Page 50 of The Hunter
I looked straight into it and smiled before unlatching the deadbolt.
The door didn’t lead to the outside like I’d expected. It opened into a garage the size of the cabin itself. Concrete floors. The faint tang of gasoline in the air. A variety of tools hanging along the walls.
But taking up most of the space was a wide assortment of vehicles. A boat. Jet skis. Snowmobiles. A pristine black pickup truck. And a red Jeep Wrangler that practically whispered freedom. My fingers itched at the sight of the keys hanging on the wall by the door, shiny and temptingly within reach.
But then I caught a glimpse of yet another red light above one of the massive garage doors. He had cameras in here, too.
Even if I got the door open, even if I made it to the road, I had no idea where I was. And he’d find me. I had no doubt about that.
Escape would take more than impulse.
It would take planning.
I stepped back, slowly closing the door, and returned to the main part of the house, opening cabinets and drawers in the kitchen.
Bread. Cereal. Pasta. A half-full jar of peanut butter. Nothing screamed dark secrets or sociopath. Just…food. Like any normal house.
But Henry Fontaine was not normal.
I doubted I’d unravel the mystery of who he was and why I was here tucked between a box of oatmeal and a sleeve of crackers.
Growing increasingly frustrated, I retreated from the kitchen and eventually made my way toward the study.
Except it wasn’t a study. Not in the way I imagined.
I expected a desk, maybe a small bookshelf, some papers.
What I stepped into was a private library. An entire room dedicated to books. Built-in shelves covered every inch of wall space, some stacked two deep. The smell of old pages andcedar filled the air like incense, and for a moment, I was too overwhelmed to move.
I wandered between shelves, my fingertips trailing along the spines. Some were pristine, others cracked and weathered. A lifetime of reading lived in this room.
And I wanted to read every single one. Obviously, these books were important enough to Henry to own. And each one could be a clue as to who he was.
But where to begin?
I continued perusing the shelves, mentally cataloguing the wide range of genres represented, when one book in particular caught my eye.
Worn. Faded. The gold lettering on the spine barely legible.
The Secret Garden.
It had clearly been read again and again. Thumbed through. Savored. Maybe even cried over.
Glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was alone, I removed the book from the shelf and carefully opened the cover.
On the first page was a handwritten note in neat, feminine script.
To my Spencer,
May you always find the door to your own garden, no matter how lost it feels. You are loved beyond all measure.
Love,
Mom
My throat tightened, and I stared at the words. The ink was faded, the page soft with age, but the words were alive. Tender. A memory in written form.
It could have been something he picked up at a used book store, but I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it than that. That this book was special. That he kept it for a reason.
