Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
And slept I did, mostly well, except the first night and Riggs’s party night.
But that night, the thunder rolling woke me because my sleep had been fitful after Riggs’s declaration about the animal tracks.
Even if he’d forced his way up the last step to get into my space, and he’d wrapped both his hands warm and firm around my neck, not to mention dropped his head so far his forehead was nearly touching mine (and I could see the impossibility of counting his eyelashes, they were so profuse), he gave me a litany of plausible explanations.
Even with all of that, I wasn’t having it.
He was right. He could see better in the daylight.
But he hadn’t heard the sound.
It wasn’t stones rolling. Or dislodging.
It was stones cracking together.
And in the end, that noise was headed my way.
Now this.
I lay there, wondering if I should call Riggs, or the police, or get up and turn on all the lights before I packed my bags and the boxes I’d kept for my stuff’s return journey to Chicago, and get the hell out of there.
I did this along with listening to that infernal scratching.
And the thunder rumbled again.
The scratching stopped.
I lay tense.
The scratching came back.
I went back to my terrified indecision.
Eventually, the heavens opened, and I heard the rain hit the roof.
More thunder came, much closer, and along with it, a flash of lightning, but the scratching stopped entirely.
Holy cow.
That was when I knew.
I didn’t believe in ghosts.
But if I did, one thing I suspected, they weren’t all that fussed with a thunderstorm.
But a human being?
Whole other story.
This meant someone was messing with me.
Some asshole was messing with me.
That was when I lay in bed, fuming.
But that night I learned one thing about nature living.
As mad as you were, it was impossible to be in the forest with rain hitting a tin roof and not fall fast asleep.
I learned this because this was exactly what I did.
It was still cold and drizzling the next morning when I sat cross legged in my love seat on the back porch wearing heavy socks, pajama bottoms, another tight cami, my cashmere robe, and one of those cute headbands snow bunnies wore to show off their hair while still keeping their ears warm.
I’d seen it in a window in town and couldn’t resist, so I bought it the day before, between Kimmy’s holiday store and going back to my car and reading disturbing stories about Misted Pines.
I had both hands wrapped around my coffee cup, which I had held to my face as I glared at the soothing sight of light rain hitting a tranquil lake.
I was not surprised this time when I heard noise coming from the north, and I wasn’t surprised because, after teeth brushing, face cleaning and moisturizing, even though it was early, I’d texted Riggs that the scratching came back last night but went away when it started raining.
Only then did I make coffee.
And there he came, wearing a dark canvas jacket, slicked with wet, the hood up, his hands in the pockets, jeans on his legs, and on his feet, his ever-present brown boots.
He left the trail and came to a stop opposite where I was, but he didn’t alight the porch.
He looked at me.
“Which number is that?” he asked, tipping his head to my coffee cup and taking in my glare with barely concealed humor.
“One,” I grunted.
“How far into it are you?” he asked.
“A sip.”
“Drink up, honey,” he urged, then he took off down the side of my house.
I did as told as he did whatever he was doing at the side of the house. And I kept doing it as I watched him pass in front of me to go to the stable trail.
I continued sipping even as I turned my head and watched him tramp around in the drizzle.
He came back, but this time ascended the steps, shrugged off his jacket to afford me the pleasure of seeing him in a fabulous fisherman’s sweater, and he tossed it on one of the wicker chairs.
After he did that, without invitation, he went inside my house.
I was getting to like him a whole lot, but I liked him more when he made sure to wipe his boots thoroughly on the outdoor mat before he went in, because the cabin wasn’t all that big, but it was a whole lot of floor to mop.
He came back with a mug of coffee, and I only scooched enough he could squeeze his ass in the seat beside me. This meant he had to lift my knee, but when he was settled in, he dropped it and it rested on his thigh.
His thigh felt warm regardless of the chill, and hard, and I liked it too much, but I was so angry, I was too mad to move.