Page 3 of Lake House Killer

It all felt like such a relief. We really should do this more often.

Cornwall and I don’t attend many writers’ retreats, mostly because when two writers live together they are a writers’ retreat in and of themselves, a permanent one, but still. Although these past few nights prove that we need new blood to get recharged, and that’s exactly what this has been, a proverbial refilling of the well.

But as the night wore on, Lydia cornered me in the den and began to prattle on about their lives in Briarwood and the horrible fights they’ve been in with their psychotic neighbor.

She went on and on about the horrors that man has inflicted on them, detailing a series of encounters ranging from savagely vandalizing their flowerbeds to disputes over property lines and noise complaints. He sounds like the neighbor from hell. And when I said so, Lydia laughed and said that hell was what Damien was putting her through. That’s when she let the darkness seep from her mouth and aired out the dirty laundry I never wanted to know.

She was obviously buoyed by one too many glasses of wine. Now her words claw at my consciousness, refusing to be stilled. She spoke of tensions, of betrayals festering beneath the surface of her marriage, and then the darker details that have tattooed themselves onto my gray matter without permission. And even though her revelations may have been given in a private, intimate conversation, I’ll forever be burdened with the unwanted knowledge.

The hour wears on and I do my best to wrestle with sleep, but it’s clear I’m not winning that war any time soon. Instead of resting up for another day of my restful retreat, I’m ruminating over Cynthia’s words as if they were a monologue I have to recite.

Now what? It’s clear we can’t stay here.

The lodge that’s hosting the book signing still has vacancies. Cornwall and I will make up an excuse in the morning. Maybe we’ll say his back is killing him? Maybe it will be my back. Nonetheless, I need an escape from the accidental confessional that took place.

I’m pretty sure Cynthia will be embarrassed once she realizes what transpired. That is, if she remembers it at all. She was pretty blasted. The amount of ethanol emitting from her breath was enough to power the space station.

Yes, tomorrow, we will find a way to leave. But for now, I’m wide awake, pondering the cost of secrets too heavy for me to hold.

Cornwall’s snoring hits a crescendo that seems to vibrate through the cabin’s darkened walls and my mind drifts toward the upcoming Sugar Pine Thriller Fest.

I look forward to that author signing every year. It’s essentially a chance to step into the limelight, however briefly. Although my presence at these things has always been a little lackluster. There are always newer authors, younger authors, far more charming authors scattered about the ballroom, luring readers to their tables by way of free water bottles, stickers, and ridiculous slap-on bracelets. Stickers, for Pete’s sake.

This is a thriller convention, not a third grade trip to the library. But then, that’s what nabbed the masses last year.

That and the fact that younger, shinier authors all looked so hip, so Goth, so decked out like the villain from one of their books. I wore a plum-colored pantsuit and had my roots touched up for the occasion. I’ve brought the same pantsuit along in navy this year and once again touched up my roots, but I’m suddenly feeling as if I’ve left a few important items off the list.

Maybe I should run into town and get my nails done? The signing isn’t until next week. A moody color, maybe black. I could probably find something snazzy to wear in one of the boutiques that lines the lake. Something leather.

This year things should be different. It’ll be a new me. An edgier me. Maybe I’ll be the one in black from head to toe. I’ll pick up some edgy jewelry to go along with it. A few statement pieces.

Last year one of the authors had a necklace in the shape of a silver snake that sat with its tongue dipping between her boobs. Maybe I’ll find something like that.

I’ll stand out, not just blend into the background like part of the furniture.

A dull laugh pumps from me, then a light cough.

I should get some water and try to convince the sandman to visit once again.

My feet swing over the edge of the bed as I make my way to the door as quiet as can be.

Maybe I should decorate my signing table a bit more as well? I could buy some fake skulls and maybe a few black candles.

How’s that for edgy?

Maybe next year those young bucks will lose a night of sleep trying to come up with a way to out-edge me.

I step into the hallway. The wooden steps creak softly underfoot as I head downstairs, and the nightlight glowing in the kitchen is there to guide me the rest of the way.

The cabin is immaculate, glorious in every way. I had no doubt it would be, considering the combined income of Damien and Lydia must be nearing seven figures. They both outsell Cornwall and me.

But then, maybe this year, at Sugar Pine Thriller Fest, I’ll finally capture the attention my work deserves.

The cabin feels different at night as if it’s a living, breathing being with a life of its own. Slumbering and snoring as the hum of the refrigerator whirls quietly.

Just before I reach the kitchen, I pause to glance out the window into the black expanse and a shiver runs through me.

It’s so eerie out here. So very quiet. There’s not another cabin around that the eye can see, just the four of us and every woodland creature that calls this place home.

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