Page 50 of Lake House Killer

They made me do this, and now everyone has to pay.

They underestimated me. They thought they could dismiss me.

But soon, very soon, they’ll understand the gravity of their oversight.

The sound of soft sobbing filters through the walls and I pause for a moment.

It’s almost a shame it has to end this way for Lydia, but collateral damage is inevitable in any great undertaking. And that FBI agent, stumbling right into my hands?

At this point, she’s a bonus I hadn’t dared hope for.

“I hope you two are comfortable,” I call out with mock concern.

No reply, not even the sound of movement.

Good. Fear should keep them in line.

I empty out two gasoline cans and toss them to the side. I won’t need them anymore. They’ve met their purpose. Just like the women behind those walls.

It’s time to unleash a little hell.

I head back up the trail as evening falls hard, embracing the darkness. It suits me.

After all, by the time morning rolls around, Sugar Pine Lake will awaken to a nightmare it will never forget.

32

Special Agent Jack Stone

Welcome to Sugar Pine Lake Thriller Fest! Uncover the mystery! But beware—the plot thickens with every turn.

Below that a smaller sign boasts of over fifty authors at tonight’s signing.

Hundreds of people have shown up for the event, if not a thousand.

“Buddy would have loved this,” I say to Fallon after we ante up at the ticket counter and head inside.

“Buddy would have tried to eat all the books,” she says, looking a bit like a naughty librarian with her hair pulled back into a bun, dressed in a navy pantsuit, and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses on.

I’ve only ever seen her wear them when she’s bearing down on her laptop.

“I fed him,” she says. “Then set him up with the TV and some more of that new kibble in case he feels the need for a snack.”

“I told you he’d love that kibble.” I nod to her specks. “Since when do you wear glasses?”

“They’re my readers. I prefer them in environments like this. My eyes have gotten so used to them I can’t read without them. And don’t you dare make a remark about my age. I’m still younger than you.”

I raise my arms. “I may not look smart, but I’m not dumb either.”

The community center is buzzing with deafening chatter as bodies bustle every which way. Women and men alike, an even split, rush in every direction with a marked enthusiasm as if they were about to meet their heroes and I’m guessing a lot of them are.

But it’s the thick, sweet scent of books that takes me back to my scholastic days.

A hive of crime and mystery enthusiasts swarms the grand hall, decked out in every trope and cliché the genre has to offer.

Cobwebbed corners with faux crime scenes, bookstands stacked with tales of murder, and posters of book covers are blown up and scattered about like billboards. The entire community center is an altar to the macabre tonight, lit by dim, atmospheric lighting that casts long shadows across the faces of attendees.

Rows and rows of authors sit at expansive tables, and next to each of them are stacks of shiny new novels. And each one of those authors seems to have a line of more than eager fans waiting to garner an autographed novel.

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