Page 103 of Reading Between the Lines
With my back pressed against the door, I shone the light over all we’d seen from the windows the previous day, paying particular attention to the setup of the whiteboard and table detritus in case it had been recently moved. Everything looked the same as the photographs I’d studied at the B&B.
Inching forward, cautiously ensuring I didn’t bump into anything, I entered the room to explore properly.
I started with the loose papers on the table, the stuff we hadn’t been able to closely examine before. In a brown file, I found rough copies of what appeared to be more partial stories. Some were marked with notes, and others were clean.
I skimmed the opening paragraphs of a few but had no clue how to tell who wrote them or if they were important. As Diem had pointed out, it likely didn’t matter who wrote the story about the incident. They all had a hand in its editing. I left the file on the table and examined the posters and diagrams before moving to the bookshelf with the nonfiction collection about serial killers.
Nothing creepy about that.
I pulled a few from the shelf, examined their covers, then put them back. Some were tabbed and annotated. Others were untouched. At the desk, I opened a few drawers. Pens, highlighters, colored tabs, notebooks galore, and paper clips. I opened a few notebooks and encountered the same penmanship as the stuff in the file on the coffee table. I had nothing to compare it to but suspected it could be Loyal’s writing since it was his hideaway.
I tore a random page from the notebook and stuffed it into my pocket for later analysis like I was some sort of expert who knew anything about this stuff and could decipher someone’s personality through their handwriting. Hell, maybe there was a YouTube video I could watch. Kitty would probably know. The woman was mysteriously knowledgeable.
Sitting in the desk chair, I glanced at the overhead shelves with the collection of fiction titles by Ambrose Whitaker. “Is he your hero, Loyal? Wanna be just like Ambrose when you grow up?”
The elusive thought tickled my brain again, and I frowned, focusing on drawing it forward. The books. It had something to do with the books. I selected one at random and pulled it from the shelf.
“The Unseen Hand,” I read aloud, tracing the title with my finger.
I located the blurb on the inside flap to refresh my memory. It was one of the ones I’d browsed online.
Not a paragraph in, and the hairs on my arms stood on end. I read slower, then a second time, absorbing the details. The floodgates opened, and all I hadn’t been able to bring into focus before clarified.
I flipped through the hundreds of pages in the book, considering the chances of my being right. Was it possible? Did it even make sense? What if…
My phone buzzed with an incoming call, and I nearly jumped out of my skin since I was holding the device and using it as a flashlight.
I checked the screen.Diem.
“Oh fuckity fuck.” He was going to be pissed.
But I’d found something, hadn’t I? Again, I rolled the details around my head. It was too big of a coincidence to be nothing. I hesitated, unsure if I should take the call and tell Diem where Iwas and what I’d found or head out and explain when I got back to the room.
He would not be pleased with my little solo adventure into the woods, especially when I’d snuck out without telling him where I was going.
I puzzled the book and the blurb and all it could mean. My gaze slowly slipped to the rest of the books on the shelf as I recalled the premise for the series. The detectives. Several unsolved cases. The perfect murder. An uncaught serial killer.
“Oh fuck.”
The phone stopped ringing, but it started again right away. I took my chances and connected. “Hey, D. You are not going to—”
“Where the fuck are you?”
“Yeeeah… Okay, so, don’t be mad, but—”
“Don’t be—”
Glass shattered near my head, followed by awhoosh. I ducked on instinct and barely had a second to realize what had happened before the cabin burst into flames.
I shouted with alarm, launching from the desk chair and spinning to face the room. The couch and coffee table were on fire. A broken bottle on the ground nearby was surrounded by vicious blue flames that licked over the surface of the wood floor in every direction.
I spun, intent on running, when a second window shattered. Another bottle landed in an explosion of glass and fire, liquid splashing to my feet. I danced out of the way as it instantly erupted with anotherwhooshof blue flames. In my frantic flight, I tripped over the easel and landed on my ass, my phone skittering away and my glasses falling into a pool of liquid with fire dancing over its surface. In an instant, the frames melted before my eyes.
A strangled sob escaped me, but I didn’t have time to mourn their loss. I grabbed my phone—it had luckily escaped the fire—and scrambled to my feet, kicking at the flames swiftly closing in and licking at my pant legs.
My heart pounded in my throat as the temperature in the cabin grew at a fantastic rate, and my means of escape vanished before my eyes. I vaguely realized Diem was shouting on the other end of the phone, but I didn’t have time to contemplate his ire. I needed to get the fuck out of there.
Half-blind, I aimed for the door, but when I tried to wrench it open, it wouldn’t budge. I heaved and tugged, and it rattled in its frame but stuck. Cursing, I spun in time to witness the third window shatter with the impact of a launched projectile. A third blurry Molotov cocktail hit the ground and exploded into flames.
