Page 23 of Lake House Killer

My lids flutter open, only to find a pressing darkness wrapped around me like a shroud. The air is damp and frozen, filled with the musty scent of old wood and something metallic I can’t quite place.

My fingers run across the floor I’m lying on and a layer of dirt covers them. It feels like wood beneath me, but this is definitely not a home. A barn, maybe?

I feel for a leash or a tether, but my hands and feet are free of any confinement.

Snatches of the other night come back to me in jags. I was drinking wine, lots and lots of wine. Too much wine apparently.

I was talking to Cindy.

A hard moan evicts from me. That card game comes back to me. Then hours of poring over our latest works in progress. More liquor. I distinctly remember telling her about Damien’s latest escapade. The look on her face was pure horror.

Is that what this is about?

Cynthia?

No. Cornwall, now he could be grumpy, but?—

Then it comes back. The loud bang. Damien and I rousing from a dead sleep.

Damien shouted something about gunshots and sprang out of bed and, of course, I followed him.

Two more shots were fired and I felt that blast ricochet right through my bones.

The next thing I knew we were in the hallway. A dark figure came at me and something powerful jolted through my chest, then again over my shoulder.

I run my hand over my clothes. I’m still in the sweats I fell into bed with. My fingers tap over my skin and feel just above my heart where my skin feels sensitive to the touch. Was I grazed by a bullet? It feels like a burn. Whatever it was, they got me good with it.

Now what?

“Help.” My voice is hoarse, more of a croak than the scream I intended. “Is anyone there?”

My voice echoes slightly as silence greets me.

“DAMIEN,” I shout, hoping my husband is nearby, hoping he’s looking for me. But there’s no response, just the oppressive darkness.

Who would do this?

Why?

Why me?

Maybe they want money?

Maybe there’s a ransom?

Damien will pay it.

People must know I’m missing, right? Damien knows. Doesn’t he? Unless, of course, he’s dead.

Tears come and I can’t stop them.

Yes, I hated him at times. Most of the time as of late, but we’re not done. That man does not get to die on my watch. I don’t care who this psychopath is that did this. They don’t get to take him down.

That’s my job.

I strain to hear any sound that might mean rescue—a footstep, a voice, anything. But there’s only the low, eerie creak of wood, perhaps the structure settling, It’s hard to tell what’s happening in this sensory void where time and space seem to lose all meaning.

Tears well up, hot and desperate.

---