The fact that he’s asking me to ensure they’re not disturbed makes me think they might be buried. You would warn someone to make sure a grave isn’t disturbed, right? If they’re at the bottom of the lake, it would be very hard to disturb them.
Are they buried in the lumberyard? Is that why someone followed us there? Were they scared we might find something? Is it the same person who’s been sending me those texts?
Last night’s text coming from a new phone number confirms my suspicion that they must be using one of those apps that assigns random numbers. I responded to the message with an all-capsWHO THE HELL ARE YOU, but the texter didn’t respond. He simply sent his warning and went quiet. Or she. I still have no clue who it could possibly be.
I rub my eyes and sit up in bed, resisting the urge to scream out loud. There are too many questions, and not nearly enough answers. In fact, no answers at all.
All I know is that my father’s suicide note isn’t providing any insight or triggering some repressed memory that will tell me where he took his victims after he killed them.
But his studio might.
We spent countless hours in that little cabin. If anything is going to help me unearth a buried memory, the studio will. And right now is probably the best possible time to go there. It’s Sunday morning and everyone is still asleep, which means I’ll be able to sneak out before Maggie or Dan gets up.
As Jasmine sleeps, I silently get dressed, then creep out of the bedroom. In the front hall, I swipe the keys to Dan’s truck and pray he won’t mind.
The entire drive to Rockridge Way, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, nerves gathering in my stomach.
Indigo bunting.
Magnolia warbler.
Purple finch.
Why was he so obsessive about his stupid birds? Why couldn’t he ever just say whatever the hell he wanted to say without cloaking it in riddles and nonsense?
I haven’t stepped foot inside that cabin since I was seven years old. I wonder what I’ll find there. If it’ll feel familiar or alien. But the moment I arrive at the big house, it becomes obvious I’m not going to find out this morning.
At least a dozen other vehicles are parked on the gravel, some angled toward the grass. Zed’s yellow Jeep isn’t among them, which is one bright spot, I suppose.
I gape at the random people in the front yard, on the sagging porch, poking around at the side of the house. The true-crime junkies and treasure hunters have descended, and they are insatiable. I guess the lure of a million bucks would light a fire under anyone. But how is this legal? Why aren’t the authorities here, arresting them for trespassing?
And how am I supposed to decode my father’s note with all these people around?
Swallowing a groan, I avoid the strange looks being directed at my windshield, make a three-point turn, and drive away.
Damn it.
I need to find a way to get to the studio without all these prying eyes. The answers are there. I know it.
Tonight, I decide. I’ll return tonight. It’ll be easier to sneak past all the internet people, as my aunt calls them, under the cloak of darkness. I know these woods like the back of my hand. The moment I came back here for the first time, it was like every tree, every abandoned birdhouse, was imprinted in my mind.
When I reach the main road, I turn in the direction of downtown Starling rather than home. I’m not ready to face my aunt and uncle yet.
It’s barely eight when I pull up in front of the diner in town, but the place is already open and bustling with breakfast patrons. I’m about to slide out of the truck when my phone buzzes.
Instantly my spine stiffens. I’m so sick of hearing that noise, never knowing if it’s an innocent message from a friend or a new threat from my texter.
This time it’s neither.
Unknown:Hi, Ryan. It’s Agent Foster. Can we get together and talk today? Coffee?
I stare at the request. What does he want to talk to me about? And how does he think we could possibly meet in Starling without arousing any suspicions?
Me:Won’t it look a little suspicious if anyone sees us?
Foster:I think it’ll look like two people having coffee.
Me:Dude, every inch of you screams FBI agent. You wore a black suit for an “off the books” chat.
