for sure. What gossamer-thin strands of sanity you have left after what you’ve done to Brand will snap like overstretched guitar strings if you let yourself believe that something actually—
A howl of pain from below made her teeth clench, her hands grasp the sides of the sink.
The anesthetic had worn off.
Paul couldn’t return to the house. Not after what the sheriff had said.
He had no idea how far down Brand’s car was parked—the house was about a mile from the road—so instead of jogging down the lane, he took the Civic.
He rounded a curve and beheld a black BMW sitting in the tall grass beside the lane. It sat next to the woods on his right, its back end facing him, as if it had tried but couldn’t bring itself to leave after its errand was over. Had Brand’s car broken down after he delivered the manila envelope? It certainly appeared so, but if it did, why hadn’t he gone back to the house to use the phone?
Because there is no phone, his reason answered.
But did Brand know that?
He parked, walked around the side of the car. The forest was unnaturally quiet, the only sound the crunching of his sneakers on gravel. He stopped and looked at the car’s bright black exterior, tried to explain its presence here.
Brand broke down, knew there was no phone back at Watermere and didn’t feel like waiting for Paul to show up to drive him into town. He probably had a cell phone, but it might not have worked way out here.
So he walked. He left the car here and headed into town. What was so far-fetched about that?
Nothing, other than the fact he’d never made it into town, had disappeared somewhere along the way. Or been picked up. Otherwise, none of this would be happening.
Remembering the stories his parents used to tell him and his brother about people who picked up hitchhikers, he tried the driver’s side door. It was locked. What if this time the scary tales were true? What if Brand really had hitched a ride and met some grisly fate?
It was as plausible as anything else he could think of.
He froze.
He’d touched the door handle, left his fingerprints. What was he thinking? He wrapped his hand in his tee shirt and wiped off the handle, sure that at any moment the police would roar down the lane and catch him in the act. That done, he straightened and stared down at the Beamer.
He heard a car approach.
When Paul spied the cruiser coming down the lane, he felt his cheeks flush, as though his presence here in the near-darkness of the forest was reprehensible.
Wait a minute, he thought. Why shouldn’t he be looking? The black car was on his property. Didn’t he have the right to investigate an abandoned vehicle on his own land?
The cruiser pulled up cattycornered to the BMW and halted. Barlow killed the engine, the sounds of the cruiser door opening and shutting amplified in the stillness of the woods.
Barlow wasn’t wearing a hat this time, and Paul was afforded a better look at the sheriff. He had large features, but they were only in proportion with his frame. Standing next to him, Paul could see how big he was. He looked like he was in good shape too. He wore regular cop clothes, though they were wrinkled.
Barlow’s expression was hard to read.
“Morning,” the big man finally said.
“Morning,” Paul answered and stared at the gold badge that said SHERIFF.
Barlow paused beside the black car. Hands on knees, he squinted into the window and asked, “You still don’t remember passing this car on the way in?”
“Why do you think I’m out here?”
The sheriff stepped back from the Beamer, examined the ground beside it. Then, his eyes scanned the empty lane.
“You ever kill anyone?” he asked.
Paul’s heart thumped. “No. Of course not. ”
The cop stared down the lane a moment longer, then walked around to the passenger door and peered in. Paul could only watch him, his heart stampeding.
Stepping to his left, Barlow bent and inspected the back seat.
A howl of pain from below made her teeth clench, her hands grasp the sides of the sink.
The anesthetic had worn off.
Paul couldn’t return to the house. Not after what the sheriff had said.
He had no idea how far down Brand’s car was parked—the house was about a mile from the road—so instead of jogging down the lane, he took the Civic.
He rounded a curve and beheld a black BMW sitting in the tall grass beside the lane. It sat next to the woods on his right, its back end facing him, as if it had tried but couldn’t bring itself to leave after its errand was over. Had Brand’s car broken down after he delivered the manila envelope? It certainly appeared so, but if it did, why hadn’t he gone back to the house to use the phone?
Because there is no phone, his reason answered.
But did Brand know that?
He parked, walked around the side of the car. The forest was unnaturally quiet, the only sound the crunching of his sneakers on gravel. He stopped and looked at the car’s bright black exterior, tried to explain its presence here.
Brand broke down, knew there was no phone back at Watermere and didn’t feel like waiting for Paul to show up to drive him into town. He probably had a cell phone, but it might not have worked way out here.
So he walked. He left the car here and headed into town. What was so far-fetched about that?
Nothing, other than the fact he’d never made it into town, had disappeared somewhere along the way. Or been picked up. Otherwise, none of this would be happening.
Remembering the stories his parents used to tell him and his brother about people who picked up hitchhikers, he tried the driver’s side door. It was locked. What if this time the scary tales were true? What if Brand really had hitched a ride and met some grisly fate?
It was as plausible as anything else he could think of.
He froze.
He’d touched the door handle, left his fingerprints. What was he thinking? He wrapped his hand in his tee shirt and wiped off the handle, sure that at any moment the police would roar down the lane and catch him in the act. That done, he straightened and stared down at the Beamer.
He heard a car approach.
When Paul spied the cruiser coming down the lane, he felt his cheeks flush, as though his presence here in the near-darkness of the forest was reprehensible.
Wait a minute, he thought. Why shouldn’t he be looking? The black car was on his property. Didn’t he have the right to investigate an abandoned vehicle on his own land?
The cruiser pulled up cattycornered to the BMW and halted. Barlow killed the engine, the sounds of the cruiser door opening and shutting amplified in the stillness of the woods.
Barlow wasn’t wearing a hat this time, and Paul was afforded a better look at the sheriff. He had large features, but they were only in proportion with his frame. Standing next to him, Paul could see how big he was. He looked like he was in good shape too. He wore regular cop clothes, though they were wrinkled.
Barlow’s expression was hard to read.
“Morning,” the big man finally said.
“Morning,” Paul answered and stared at the gold badge that said SHERIFF.
Barlow paused beside the black car. Hands on knees, he squinted into the window and asked, “You still don’t remember passing this car on the way in?”
“Why do you think I’m out here?”
The sheriff stepped back from the Beamer, examined the ground beside it. Then, his eyes scanned the empty lane.
“You ever kill anyone?” he asked.
Paul’s heart thumped. “No. Of course not. ”
The cop stared down the lane a moment longer, then walked around to the passenger door and peered in. Paul could only watch him, his heart stampeding.
Stepping to his left, Barlow bent and inspected the back seat.
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