allowed the act to come naturally, but ever since the attack, I’d found myself wanting to make less contact with people, seeking them out digitally first.

Footsteps thundered on the other side of the door and the broad-shouldered man who was chopping wood earlier appeared. He had mahogany skin and coarse, dark hair braided into cornrows that stopped at his collarbone. He was tall, and being your average five-six woman, I had to incline my chin to keep steady on his eyes. His gray shirt was sweat stained, brown eyes glaring at me through the screen.

Was this Alex?

“Help you?” he asked on the other side of the door. A dish towel was in his hands, and he used it to dry them.

“Hi—actually, yes. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Rose Gibson. I’m currently staying at the little cottage a short walk away. Twilight Oaks?”

I expected the man to open the door and step out, be a bit more welcoming. Instead, he glared at me with his lips pinched tight and his brows furrowed.

“Just wondering if you have a moment to talk,” I said.

“ ’Bout what?” he grumbled, eyes swinging left, then right as he looked past me.

“Did you happen to meet or see the last person staying at that cottage? Maybe in passing?”

Right after asking those questions, I noticed the subtle change in his face. The grimace almost melted as a bolt of fear appeared. But just as quickly, he was grimacing again. “I wouldn’t know anything about who stayed there. I don’t handle that stuff. My brother does.”

---