Page 45 of Lake House Killer

Dark.

I can hardly breathe as I press my back against the cold wall of the shed. My breath plumes white in the frozen air.

“Hey,” I say to the girl lying on her side.

I don’t know who she is, but late last night she was shoved through the door in haste. She dropped to the ground, flat on her face, and lay as still as a corpse for almost twenty-four hours as far as I can tell.

When they shoved her inside, the board used to cover the small window over the door dislodged just enough to let in a seam of light once the sun came out. And now that the moon is full, the entire shed glows an eerie shade of blue.

I’m weak.

No water for days will do that, right before it kills you.

These beads I’ve been sucking on taste like sawdust mixed with something acrid. It took me a good while to figure out it’s kibble of some sort.

Damien and I weren’t big on pets. We traveled so much for our work, and for research purposes, too.

I’m not too familiar with pet food.

I guess I’m making up for lost time.

I guess I’m the pet.

The night chill seeps through the thin walls, and I shudder, pulling my knees closer to my chest. Every small noise startles me, from the scurrying of a rat to the distant howl of wind. It’s been days now, or maybe it’s been hours?

Time blurs when you’re waiting for a nightmare to end. And it will end, even if it’s the end of me.

But there’s been a new development—a plot twist if you will.

A girl, younger than me, but old enough to be one of Damien’s tramps, I suppose. And even if she is—was, I feel sorry for her.

The girl looks pretty.

She has red hair, lots of it. It’s a color I would have died for—or dyed for. But I was never brave enough to go in that direction. I’ve always played it safe. That’s one thing I’m determined to change. No more playing it safe, if I ever manage to get out alive.

A soft moan breaks the silence, and I scoot her way.

“It’s okay.” My voice comes from me in a threadbare whisper. And even that manages to strangle me.

I haven’t heard a voice in days, not even my own.

“Come on,” I whisper. “You can do it. Wake up. You’ve got a nasty gash on your head. Whatever you do, don’t die on me.”

I also saw that her hands were cuffed behind her back. I tried to remove them. Not sure why I’m not cuffed. I should probably be insulted.

But I don’t have the heart to tell the girl exactly how dire the situation is. She’ll figure it out soon enough. That is, if her brain hasn’t been scrambled.

She stirs as she lifts her head a notch, her body still cocooned on its side.

I move in front of her so she can see me in the dim light—if she can manage to open her eyes.

And then her lids flutter and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Confusion and pain quickly etch across her face.

“Who—who are you?” Her voice is raspy and just barely above a whisper as she tries to orient herself in the gloom.

“My name is Lydia,” I whisper back without meaning to, but at the moment this is top volume for me. “Lydia Cole. Are you okay?”

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