One Last Scream

by Kevin O'Brien

Genres: Female Sleuths; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

New York Times Bestseller When You're Caught In A Killer's Web. . . Twelve women have vanished, leaving behind no trace or clue--their whereabouts still a mystery after eleven years. . . The Only Thing That Can Save You Is. . . Amelia Faraday is beautiful, smart, and a walking disaster. Suffering from blackouts, she also suffers from something worse--the feeling that she is personally involved in a series of deaths. One Last Scream. . . Now as a new series of murders begins, and she continues to suffer from blackouts, Amelia is left wondering if she is a cold-blooded killer--or a pawn in a deadly game that's only just beginning. . . Praise for the Novels of Kevin O'Brien "A fast-paced thriller. . .O'Brien's crisp, clear writing, and taut suspense elevate this above similar fare." -- Publishers Weekly "Another page-turner."-- Seattle Post-Intelligencer

Release date: December 18, 2007

Publisher: Pinnacle

Print pages: 480

Sample

Moses Lake, Washington—1992

She turned the key in the ignition, and nothing happened, just a hollow click, click, click.

“Oh, shit,” Kristen murmured. She felt a little pang of dread in her stomach.

The battery wasn’t dead, because the inside dome light had gone on when she’d climbed into her Ford Probe a minute ago.

Biting her lip, Kristen gave the key another twist. Click, click, click. Nothing.

It was 11:20 on a chilly October night. Hers was the only car in the restaurant lot. Kristen had just finished a seven-hour shift waiting tables at The Friendly Fajita. She’d closed up the place with Rafael, the perpetually horny 19-year-old busboy, and he’d just taken off on his rusty old Harley. Kristen could still hear its engine roaring as he sailed down Broadway. It was the only sound she heard.

There was a phone in the restaurant, and she had a key. But she and Rafael had already set the alarm. It would go off if she went back inside, and she could never remember the code, especially while that shrill incessant alarm was sounding. She’d have to go look for a phone someplace else, and then call a tow company or a cab. Her boyfriend, Brian, was out of town at a golf tournament down in San Diego.

“Please, please, please,” she whispered, trying the ignition once again. The car didn’t respond except for that hollow click, click, click.

“Damn it to hell,” she grumbled. Grabbing her purse and a windbreaker from the passenger seat, Kristen climbed out of the car and shut the door. She didn’t bother locking it.

She took a long look down the street. Most of the other businesses along this main drag were closed for the night. There were a couple of taverns farther down Broadway. Kristen loathed the idea of hoofing it several blocks along the roadside. The waist-length windbreaker didn’t quite cover her stupid waitress uniform. The Friendly Fajita’s owner, Stan Munch, who was about as Mexican as she was, made her wear this señorita getup with a white, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and a gaudy purple, green, and yellow billowy skirt over a petticoat, for God’s sake. With her short, blond hair, green eyes, and pale complexion, she looked like an idiot in the outfit. But, hell, anyone would appear ridiculous in it. The thing looked like a Halloween costume.

The Friendly Fajita had been open for four months, and it was floundering. Moses Lake didn’t need another Mexican restaurant. Besides, the food was mediocre and overpriced. And if that wasn’t enough to drive customers away, Stan had the same two Herb Alpert CDs on a continuous loop for background authenticity. If Kristen never heard “The Lonely Bull” again in her life, it would be too soon.

Maybe she could flag down a cop car, or a good Samaritan. Kristen ducked back into the Probe just long enough to pop the hood and switch on the hazard lights. She figured that would make it easier for passersby to see that she needed help. Of course, she was also making it easier for the wrong person to see that she was stranded.

It suddenly occurred to Kristen that someone might have sabotaged her car. Just a little sugar in the gas tank—that was all it took. She’d read that before he started killing, the young Ted Bundy liked to screw with women’s cars, so he could later watch them when they were stranded and vulnerable.

He just watched them. It turned him on.

Kristen wondered if someone was looking at her right now as she stood beside her broken-down car in front of the darkened restaurant. Maybe he was across the street by the flower shop. He could be hiding in the shadows behind those bushes, studying her through a pair of binoculars.

Or maybe he was even closer than that.

She shuddered and rubbed her arms. “Stop it,” Kristen muttered to herself. “You’re perfectly safe. There aren’t any serial killers in Moses Lake.”

