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Jacob’s grandparents had moved into a senior community, but the De Rossis were known for their holiday meals: too much food, too much wine, and non-stop laughter. The single time Martin had joined them for a meal, his stomach muscles had ached the next day—which was fine. The hangover had not been.
“Hey!” Charley protested. “I only go because Tobias goes.”
“Lies.” Martin shook his head. “Keep repeating it and maybe one of these days you’ll convince me. The answer is still no. I’m staying here.”
After several more manly slaps on the back and a bear hug from Simon, his friendsfinallyclimbed into Simon’s Jeep and drove off toward Aberdeen. Martin watched the Jeep’s taillights disappear in the distance as the first few soft drops of rain slapped against his cheeks. The end to his nearly perfect day.
Behind him, the pub door opened again, sending a beacon of light across the gravel lot to illuminate the few cars left in the lot. He turned automatically to see who it was, which was silly. He was somewhere new, he reminded himself—he wouldn’t know them.
A pair of stormy blue eyes met Martin’s and Waugh’s lips parted and slammed shut again without any sound passing across them. A surge of irritation rose in Martin’s gut. What was Waugh’s damn problem? Before Martin could confront him, Waugh turned away and strode toward the sidewalk, clearly intending to walk wherever he was going.
Over their heads, the clouds opened up and what had been a pitter-patter of light rain turned into a deluge. Against his better judgment, Martin called out, “Do you want a ride?”
Waugh didn’t acknowledge Martin. He just kept moving away, his shoulders hunched against the rain, his stride purposeful. The temptation to tell him not to be an idiot was strong, but Martin resisted. If Waugh wanted to be a martyr, he was welcome to the title.
“He can be the King of Fucking Martyrs if he wants to. It’s not my business,” Martin grumbled as he climbed behind the wheel of his SUV.
Pulling out onto the main street, he turned back toward the cabins—his cabins—slowing down as he passed by Nick Waugh. The man pointedly looked the other direction, so Martin kept going. Fifteen minutes after he’d returned to his new home, Martin stood at the window watching his “tenant” trudge up the drive, looking very much like an angry, wet cat.
MARTIN
Fact: Making cookies is very similar to making rocks. The building blocks of rocks (and cookies) are various minerals. These ingredients can be mixed together to produce a variety of rocks.Just like cookies, some rocks are hard and some crumble at a touch.
Nick Waugh skulked around the property, but Martin didn’t catch more than an occasional glimpse of his lodger over the next couple of days. It was much like having a feral cat lurking around, except Nick didn’t want any handouts Martin had to offer. He heard the man, though, gunning his chainsaw like the thing was a race car from the direction of Cabin Five when Martin was working outside. There was also a great deal of profanity, as if Nick thought the word fuck might be going out of fashion and he needed to make use of it before it was gone. But he only spotted Nick once or maybe twice out his windows—with his trusty baseball bat swinging by his side—stalking the property while Martin worked inside.
It hadn’t rained yet this morning and the scent of sawdust and woodchips from Nick’s creations floated on the air. Martin was curious about what Waugh was up to, but he had enough to do without playing at Lord of the Manor. Besides, since Waugh hated him on sight, there was no point in attempting to engage with him.
There seemed to be quite a bit of chainsaw art around town, some of it quite impressive. Who knew? Maybe Waugh was talented and his art could be displayed when it was finished. Support a local artist kind of thing. But as curious as Martin was about Nicholas Waugh, he wasn’t going to be egged into some kind of weird battle of wills with him. If Nick felt the need to patrol with a baseball bat, Martin wasn’t going to stop him.
A few locals stopped by, either to spy on what Martin was doing or welcome him to town. Maybe both. He wondered when—or if—he’d start thinking of himself as a local, too. Martin would never admit it to Simon, never even say the words aloud, but he had doubts about his decision to quit his job, sell his house, and change the course of the rest of his life.
Of course he did. But he’d gone too far to turn back now, so forward it was.
Last night, though, Lizzy Harlow invaded his sleep. He’d never met the woman when she was alive and had only seen one out-of-focus picture online, yet he’d dreamed about her. He’d known it was her in that weird dream-like way. The dream hadn’t been frightening, but it had been spooky. Dream-Martin had been wandering around the haunted marsh like Frodo Baggins. He hadn’t seen any dead bodies, but he could feel Lizzy’s spirit. Beckoning or begging him, he hadn’t been sure.
And then he’d woken up, which was a fucking relief. Martin had never thought he had a vivid imagination; creativity wasn’t exactly a requirement for a geology professor. Maybe the upheaval he’d brought about in his life had knocked something loose? Something that had been dormant? Whatever it was, he wasn’t sure he liked it.
That first night, after he got back from the pub, he’d hopped online to search for information about the murder. He’d found a single article on Lizzy’s death, published just a few days after her death. She’d left two kids and a husband behind. The husband was in the military and the article stated that he’d been overseas when she was killed.
A few townspeople had agreed to be interviewed. Reading between the lines, it seemed to Martin to be a case ofif you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Although those interviewed did heap praise on her teenaged son and middle-school-aged daughter. And, it was noted, Wanda Stone had started a fund for the kids, giving a website address where a person could donate. Martin clicked and added to the fund; it was the least he could do.
Martin sighed and sank back against the couch cushion. He needed to do something other than obsess over the untimely death of someone he’d never known. He’d watch TV, but he hadn’t gotten around to hanging the flat screen he’d bought as a moving-housewarming present to himself. Watching a show with it leaning up against the wall just wasn’t the same, and it made his neck hurt thinking about it. Shutting the laptop lid, he grabbed his cell phone and jacket and headed outside. There was a chance cell service was working.
Simon greeted him with a “Hey, stranger!” when he picked up Martin’s call. “Are you ready to return to civilization?”
“Simon, it’s Monday. You were just here Saturday. Cooper Springs isn’t the end of the world. You’ve been in more remote places doing research,” Martin reminded him. “You’ve been to Antarctica, for crying out loud.”
“Yes… but I never planned onstayingthere.”
Martin stood outside his front door, under the eaves and out of the mist. His gaze snagged on the footbridge and the odd feeling of unease returned. Above him, a young crow swooped and sailed overhead, not seeming to have a destination in mind and not minding the weather. The corvid’s wings were entirely unfurled as it floated up and down on the current, enjoying the ride. Martin could relate to that sense of freedom. He’d put himself at the mercy of a capricious wind and now he was waiting to find out what would happen, where it would take him. It was too late to turn back now.
“No, I am not ready to give up. Jeez.” Even if he had just been thinking that it was too late to change his mind. “I’m just calling to let you know I haven’t been kidnapped or heard any eerie banjo music warning me of trouble to come.”
“They don’t play the banjo over where you are,” Simon insisted. “It would be the sound of chainsaws like—like a swarm of killer bees wearing hockey masks, coming to get you.”
Martin laughed and rolled his eyes even though Simon couldn’t see him.
“It’s all good, no chainsaw-wielding gangs either.” A fat drop of rain hit him square in the nose. “Probably those gangs are only around in the summer when it’s not pissing down all the time.”
