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He crossed to the hole in the floor where Betsy had fallen. Dark stains that looked like blood—old blood—discolored the walls and floor.
Those stains could have been here for years, could have come from a hunter or fisherman or someone seeking shelter after being injured or lost on the trail. Even a homeless person, a recluse or… someone on the run.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
He moved closer, studying the hole, and noticed dirt had been freshly turned, creating a deep hole.
He leaned over, peering closer.
A sharp sliver of something was protruding through the loose soil. A sliver that looked like bone.
THIRTY
WIDOW LAKE
The stifling August heat roused his thirst for blood.
He hadn’t slept last night because the craving almost overpowered him. He’d watched the videos of the first four kills, the ones that had started his journey from the madness of depriving his needs into the euphoria of finally taking a life.
The time in between kills was a struggle. He took it one day at a time, fighting the urges, ignoring the opportunities…
It was important to time the kills just right. Too close together and too many victims would draw attention. Yet it was attention he craved, like Daumer and Bundy and the Boston Strangler had garnered. He wondered what they would call him.
But taking a victim today would be risky. Especially since those cops had been all over Widow Lake the night before, scouring the woods and diving into the water in search of that stupid little girl.
The older one’s face taunted him. Something about her drew him.
But the woods were crawling again this morning. Interfering with his fun.
If they got in the way too much, he’d have to do something about that.
The old crowd was starting to roll in for the reunion, too. Girls who’d looked at him like he was a piece of gum on their shoe.
With so many returning, he had a whole pool of women to pick from.
THIRTY-ONE
WIDOW LAKE
The window was Lorna Bea’s favorite thing about her room at the cabin. She could see the mountains and trees and lake and watch the birds flit from one tree to another. It was almost like being outside.
She’d tried to read but she couldn’t keep her mind on the story. Books were fun, but now there was a real mystery here at Widow Lake!
Last night, she’d watched the little girl and her mother next door through the window. Betsy’s mother sat beside her on the bed with a silver brush and combed through Betsy’s hair. Although she couldn’t hear them, she’d counted the strokes. A hundred.
Tears blurred her eyes. She wished she’d had a mommy to brush her hair.
Sniffling, she wiped her nose, blinking at the morning sun as she studied the woods. She’d stayed up half the night looking out the window and wondering what the police had found out there. From her vantage point in the tree outside, she’d watched workers drag an old muddy car from the lake.
She’d searched for the man in the black hoodie, too, but hadn’t seen him again. Maybe he was just a hiker or jogger.
There were more people in the woods today, combing for something. Or someone.
She heard her father’s footsteps pound the floor downstairs. Then the door slammed shut and his truck started up.
She bit her tongue to keep from shouting,It’s not fair!Why did he go places all the time when she was locked inside? She waited until the truck kicked up dust as it disappeared down the road, then she tiptoed down the stairs.
Nana was scrubbing the pan where she’d made scrambled eggs for breakfast. “I’m going outside to play,” she said as she rushed by.
