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Fletch inhaled and leaned back against the chair. “Did he act in any way unusual?”
“He wanted me to leave—which wasn’t unusual—but finally relented when the snow got worse.” Her eyes opened wide. “Do you think he knew what was going to happen?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Do you really think Sheriff Perkins would have hurt me if he found me?”
“I think that there would be two casualties of the fire, not one. Dead men tell no tales.”
Michelle smiled. “You know Disney didn’t come up with that quote.”
“Are you telling me,” he asked with a hint of a grin, “that you’re not a Pirates of the Caribbean fan?”
“I am. Remember, my mom was a librarian. She was all about research, not taking things at face value. The phrase is originally credited to a man” —Michelle tried to recall— “a clergyman, I believe. Thomas Becon who lived in the sixteenth century.”
Fletch looked at Michelle with a new sense of appreciation. “What else did your mom research?”
“Everything.”
Before Michelle could answer further, Fletch’s phone buzzed, and he read a text message. When his dark eyes met hers, they were a deeper black.
“We can’t wait for nightfall. We need to get out of here now.”
“We’re in the middle of Iron Reservoir. We’re sitting ducks.”
“I have a plan.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Who is after us?” Michelle asked, the now-familiar serum of fear flowing through her veins.
Without replying, Fletch untied his boots and removed a wool sock from each foot. “Here, wear these.”
Michelle didn’t argue as the anxiety she’d allowed to lessen in the confines of the small fishing hut was back with a vengeance. Watching this man from the corner of her eye, she was struck by his efficient movements. Nothing was wasteful. He was a man on a mission.
“A soldier?” she asked as she snapped the front of his coat around her.
“Stop trying to figure me out. Now isn’t the time to make up stories.”
Making up stories was what Michelle did. Her life hadn’t started out that way, but after a degree in pre-law led her to courtrooms in central Indiana, Michelle found herself making up stories about the people in the courtroom. One night she sat down and began to write. Six bestselling thrillers later, she no longer needed the courtroom. Her legal thrillers were enough to pay the bills. Of course, the settlement that she and her father received from the gas company was also helpful.
A million each.
Enough for Dad to retire and disappear into the wilderness of Massachusetts and for Michelle to live on advances, royalties, and interest. Her editor was after her for her next big hit. While she’d planned to write it, she didn’t plan to live it.
Michelle gasped as Fletch pulled a revolver from the back waistband of his jeans.
How had she not noticed that before?
With Fletch’s socks on her feet, his coat hanging to mid-thigh, and the hood over her head, she followed close behind him as he slowly opened the door. They were met by gusts of wind carrying large snowflakes.
“Stay close,” Fletch commanded.
Unlike when they’d arrived and the sun was rising, now midday, the falling snow limited visibility to nearly zero. If there were people looking for them, they could be fifty yards away and never be seen.
The cold air nipped at Michelle’s cheeks as the wool socks did little to protect her feet from cold. “How far?—”
Fletch turned, silencing her with a finger to his lips.
