Page 4 of Lake House Killer

Something stirs in the woods and I squint that way. I could swear on my life that I just saw a shadow traipse by. It could be a coyote but seemed bigger than that. It could be a bear. It’s early fall; they’re still doing their thing. Or it could be a person.

It could be a killer.

This could be my last night on Earth—for all of us.

I shake the thought out of my head.

A breeze pushes in through the window and I drink it down, trying my best to let all of my anxieties float right out of me.

It’s clear that the two-hour plotting session we just endured is getting to me. It’s just the aftereffects of the thousands of twisted mystery plots we dissected and rebuilt tonight.

The stories always find a way to linger in the corners of my mind, more so in the solitude of night. I’ve never been good at letting my characters, and the dark situations I put them in, rest. Cornwall is built different. I’m too much of a chicken when it comes to all the death and murder I spend hours crafting in my story worlds. That’s exactly why I sleep with a nightlight back home. And probably why I can’t sleep here.

It’s dark as a coffin in that room. Okay, so there was a sliver of moonlight, but still, that was just enough to fuel more fodder in my twisted mind.

I do my best to shake off the unease, head to the kitchen, and fill a glass of water before making my way back to where I came from.

I sneak into the room where Cornwall’s snoring hits an all new octave, land the glass of water next to me, and tuck myself back under the covers without so much as taking a sip.

So much for that.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, and feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness. The secrets will have to wait until morning and so will my escape plan.

I’m just about to nod off when the sharp creak of a floorboard pulls me back from the edge and my eyes snap open in the darkness.

I hold my breath and strain my ears. Sure enough, the sound of footsteps can be heard creeping along the stairs, slow and deliberate. It’s probably just Damien or Lydia.

Maybe they’re having a hard time sleeping as well?

Although it’s probably not Lydia. For starters, she doesn’t weigh enough to make the stairs or anything else squeak, and the way she was drinking tonight, I don’t expect to see her until two in the afternoon tomorrow.

A small part of me breathes a sigh of relief that I hadn’t bumped into either of them during my midnight water run. Given the unsavory revelations that were spilled my way, the last thing I want is a face-to-face with either of them—especially in the dark.

The footsteps draw nearer and a whole new sense of unease washes over me.

Why are they walking so slowly?

They seem too careful, too quiet.

My heart starts to pound well into my ears.

The door to our room creaks open and a breath catches in my throat.

“I think you got the wrong room,” I say playfully, just above a whisper and a silhouette pauses in the doorway.

They take another step inside and I can hear the sound of their breathing picking up.

“No mistakes here,” they say back, just a touch louder.

An explosion shatters the silence and a scream gets locked in my throat.

Cornwall and I sit up at the same time.

“What the hell?” he shouts, but no sooner does he get the words out than another blast goes off and nails him in the chest.

Cornwall grunts before slumping onto me and a scream drills from my throat before three more shots are fired and my body bucks twice in response.

White-hot pain shoots through my arm and my chest. I try to draw my next breath, but I can’t seem to do it.

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