Page 42 of Lake House Killer

Good for Nikki for having some standards for once. And I mean once.

“She left around ten?” Fallon blinks at the guy in disbelief.

I know what she’s thinking. Nikki should have answered our messages by now.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Thanks, Owen. I’m sure we’ll be speaking again.”

We take off for my truck.

“Hey,” he shouts. “Ask her to call me.”

I hope to heaven she can call anyone.

26

Special Agent Jack Stone

Nikki lives on the other side of the falls in a small town called Silver Peak.

Fallon and I drive straight to her place, a small condo that faces the falls. Nice view. Nice neighborhood. Nice little town. But all of the nice will be wiped right off this place if Nikki isn’t in it.

“Her driveway is empty,” I say as we jump out of my truck. “She could have parked in the garage.”

Buddy traipses by our side as we head to the front. A wreath comprised of oak leaves sits on the door. I give a violent knock, sending that wreath to the ground.

Fallon moves it to the side and Buddy sniffs it as if wagering whether or not he should take a bite out of it.

We ring the doorbell, text once again, and call—but nothing.

“She’s not answering.” Fallon gives the doorknob a jiggle. “I say we go in the old-fashioned way.” She pulls back and kicks the lock right off its base and the door opens up with ease. “Nikki?” she calls out as we step inside. “I owe you a new door!”

The place is quiet as a tomb as Fallon and I race from room to room.

Buddy does the same while sniffing away and giving a soft woof every now and again as if even he, too, senses something is off.

The place is sparsely furnished, girly, with lots of flower prints. I’ve been here a time or two. Nothing looks out of place.

We head up to her bedroom.

“Bed is still made,” Fallon points out. “I’m getting the feeling she didn’t come home last night.” She looks my way. “Let’s check the garage.”

We race downstairs and enter the garage through the kitchen door.

“Empty,” I growl. “Let’s get back in the truck. We’re going to Denver.”

I speed us all the way to the Oasis and we circle that dive bar twice.

No sign of her car.

“The night we were here”—Fallon lifts a hand as if the thought were still forming—“parking was a bear. We weren’t anywhere near the club.”

“I bet it was the same last night,” I say as we widen our search, one block, two blocks, then three blocks out.

“Right there,” Fallon calls out as she points to a red sedan sitting next to a dumpster in the back of a beauty parlor.

We get out of my truck and look in the windows.

“It’s hers,” I say, nodding to the holster wadded up on her backseat.

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