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Connelly jolted awake and sat up on his elbow, scanning the dark forest. Nothing moved except for the fog rolling in from the ocean, curling around the trees.
So why did it feel like he wasn’t alone? He could’ve sworn someone was just right here, standing over him.
Had he been dreaming?
But it had felt so real.
Had Veronica come outside?
He glanced toward the silent house. He hadn’t heard a peep from inside since he came back around midnight and spread his sleeping bag out on the porch.
No, the presence he’d felt hadn’t been her.
He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, pushing the sleeping bag down around his waist. The early morning air had a bite, but he welcomed it. He’d just do a walk around the property to reassure his overactive imagination that everything was okay.
He slipped on his boots and grabbed a flashlight, then set off into the murky forest, wishing he had Rebel at his side. The mist was thick, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. Trees loomed like ominous shadows, and the underbrush was a tangle of vines and thorns.
Connelly’s heart thumped in his chest as he thought back to the stories he’d heard of the monsters that lurked in these woods. The stories that had inspired his last book.
In shadows so deep, the Stalker hides.
Fear his presence, where moonlight dies.
In woods so still, his hunt begins,
Fear his presence, where moonlight thins.
One by one, his tally grows,
For in the shadows, his secret shows.
A twig snapped beneath his boot, and he jerked to a stop.
Shit. He was scaring himself.
Connelly shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the ominous nursery rhyme. He focused on his surroundings, taking in the damp smell of the forest, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and the soft hoot of an owl in the distance.
As he walked, he kept his flashlight trained on the ground, looking for any signs of footprints, but there was nothing. It was as if he was the only one in the forest.
Okay. So he was just paranoid.
He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was a grown man and a former pararescue officer. He was no stranger to danger or fear. Hell, he made a living off fear. So he needed to get a grip.
He turned back to the house and did one more circuit around the perimeter to make sure everything was fine. He made it to Veronica’s bedroom window, and his blood ran cold as his flashlight beam glinted off the glass.
There, in the condensation, was a hand print. A large, human print, as if someone had pressed a gloved hand to the glass.
He grabbed his phone and tried to get a picture of it, but it was too dark without using the flash, and the flash caused too much of a glare. He watched helplessly as it faded before his eyes, then scanned the trees again.
He wasn’t paranoid.
It wasn’t his imagination.
Someone was out there.
chapter twelve
“Not doing much typing today.”
