Page 53 of Lake House Killer

“There has got to be a way out of here,” I pant. “I’ve got news for whoever has us holed up in here. We’re not going to sit and wait for whatever comes next.”

The words strum from me, mostly to bolster my own courage more than anything else. But then, I’ve always believed the words that come from my mouth, even if they’re not true.

“This place is virtually empty,” she says. “We were getting ready to tear it down. It’s a fire hazard mostly.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. But I don’t dare say that out loud.

In the corner, my fingers brush against a dusty tarp, and half-buried beneath is?—

“Bingo,” I say, practically singing the words. “I’ve got something,” I say, feeling the long wooden handle that leads to a triangulated metal finish. “It’s a shovel or a spade, I think.”

Its weight is a comfort to me as I grasp it firmly.

Something solid in this constant darkness.

“Stay back,” I instruct Lydia, as the moonlight pours over the newfound weapon in my hands.

My wrists are still tethered together with my own cuffs, but it’s not nearly the obstacle my captor was hoping it’d be.

I make my way to the door, allowing the sliver of light pouring in from the partially boarded window to guide me.

“I’m guessing it’s nailed shut or something is butted up against it,” I say. “Either way, we’re busting out of this place.”

Positioning myself at the door, I wedge the shovel’s edge into the frame and leverage my weight against the aged wood. The old hinges groan under the force as if protesting each push and pull as I work the shovel like a makeshift crowbar.

Lydia’s breathing grows shallow as she inches her way over. “You’re really doing it,” she pants with awe.

With a final determined yank, the spade snaps right off the handle and sends splinters flying. Sparks go off, and within seconds a wall of flames lights up the window above.

We watch in horror as every wall in this small wooden cage glows from the outside a horrific shade of red.

The entire shed is going up in flames with a roar.

I shake my head at the horror. “What in the fresh hell?”

That’s exactly what I was afraid of.

“All right, Lydia,” I pant as I back up from the door. “It’s do or die. And we are not dying. But I most certainly fit to kill.”

I charge the door and kick at it as if my life depends on it.

It does.

So does Lydia’s.

34

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

“Owen,” I say as the tall wall of muscles approaches us here in the heart of Thriller Fest. He certainly has enough muscles to kidnap Lydia, kidnap Nikki, and smash Nora Archer’s head in with a brick.

“Agent Baxter, Agent Stone.” He nods our way.

Owen Marcus is dressed to the nines in a dark gray suit, matching tie, and shoes so shiny you can see your reflection in them. The scent of spiced cologne emanates from him, a touch too strong, and he looks as if he’s headed out on a business meeting rather than a leisurely stroll through a hall full of thriller authors.

He leans in and any hint of a smile evaporates. “Any word on Nikki?”

“None,” Jack says sharply. “Care to offer up any clues?”

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