Page 15 of Lake House Killer

Buddy was so pumped just hearing the words dog park, he practically handed Riley the leash himself. If I’ve learned anything about Buddy in the short time I’ve had him, it’s that he likes running loose on fresh-cut grass as much as he enjoys wolfing down a pizza—and you can add eggs and bacon to that list, too. Come to think of it, just about any food will do. He’s not that picky when it comes to his meals. He has a lot in common with Jack in that respect.

Outside the windows, Colorado in fall is a showstopper. The road unfurls before us like a ribbon through colorful landscapes where the aspens are ablaze with gold and red, their leaves fluttering in the breeze like miniature flames.

Briarwood begins to materialize ahead, with its pristine, manicured lawns and sprawling estates, and it’s a stark contrast to the rugged, natural beauty that surrounds it. The town is lined with mammoth houses perched on high, overseeing valleys that roll out beneath them.

Briarwood is ritzy. And seeing that I don’t fall into a tax bracket anywhere near its residents explains the fact why I’ve never been here.

An entire slew of luxury cars glides along the streets, and every polished nook and cranny projects exclusivity and wealth. The air feels different, too—crisper, somehow more refined, as if even the atmosphere is aware of its affluent residents. But despite the beauty of the season, my mind strays to the potential dangers regardless of the mask of Briarwood’s opulent façade.

Jack turns down the radio as we get closer to the Coles’ neighborhood.

“Are you done kicking yourself?”

I glance over at him and frown. “How did you know I was kicking myself?”

He shrugs. “You’re too quiet. And the fact you kept scowling and shaking your head was a dead giveaway, too.”

“Okay, Mr. FBI Behavioral Analyst, let’s put you to work on what Owen Marcus is thinking.” I click into the notes I took last night on my phone. “Fifty-eight. Divorced. No kids. Owns High Spirits, a successful THC-infused beverage brand.”

“I’m getting thirsty just thinking about it.” He chuckles to himself. “Kidding. Mostly.”

“Very funny,” I say as we slip into a meticulously manicured neighborhood where the tract houses are cookie cutters of one another, but what a luxurious cookie it is. “There it is, the Cole residence,” I say, pointing to the white house with black trim. “That’s the address, and that’s what we saw on Google Street View last night. That tan wonder next to it belongs to Owen.”

No sooner do I get the words out than a truck backs out of Owen’s driveway and Jack quickly pulls over to keep out of sight.

“Black SUV,” I say it low as if Owen himself could hear me. “That’s our man.”

“But is it our killer?” Jack drums his fingers over the steering wheel as Owen’s truck leaves the track. “I say we follow him.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Let’s hope we don’t end up in Canada or Mexico.”

“You never know, he could be hunting down another victim.”

Follow him we do. And I’ll admit, Jack is pretty good at staying behind and staying off the guy’s radar. We follow Owen Marcus down to the main thoroughfare for about twenty minutes before he pulls right into a Cost Club Box Store.

“Looks as if all Owen Marcus will be hunting down this afternoon is a few bargains to fill his fridge with,” I say.

“Ah, well, when in Rome.” Jack pulls out his wallet and quickly wags his Cost Club card at me. “I’ve got an empty fridge of my own. What a coincidence. You up for a little shopping?”

I reach for the door. “May as well watch you clean the place out of frozen pizza and donuts.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” he teases as we head for the entrance.

It will be interesting to see what Owen Marcus fills his cart with.

Makes me wonder if he’s recently acquired another mouth to feed.

10

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

The interior of Cost Club is a vast expanse of Goliath shelves and wide aisles teeming with shoppers.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the space, casting a stark glow over everything from towering stacks of canned goods to the miles of refrigerated sections in the back brimming with fresh produce and dairy.

The place is packed to the hilt, but it’s relatively quiet with each shopper minding their own carts as they drift from gigantic aisle to aisle.

“Organized chaos at its finest,” I say as families and individuals alike navigate their carts like seasoned pilots in pursuit of the best bulk deals. “I’ve been a few times, but I’m not a member.”

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