Still, she reached inside her purse and felt around for the pepper spray. She wondered if it even worked any more. She’d bought the little canister over two years ago while a junior at Eastern Washington University in Cheney. She’d majored in graphic design, and planned to move to Seattle. But Brian got a job as the golf pro at one of Moses Lake’s courses. It was a big resort town. Kristen had decided to put Seattle on hold, and stick with Brian for a while. There wasn’t much need for a graphic artist in Moses Lake. So, here she was, dressed up like a Mexican peasant girl and stranded outside The Friendly Fajita at 11:30 on a cold Wednesday night.

Kristen kept the pepper spray clutched in her fist.

One car passed the restaurant, and didn’t even slow down. She waited, and then gave a tentative wave to an approaching pickup, but it just whooshed by. Kristen glanced at her wristwatch—only two cars in almost five minutes. Not a good sign.

She noticed a pair of headlights down the road in the distance. Kristen stepped toward the parking lot entrance, and started waving again, more urgently this time. As the vehicle came closer, she noticed it was an old, beat-up station wagon with just one person inside. It looked like a man at the wheel. He got closer, and she could see him now. He was smiling, almost as if he’d been expecting to find her there.

A chill raced through her. Kristen stopped waving and automatically stepped back.

The station wagon turned in to the restaurant parking lot. Warily, Kristen eyed the man in the car. He was in his late thirties and might have been very handsome once, but he’d obviously gone to seed. His face looked a bit bloated and jowly. The thin brown hair was receding. But his eyes sparkled, and she might have found his smile sexy if only she weren’t so stranded and vulnerable. Right now, she didn’t need anyone leering at her.

He rolled down his window. “Looks like you could use some help.” The way he spoke, it was almost a come-on.

Kristen shook her head and backed away from the station wagon. “Um, I already called someone and they should be here any minute, but thanks anyway.”

“You sure?” the man asked, his smirk waning.

“Positive, I—” Kristen hesitated as she noticed the beautiful little girl sitting beside him in the passenger seat. She had a book and a doll in her lap. The child smiled at her.

“Wish I knew more about car engines,” the man said. “I’d get out and take a look for you, but it wouldn’t do any good. Want us to stick around in case this person you called doesn’t show up?” He turned to the child. “You don’t mind waiting, do you, Annie?”

The little girl shook her head, then started sucking her thumb. She glanced down at her picture book.

The father gently stroked her hair. And when he smiled up at Kristen again, there was nothing flirtatious about it. “Would you like us to wait?” he asked.

Kristen felt silly. She shrugged. “Actually, it’s been a while since I called these people. Maybe I should phone them again.” She nodded toward the center of town. “I think there’s a pay phone at this tavern just down Broadway. Would you mind giving me a lift?”

“Well, if you live around here, we can take you home.” He turned to his daughter again. “Should we give the nice lady a ride to her house, honey?

Breaking into a smile, the girl nodded emphatically. “Yes!” She even bounced in the passenger seat a little.

Kristen let out a tiny laugh. “I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

“Nonsense,” the man said, stepping out of the car. He left the motor running. “We’ve taken a vote and it’s unanimous. We’re driving you home.”

He touched Kristen’s shoulder on his way to the passenger door. He opened it, then helped the girl out of the front seat. “This is my daughter, Annabelle,” he said. “And her dolly, Gertrude.”

“This isn’t Gertrude!” the girl protested. “This is Daisy! Gertrude is home with—”

“Oops, sorry, sorry,” her father cut in. He gave Kristen a wink. “I’ve committed a major faux pas, getting the names of her dollies mixed up.” He opened the back door for his daughter. “C’mon, sweetheart, climb in back and buckle up. And hold on to Daisy. Let’s hurry up now. This nice lady is tired, and wants to go home.”

Kristen hurried back to her car, switched off the blinkers, locked the doors, and shut the hood. Then she returned to the station wagon. “I live on West Peninsula Drive,” she said, climbing into the front passenger seat. The man closed the door for her.

The car was warm, and smelled a little bit like French fries. She noticed an empty Coke can and a crumpled-up Arby’s bag on the floor by her feet.

The man walked around the front of the car, then got behind the wheel. He pulled out of the parking lot.

Kristen looked back at her broken-down Ford Probe. She’d call the tow company in the morning. Right now, she just wanted to get home and take a shower. She turned to the man and smiled. “I really appreciate this.”

