“Just stay safe. We’ve got someone scary running around. Have you considered staying in town with your family or maybe in Three Rivers with Liv and Matt?”
“I kind of like my independence.”
“I get that. I mean Blue Gil isn’t California, but I just have a bad feeling. I’ll sleep better when we figure out who this guy is.”
“What’s your thought?”
“Ain’t got one I can share.”
I grin. “But if you could, would you guess a Blue Gillian or an outsider?”
“Everyone is saying outsider,” Annabelle says.
I nod.
“Seems more personal to me, like this guy knows them. He’s angry or upset.”
“Do you think it’s connected to Coach Gilbert?”
“Not sure. But it seems that way.” She shrugs. “If not, it’s a mighty odd coincidence.” She releases her grip of the car door. “Be careful. Keep your doors locked.”
“I will,” I say, right before I roll up the window and head back to Stark Lake.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
As I pull closer to the cottages, I notice that Keith hasn’t returned. My car is the only vehicle as I park along the circle. I hadn’t given it much thought, but I bet when all the cottages are rented, this area is more crowded. I wonder if they restrict the number of cars per cottage.
After locking my car, I walk the dirt path to cottage two. Twigs from the tall trees crunch beneath my shoes. The sound of a motorboat roars from the lake on the other side of the cottage.
I let out a long breath.
The weather is warming, and soon the season will be underway. The current boater is most likely a Blue Gillian, trying to enjoy the last few uncrowded boating days.
Unlocking the back door of the cottage, I stand for a moment on the stoop and listen inside. With more trepidation than usual, I enter, locking the deadbolt behind me.
I know I’m reacting to everyone’s warnings, but with my pulse thumping in my ears and my heart beating against my breastbone, I’m helpless to stop the onset of nerves.
Scanning the kitchen and beyond, nothing appears out of place.
The two glasses from last night, as well as my breakfast—really lunch—dishes and coffee cup are upside down, drying in the drainer where I left them after handwashing them. When I asked about a dishwasher, Becky said her parents opted for a washer and dryer instead of a dishwasher in most of the cottages, claiming a water issue. I’m not sure how much of an issue there could be. After all, there’s a beautiful lake full of water barely one hundred yards away.
My computer and notes are still on the breakfast bar where I left them.
I wiggle the mouse, bringing the screen to life. It turns on to my lock screen. That isn’t a precaution I installed for this trip. It’s an old habit from sharing a dorm room in college.
A noise—a tapping sound—from the bedroom attracts my attention.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
Tap. Tap.
I tell myself that whatever it is, it’s too light to be footsteps.
With the sun still shining, natural light brightens the rooms. Step by step, I move toward the sound. I scan the living room. As I do, I notice that the bolt on the front door is in the locked position. The door to the bathroomis open. Slowly, I step inside. Taking a deep breath, I pull open the shower curtain.
“You’re being childish,” I whisper to myself as I stare into an empty tub and shower.
