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She looked more closely. Not on the nightstand, nor was it on the floor beside the bed.
She inhaled and exhaled a long breath, then headed to the kitchen where the knife block was filled-except for the single slot wherein the butcher knife had rested.
Renee bit back a sound of disbelief.
Where the hell was it?
Dear God…how? Who?
Oh, shit.
Listening to the sound of the wind pushing against the old cabin, the creak of ancient timbers, the light patter of rain on the roof, the thunder of her heart, she strained to hear any foreign noise. Was someone in the cabin with her even now? She thought of the loft, the second bedroom where she never ventured, and her blood became ice water.
She had to go up and check it out. The prospect filled Renee with dread. She was on the bottom step when she thought better of it and turned, grabbed her bag, laptop, and purse, and headed swiftly out the door, locking it behind her.
She had seen a face in the window. She had. A dark figure with soulless eyes.
She had…hadn’t she?
Sliding behind the wheel of her Camry, Renee spun backward out of the driveway, nearly hitting a post before slamming the car into Drive and glancing at the cabin again. The curtains in the loft window moved slightly and she was damned sure there was something dark and ominous behind them.
Only when her car was miles away, heading north on 101, and she was pushing the speed limit on the winding road high above the sea, the lighthouse barely visible on its tiny island, did she breathe again.
From the upstairs window, I watch her leave.
Frightened.
Trembling.
Scrabbling around like a frantic chicken running from a fox. Throwing her bags into the backseat. Too late. I’ve seen what’s on her computer screen, know where she’s been, what she’s doing. She’s getting close-stopping by the old woman’s shop, asking questions.
That damned old hag. Never to be trusted. I should have known, should have dealt with the crone.
I think of it-the killing of the old one, the traitor. I’ve thought of it often enough, suspected she knows more than she pretends, but here, in this tiny gossipy town, it might prove difficult.
And now there are others, one of whom is fleeing even now.
But she can’t run far.
And I know where she’ll go.
Back to the others.
She’ll lead me to them.
Standing behind the gossamer curtains, I finger the long-bladed knife in my hands and wait until the taillights of her car disappear around the corner, heading east, away from the sea, to the highway that runs parallel to the ocean, wandering in twisting turns north until it reaches the intersection where it splits and she’ll head inland.
To the others.
As she vanishes I rub my thumb over the razor-sharp blade, imagining what the thin steel edge can do. Quick and clean, a neat slice across the jugular and carotid.
But the time isn’t right. I need this one to lead me to the others.
Even though she has no scent, no
odor.
She’s not one of them.