Eyes on the road, he just nodded. He seemed very intent on his driving.

Kristen glanced over her shoulder at the little girl. “Thank you for giving me your seat, Annabelle.”

“You’re welcome,” the child said, her nose in the book.

“So, how old are you, Annabelle?”

The girl looked up at her and smiled. She really was beautiful—a little girl with an adult face. Kristin had seen photos of Jackie Kennedy and Elizabeth Taylor when they were around this child’s age, and they had that same haunting mature beauty to them.

“I’m four years old,” she announced proudly.

“My, you’re almost a young lady!” Kristen turned forward again. “She’s gorgeous,” she said to the man.

But he didn’t reply. Another car sped toward them in the oncoming lane. Its headlights swept across his face. He had the same strange, cryptic smile Kristen had noticed when she first spotted him.

She squirmed a bit in the passenger seat. Moses Lake was an oasis. Just three minutes outside of the bright, busy resort town, it became dark desert, with a smattering of homes. Kristen and Brian’s town house was in the dark outskirts.

“Um, you need to take a left up here,” she said, pointing ahead. But he wasn’t slowing down. “It’s a left here,” she repeated. “Sir…”

He sped past the access road. “Oh, brother, I can’t believe I missed that,” he said, slowing down to about fifteen miles per hour. “I’m sorry. I’ll find a place to turn around here. I must be more tired than I thought. My reaction time is off.”

Biting her lip, Kristen wondered why he didn’t just make a U-turn. There was hardly any traffic.

“Here we go,” he announced, turning right onto a street marked DEAD END. They crawled past a few houses along the narrow road. Kristen counted six driveways he could have used to turn his car around. They inched by the last streetlight, and the darkened road became gravelly. Kristen noticed a house under construction on her right.

“I think there’s a turnaround coming up,” he said, squinting at the road ahead.

Kristen swallowed hard, and didn’t say anything. The car was barely moving. Its headlights pierced the unknown darkness ahead of them. “Can’t we—can’t we just back up and turn around?” she asked.

“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” he said. He shot a look in the rearview mirror. “How are you doing back there, honey? You tired?”

“Kind of,” the child replied with a whimper.

“She’s up way past her bedtime,” the man said. “But I needed her tonight. She’s Daddy’s little helper.”

The car came to a stop. The headlights illuminated the end of the road and a long barricade, painted with black-and-white diagonal stripes. Beyond that, it was just blackness.

Puzzled, Kristen stared at the man. “Why did you need your daughter tonight?”

He smiled at her—that same cryptic smirk. “If she weren’t here, you never would have climbed into this car with me.”

Daddy’s little helper.

All at once, Kristen realized what he was telling her. She quickly reached into her purse for the pepper spray. She didn’t see his fist coming toward her face.

She just heard the little girl give out a startled yelp. “Oh!”

That was the last thing Kristen heard before the man knocked her unconscious.

 

“God, please! Somebody help me!”

An hour had passed and they’d driven thirty-five miles.

The little girl sat alone in the front passenger seat of the old station wagon. With a tiny flashlight that had a picture of Barbie on it, she looked at her picture book.

“Please, no! Wait…wait…no…”

The woman’s shrieks seemed to echo through the forest, where the car was parked along a crude trail. But the child paid little attention. She turned the page of her book, and tapped at the dashboard with her toes. Cold and tired, she wanted to go home. She wondered when her daddy would be finished with his “work.”

When the screaming stops, that’s usually when he’s almost done.

She told herself it would be soon.

Seattle, Washington—fifteen years later

Someone had a Barenaked Ladies CD blasting. The music drifted out to the backyard—along with all the talking, laughing, and screaming from the party inside the townhouse. The place was a cheesy, slightly run-down rental down the street from the University of Washington’s fraternity row. Amelia wasn’t sure who was giving the party. A bunch of guys lived in the townhouse, sophomores like herself. One of them—a total stranger—had stopped her this morning when she’d been on her way to philosophy class, and he’d invited her. That happened to Amelia all the time. She was constantly getting asked to parties. It had something to do with the way she looked.

Amelia Faraday was tall, with a beautiful face and a gorgeous, buxom figure. She had shoulder-length, wavy black hair, and blue eyes. She also had a drinking problem, and knew it. So she’d declined many invitations to drink-till-you-drop campus bashes. Her boyfriend, Shane, didn’t like the idea of strange guys inviting Amelia to parties, anyway. Among their friends, they were nicknamed the Perrier Twins, because they always asked for bottled water at get-togethers.

