Page 74 of The Souls of Lost Lake
“How many others?” Wren asked.
Wayne raised his brows as he considered and drew in a deep breath. “The Coons family, two murders after them, Trina...” His voice wobbled. “Others.”
“Others?”
Wayne tapped his fingers on the table. “A hunter went missing in the sixties. His bodywasfound, and a gunshot wound apparently killed him. But he was missing for quite some time, and no one could ever figure out how he shot himself. It was an awkward angle and didn’t suit a suicide or an accident.”
“Murder?”
Wayne met her eyes. He was daring her to argue with his theories. “Who knows.”
“So, one hunter?” Wren attempted to grasp at reason. “And his story has nothing to do with Trina—or Ava Coons.”
Wayne scowled. “So you say.”
“Jasminesawher,” Meghan insisted quietly from her corner in the booth. “ShesawAva Coons.”
Wayne reached over and patted Meghan’s hand. “I believe you.”
Of course Wayne would say that. Wren glared at him. But while she glared, she hated the parts of her that believed Meghan too. The irrational parts that told her, before Ava Coons murdered her family, these woods had been a peaceful place. A place of respite. Of nature. Of God’s creation. Now they were acres upon acres of land still overshadowed by a murderous Ava Coons.
30
Wren parked her truck and shut off the engine. Here she was. Back at the town park, staring at the small playground, her eyes scanning the woods where Jasmine had supposedly seen “Ava Coons”—or some rendition of the ghostly murderess. An actual abductor? Perhaps. Sitting in her truck, Wren forced herself to take some deep breaths. Pray. Attempting to calm herself after Wayne Sanderson. Perhaps the man had ideas that might help, but telling them to the mother of the missing child? There was something intense about Wayne. Wren couldn’t put her finger on it. There were amateur sleuths interested in cold cases and legends, and then there were obsessed individuals who inserted themselves into actual crimes for the thrill of it ... or because they were invested in it personally for some reason.
And now Wren was here. At the park. Indulging her own questions, insecurities, and conspiracies. She had reluctantly dropped Meghan off at the library. Meghan wanted to be alone, but Wren knew better. She was going to research. Search for clues. Do what the police were already doing—and with better resources. When Wren offered to stay, Meghan had been adamant that she needed time alone. Since the library was public, Wren wasn’t too concerned about Meghan, but she still didn’t like the way Meghan urged her to be off.
Wren drew in a deep breath, counting.One, two, three, four, five, annnnnnnd blow out. One, two, three, four—
Wren froze.
There she was. The woman. Standing just inside the edge of the woods. Her body was partially hidden by the branches and bush in front of her.
“Ava Coons,” Wren whispered. She jerked the door open. Leaping from her truck, she shouted, “No!” when Ava spun and disappeared into the woods.
Wren broke into a sprint, crossing the park yard in a few seconds. She pushed her way into the woods, her tennis shoes connecting with the deer trail she’d first visited with Meghan.
“Ava!” she called after the figure that was fast retreating into the woods. Wren felt silly calling after a woman who had died decades ago. A branch scraped her face. “Ava!”
The woman ahead of her was fast, and she knew the terrain. Wren glimpsed her overall-clad form before she ducked to the right and disappeared again.
“No, no, no!” Wren muttered, picking up speed. Her foot landed on a root that jutted up from the trail. It bruised the ball of her foot, but she kept moving. The trees were thicker the deeper Wren went. Saplings threaded through the low branches of cedar and pine, and oak trees lent their own version of shadows, making the forest floor dark even in the afternoon.
She shoved aside the scraggly arms of a cedar and froze. Up ahead, on the trail, the woman stilled. Yards away, Wren could make out her face. It was older—not the youthful version of Ava Coons that Wren had in her mind. A braid hung over one shoulder. Peppery gray. Wrinkles lined the woman’s face. Her eyes were wide. Fear. Concern. She reminded Wren of a spooked deer.
Wren held up her hand in peace. “Ava?” The name came naturally as if it were the truth. “Ava, please.” She tested the woman’s courage and took another step toward her. “I need to talk to you.”
An expression spread across the woman’s face. Wren stilled. There was a viciousness in it, mixed with a darkness that overtook the woman’s eyes. Obsession of the worst sort, the kind that stole a person’s soul, held them captive. She was a woman who wouldnot be thwarted, deterred, or questioned. This Wren could assess by the narrowing of the woman’s already intense eyes.
Wren reached for the trunk of the tree next to her, and she braced her hand on it to stabilize her suddenly unsteady legs. Instead of fleeing, Wren took yet another step. She had to. She was getting lost in the woman’s black eyes. They were speaking to her, telling her something, even as the ominous darkness reached the corners of the woman’s eyes and drew them into slits.
The theme song toThe Lord of the Ringsblared from Wren’s pocket. The woman’s eyes flew open. She spun and fled deeper into the woods, sticks and twigs snapping as she ran. Wren’s legs became like jelly, and she sank to the forest floor. She should follow. No. She shouldn’t.
What had just happened?
Her phone continued its peal. Wren dug it from her jeans pocket and answered, “Hello?” Her voice was breathless.
“Where are you?” It was Eddie.