But tonight, Amelia wanted a beer—several beers, in fact, whatever it took to get drunk.

A few people had staggered out to the small backyard where Amelia stood with a beer in one hand, and the other clutching together the edges of her bulky cardigan sweater. She gazed up at the stars. It was a beautiful, crisp October Friday night.

She had a little buzz. This was only her second beer and, already, results. It happened quickly, because she’d been booze-free for the last seven weeks.

Shane didn’t understand why she needed alcohol tonight. “Before you drink that beer,” he’d whispered to her a few minutes ago in the corner of the jam-packed living room, “maybe you should call your therapist. Explain to her why you need it so badly.”

In response, Amelia had narrowed her eyes at him, and then she’d chugged half the plastic cup full of Coors. She’d refilled the cup from the keg in the kitchen and wandered outside alone.

The truth was she hated herself right now. She was lucky to have a boyfriend like Shane. He was cute, with perpetually messy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and a well-maintained five o’clock shadow. He was sweet, and he cared about her. And his advice, patronizing as it seemed, had been practical. She’d tried to call her therapist this afternoon. But Karen had gone for the day.

So Amelia was left with these awful thoughts, and no one to help her sort them out. That was why she needed to get drunk right now.

Amelia’s parents and her aunt were spending the weekend at the family cabin by Lake Wenatchee in central Washington. Ever since this afternoon, she’d been overwhelmed with a sudden, inexplicable contempt for them. She imagined driving to the cabin and killing all three of them. She even started formulating a plan, though she had no intention of carrying it out. Her parents had mentioned there was construction this weekend on their usual route, Highway 2. The cabin would be a three-hour drive from Seattle, if she took Interstate 90 and Route 97, and didn’t stop. Her parents and aunt would be asleep when she arrived. She knew how to sneak into the cabin; she’d done it before. She saw herself shooting them at close range. As much as the notion bewildered and horrified her, it also made Amelia’s heart race with excitement.

If only Karen were around, Amelia could have asked her therapist about this hideous daydream. How could she have these terrible thoughts? Amelia loved her parents, and Aunt Ina was like her older sister, practically her best friend.

The only way to get these poisonous feelings out of her system was to flush them out with another kind of poison. In this case, it was another cupful of Coors from the keg in the kitchen.

Amelia was heading back in there when a young woman—a pretty Asian American with a red streak in her long black hair—blocked her path through the doorway. “Hey, do you have a cig? A menthol?” she asked, shouting over the noise. “I can’t find another person at this stupid party who smokes menthols.”

“No, but there’s a minimart about six blocks from here.” Amelia had to lean close to the girl and practically yell in her ear. “If you want, I can go get some for you. I have my boyfriend’s car, and I’m looking for an excuse to bolt out of here for a while.” She drained the last few drops of Coors from her plastic cup. “Just let me get the car keys from my boyfriend, and then we can go.”

Weaving through the crowd, Amelia made her way to Shane, who was still standing in the corner of the living room. Apparently, he’d decided that if she could fall off the wagon, so could he. He was passing a joint back and forth with some guy she didn’t know.

“Are you drunk yet?” he asked, gazing at her with half-closed eyes.

“No,” she lied, speaking up over the party noise. “In fact, I want to get out of here for a few minutes. Give me the car keys, will you?” With her thumb, she pointed to the other girl, who was behind her. “I’m driving my friend to the minimart for cigarettes. We’ll be right back. Okay?”

But she was lying. She had no intention of going to the minimart. She just needed his car.

Shane dug the keys out of his jeans pocket. He plopped them in her hand. “Do whatever you want to do,” he grumbled. “I don’t care.”

Amelia gave him a quick kiss. “Please, don’t be mad at me,” she whispered.

Shane started to put his arm around her, but she broke away and fled. She could hear the other girl behind her, saying something about her boyfriend being cute and that he looked like Justin Timberlake. Amelia didn’t really hear her. Threading through the mob of partygoers, she made her way back to the kitchen.

“Hey, wait up!” the girl yelled. “Hey, wait a minute!” But Amelia kept moving. She spotted a half-full bottle of tequila on the kitchen counter amid an assortment of empty bottles and beer cans. She swiped it up, and then tucked it inside the flap of her cardigan sweater. Heading out the kitchen door, Amelia found a walkway to the front of the house. As she hurried toward Shane’s beat-up VW Golf, she heard the girl screaming at her from the side of the townhouse. “Hey, don’t forget the cigs! I’ll pay you back! I need menthols! All right? Did you hear me?”

Amelia waved without looking back at her, and then she ducked inside Shane’s car. Starting up the engine, she stashed the tequila bottle under her seat, and then peeled out of the parking spot. She didn’t look in her rearview mirror as she sped down the street.

Four minutes later, she saw Marty’s MiniMart on the corner. Only a couple of cars were in the lot in front of the tacky little store; there was plenty of available parking.

But Amelia kept going, and headed for the interstate. If she didn’t make any stops along the way, she’d reach Lake Wenatchee by about two in the morning. The gas tank was three-quarters full.

Amelia pressed harder on the accelerator, and kept telling herself that she loved her parents and her Aunt Ina. She’d never do anything to harm them.

Never.

Ina McMillan hated these sinks with separate spouts for the hot and cold water. Washing her face, she had to cup her hands under the cold, and then switch over to the hot water. It was either scalding or freezing when Ina finally splashed her face. Water ran down her arms to her elbows, dampening the sleeves of her robe. What a pain in the ass. It was a major undertaking just to wash her face here.

She didn’t like Jenna and Mark’s cabin, and she hated the country. Ina was a city girl.

Actually, her sister and brother-in-law’s “weekend getaway” spot wasn’t a cabin. It was a slightly dilapidated little two-story Cape Cod–style house built in the fifties. There was a fallout shelter in the basement, along with a furnace that manufactured more noise than heat. Ina’s bedroom, with its cute dormer windows, slanted ceiling, and creaky twin beds, had a space heater that might as well have had FIRE HAZARD stenciled all over it. She’d been instructed not to leave the heater on overnight. Fine. Whatever. Either way, the room still felt damp, cold, and drafty.

The house was just off the lake, and cut off from the rest of civilization by rolling wooded hills that wreaked havoc on cell phone service. There wasn’t a landline phone either. For emergencies, they were supposed to run a half mile around the lake to this old lesbian neighbor’s house and use her phone. There was also a pay phone at a diner about three miles away at the mountain road junction.

Just what her sister and Mark saw in this godforsaken shack was a mystery to Ina. For a spot that was supposed to be so relaxing, everything was an ordeal. They couldn’t even drive up to the place. Mark had had to park the car by a turnaround on a bluff, and then they’d trekked down a steep trail through the forest, lugging their suitcases all the way. And, of course, Ina had overpacked.

She felt like an idiot for bringing along her lacy burgundy nightgown and the matching silk robe. Flannel pajamas would have been more appropriate.

The sexy nightwear had been a Christmas present from George last year, back when he’d thought it possible to rekindle some romance in their marriage. He was home with the kids right now. They’d agreed this weekend away from each other might do them some good—a time-out from all the tension.

She was silly to think it would be any less tense here, with Mark and her sister.

Ina dried off her face and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Even with her wild, wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, and no makeup, she was still pretty. How often did other 38-year-olds get mistaken for college girls? Well, that still happened to her sometimes. She had clear, creamy skin and blue eyes. And right now, the burgundy nightgown showed off her willowy figure to good advantage.

Padding down the hall to her room, Ina glanced over her shoulder at the partially open bedroom door. Mark and Jenna still had the light on. She half expected, half hoped Mark would come to the door and see her.

He was the reason she’d packed the burgundy nightgown ensemble. Ina wanted to look sexy for her sister’s husband.

But Mark wasn’t looking at her in the hallway. He was where he belonged, in bed with her sister.

Ina retreated into her damp, drafty little bedroom and, once again, wished she’d packed her flannel pj’s. With a sigh, she bent down and switched off the space heater. She turned down her bedcovers. She was about to take off her robe, but hesitated. She heard a noise outside, and suddenly stopped moving.

She listened to what sounded like footsteps. A hand over her heart, she crept to one of the dormer windows and looked down. Ina gasped.

Just below her, a dark figure darted between some bushes.

Reeling back from the window, she turned and raced down the hall. “Mark!” she called, but the word barely came out. She couldn’t get a breath. Ina burst into their bedroom. “There’s someone outside!” she whispered.

Mark and Jenna were sitting up in bed. “Are you sure?” he asked, putting his book aside.

She nodded urgently. “I saw someone—something—in the bushes right below my window.”

“Someone or something?” he asked.

Flustered, Ina gave a helpless shrug. “I—I’m not sure—”

“It was probably just a bear,” Jenna said, a copy of Vanity Fair in her hands. She was wearing her glasses and one of Mark’s T-shirts. “They come around all the time looking for food scraps in the garbage. They’re harmless.”

Ina hated the way her sister was talking to her as if she were a scared little girl. “Well, whatever it is,” she replied, still shaking, “this thing is right below my window, and it scared the shit out of me. What, do you expect me to go back in there and just fall asleep now? It looked like a person, Jenna.”

“I better check it out,” Mark grumbled, getting to his feet. “Could be our uninvited houseguest is back.”

Biting her lip, Ina watched him throw a robe over his T-shirt and boxer shorts. Mark was balding and a bit out of shape, but he still had a certain masculine sexiness. He slipped his bare feet into a pair of slippers. The uninvited houseguest was another reason she didn’t like this damn cabin.

When they’d arrived there earlier tonight, Mark and Jenna had noticed several things out of place. Someone had tracked mud onto the kitchen and living room floors. A few empty beer bottles, some cigarette butts, and a crumpled-up potato chip bag littered the pathway from the front porch to the lake. The intruder had even built a fire in the fireplace. Jenna wondered out loud if their daughter, Amelia, had stayed there on the sly with her boyfriend. But Mark, trusting soul that he was, insisted Amelia hadn’t touched a drop in weeks, and neither had Shane. Both were nonsmokers, too. So the empty beer bottles and cigarette butts couldn’t have been theirs.

Rolling her eyes, Jenna said he shouldn’t believe everything Amelia told him. Their daughter had a good heart, but she wasn’t exactly reliable—or honest. That was why Amelia was seeing a therapist once a week, to the tune of eighty bucks a pop.

Ina had tagged behind Jenna and Mark. They’d continued to bicker while searching the house for further signs of this uninvited guest. “Well, whoever was here, they’re long gone,” Mark had said, at last. He’d assured Ina that the culprit probably wouldn’t be back. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I keep a hunting rifle in the bedroom closet. We’ll be okay.”

Now, Ina watched him reach into the closet for that rifle. Cocking the handle, he checked the chamber to make sure it was loaded.

“Better bag this prowler on the first shot, Mark,” Jenna said, still sitting up in bed. She tossed her sister a droll look, then went back to her Vanity Fair. “The great white hunter only keeps one bullet in that stupid gun. The rest are in the kitchen drawer downstairs. He hasn’t fired that thing since—”

“Oh, would you just give it a rest?” Mark hissed. “Can’t you see she’s scared?”

“All I see is a lot of drama,” Jenna remarked, eyes on her magazine.

Mark ignored her, then brushed past Ina and started down the hall.

Frowning at her older sister, Ina lingered in the bedroom doorway for a moment. Finally, she retreated down the corridor and caught up with Mark on the stairs.

Like a soldier going into a sniper zone, Mark held the rifle in front of him, barrel end up. He paused near the bottom step. Ina hovered behind him. She was trembling. She looked at the front door and then the darkened living room. Logs still smouldered in the fireplace, their red embers glowing. The cushy old rocking chair beside the hearth was perfectly still. Ina didn’t see any sign of a break-in. Nothing was disturbed.

Mark crept to the front door and twisted the handle. “Locked,” he said.

Ina put her hand on his shoulder and sighed with relief.

He squinted at her. “Did you really see something outside?”

Ina scowled at him. “Of course. Why would I make that up?”

“All right, all right, take it easy,” he murmured.

Heading toward the kitchen, Mark stopped to switch on a lamp. Ina stayed on his heels. He checked the kitchen door. “We’re okay here, too,” he announced. Then he unlocked the door and opened it. “Stay put. I’ll look outside.”

“No, don’t leave me here alone!” she whispered.

“Relax. I’ll be two minutes at the most. Lock up after me if you’re so nervous.” He ducked outside.

Shivering, Ina stayed at the threshold for a moment, then she closed and locked the door. What was she supposed to do if he didn’t come back? She imagined hearing that gun go off, and then nothing. She couldn’t call the police; she couldn’t call anyone, because they had no phone service in this goddamn place.

Ina gazed out the kitchen window. She didn’t see Mark, and didn’t hear anything outside. The refrigerator hummed. It was an old thing from the sixties. The avocado color matched the stove. Gingerbread trim adorned the pantry shelves. The framed “Food Is Cooked With Butter and Love” sign—along with the worn, yellow dinette set—had been in Ina and Jenna’s kitchen when they were growing up. But these familiar things gave her no comfort right now.

And it wasn’t much help knowing Jenna was upstairs—if she should need her. What could Jenna do?

Her sister was being a real pill tonight. Maybe Jenna knew what had happened between Mark and her. Had Mark said something? This was their first weekend together since she and Mark had “slipped.” That was how Mark described it, like they’d had an accident, a little catastrophe. “It was a mistake. It never should have happened. It never would have happened if we weren’t going through this awful time right now. We just—slipped, Ina.”

It had been a rough summer. Mark and Jenna’s 17-year-old son, Collin, had drowned in May, and his death had sent the family into a tailspin. Collin’s sister, Amelia, became unhinged and almost unmanageable. They had put her on some kind of medication, and that helped. But there weren’t any pills Mark and Jenna could take to remedy their confusion, anger, and hurt. In their pain, they lashed out at each other.

One afternoon in early August, Mark came down to Seattle from their home in Bellingham, and he met Ina for a drink at the Alexis Hotel. He’d come to her for consolation. But they ended up talking about her problems with George. They also ended up in a room on the fifth floor—and in bed together.

She couldn’t believe it. Mark, her brother-in-law, of all people. She’d known him for eighteen years and, yes, when he’d first started dating Jenna, she’d had a bit of a crush on him. In his late twenties, he’d been a cute guy, but he’d gained a lot of weight and lost a lot of hair since then. Appearances were very important to Ina, and she’d married the right guy for that. She loved hearing her girlfriends describe George as a hunk. He taught history at the University of Washington, and she relished walking in on his classes from time to time. Whenever George introduced her to the class as his wife, Ina could tell which ones had crushes on him. She’d get these dagger looks from several girls (and often a guy or two) sitting in the front row. She knew they wanted what she had. Her husband was six foot two and kept in shape with visits to the gym three times a week. Sure, his thick black hair had started to gray at the temples, and his pale-green eyes now needed glasses for reading, but those specs made him look distinguished—and even sexier. Mark couldn’t hold a candle to George in the looks department. Yet her slightly chubby, balding brother-in-law had made her feel incredibly desirable in bed that afternoon at the Alexis. She’d never felt so sexy and attractive, so validated.

Still, as they were leaving the hotel, Mark started saying it had been a horrible mistake. They’d slipped. They were nice people—and married to nice people. This shouldn’t have happened. He blamed it on his grief and the number of drinks he’d had. (Only two scotches; she’d counted.) But Ina knew better. He’d always been attracted to her, and what had happened in the Alexis that afternoon had been long overdue.

She, too, regretted “slipping,” but a part of Ina still wanted Mark to find her desirable. Even if nothing ever happened again, she wanted to be desired. And for that she deserved her sister’s snippy attitude tonight.

She took another look out the window. The trees and bushes swayed slightly in the wind. On a quiet night like this, she thought she should have been able to hear Mark’s footsteps. But there wasn’t a sound.

A chill raced through her, and Ina rubbed her arms. She glanced at the doorway to the cellar, open just an inch, and beyond that, darkness. They should have checked down there—in the furnace room and the fallout shelter. Mark and Jenna used it for storage. It was a perfect hiding place.

Moving over to the sink, Ina grabbed a steak knife from the drain rack. She checked the cellar door again. The opening seemed wider than before. Or was it just her imagination? She told herself that if someone was on those rickety old basement steps, she’d have heard the boards creaking. Still, she studied the murky shadows past that cellar doorway. With the knife clutched in her hand, Ina hurried to the basement door and shut it.

The clock on the stove read 12:20. Mark had been gone at least five minutes. How long did it take to circle around this little house? Something was wrong. “C’mon, Mark, c’mon,” she murmured, looking out the window again.

She thought about calling upstairs to her sister. Why should she be the only one worried? But Jenna was probably asleep already.

Ina unlocked the kitchen door, opened it, and glanced outside. The cold air swept against her bare legs and her robe fluttered. Shivering, she held on to the knife. “Mark?” she called softly. “Mark? Where are you? Can you hear me?”

She waited for a moment, and listened.

Then she heard it—a rustling sound, and twigs snapping underfoot. “Mark?” she called out again, more shrill this time. “Mark, please, answer me…”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replied, emerging from the shadows of an evergreen beside the house. He carried the hunting rifle at his side, and seemed frazzled. “You were right,” he said, out of breath. “Something was out there. I don’t know if it was two-legged or four-legged, but I chased it halfway up the trail.”

Dumbfounded, Ina stepped back as he ducked inside.

“We’re okay now,” he said, shutting the door and locking it. “Whatever it was, it’s not coming back.” He set the rifle on the breakfast table, then reached into one of the cupboards. “Jesus, it’s cold as a polar bear’s pecker out there. I think we could both use a shot of Jack.”

Ina set the knife down beside the gun. She watched him pull a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the cupboard. He retrieved two jelly glasses with the Flintstones on them and poured a shot of the bourbon into each one.

“Has this kind of thing ever happened here before?” she asked warily.

Shaking his head, Mark handed her a glass. “Not quite. We’ve had bears come up to the house, like Jenna was saying. But I don’t think this was a bear.” He took a swig of bourbon.

Ina sipped hers. “What makes you so sure this…creature isn’t coming back?”

“Because it was running so fast. The damn thing must be in another zip code by now. But to be on the safe side, I’ll pull guard duty down here for another hour or so.”

“I’ll keep you company,” she offered.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Ina.”

She let out an awkward, little laugh. “Why? Are you afraid we might ‘slip’ again?”

Mark sighed. “I told you before. It won’t happen a second time. And it sure as hell ain’t gonna happen with Jenna sitting in bed upstairs. God, Ina, what’s wrong with you?”

Glaring at him, she gulped down the rest of her bourbon, and then firmly set the glass on the kitchen counter. “I was just asking a simple question. That wasn’t a come-on, you asshole.”

She started to head out of the kitchen, but he grabbed her arm. “Listen…” But he didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, he sighed and let go of her arm. “We’re both tired and on edge, saying things we don’t mean. Just—just let’s call it a night, okay?”

Ina didn’t say anything to him, but she nodded.

“I’m going upstairs to say goodnight to Jenna. Then I’ll come back down here to keep watch. You should head up and try to get some sleep.” He poured some more Jack Daniel’s into her Flintstones glass. “Here. Have another blast of this. It’ll help you doze off.”

“Thanks,” Ina said, taking the glass, and moving toward the sink. She still wasn’t looking at him. But she could see his reflection in the darkened window as he stepped out of the kitchen.

Ina took a gulp of the bourbon. It was warming and took a bit of the edge off.

She listened to the staircase floorboards creaking. She just assumed it was Mark on his way up to the second floor.

Ina didn’t consider the possibility that the sound might be coming from the cellar steps.

 

The toilet flushing woke her.

Ina had nodded off for only a few minutes. She’d come up to bed about an hour ago, leaving Mark down in the living room with his hunting rifle. As Ina had reached the top of the stairs, she’d heard Jenna calling to her. She’d poked her head into the master bedroom.

Her sister was lying in bed with the light on. “Listen, I’m sorry I’ve been such an unbearable shrew today,” Jenna said, not lifting her head from the pillow. “You must want to clobber me.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Ina said. “Go to sleep.”

Jenna gazed up at the ceiling. Ina noticed, in this light, her sister was looking old and a bit careworn, and it made her sad. Neither one of them was young anymore.

“I think Mark has been with someone,” Jenna said.

Ina let out a skittish laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s having an affair, or at least, he’s had one. I can tell. By any chance, did he say something to George? He’s close with George.”

Ina shook her head.

“You’d tell me if you knew, wouldn’t you? If George said something to you about it?”

“Of course, I’d tell you,” Ina said. She sat down on the edge of the bed, on Mark’s side. “Jenna, Mark loves you. He’s not seeing anyone else. That’s just nonsense. You’re worrying about nothing.”

“Maybe,” Jenna allowed, sighing. “Jesus, I’m so messed up. Nothing’s been right since Collin died. I feel like a zombie half the time. It’s as if I were walking around with a piece of my insides cut out. It hurts, Ina. It’s not just emotional either. It’s a—a true physical. . .