becoming a deputy, and she was taking advantage of the fact that he was willing to get her a freaking Band-Aid.
Forget it. All’s fair in love and war. Her fight to save Justin was all-out war.
Erin gave him five seconds and began rooting through the desk. Address, address… Somewhere, there had to be some indication where the sheriff was. A cabin—that much Jensen had told her—and it couldn’t be far. Not when a man went there to hunt for just a weekend.
She pushed papers around, opened those drawers that weren’t locked and looked at the computer. No, she didn’t dare try getting into that. Keeping one eye on the front door and an ear peeled for Jensen’s footsteps behind her, she went to a smaller desk that sat near the door—that of a daytime receptionist, she supposed—and found a Rolodex. A good, old-fashioned Rolodex.
Her pulse skittered and she fingered through… Mann, Mann, Mann. And there it was:
Mann—cabin.
Erin snatched the card from its file and chanced aglance down the hall, then pocketed the address just as Jensen came back.
“Here’s some antiseptic and—”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said. “You know, I think you were right in the first place. There’s nothing I can do right now without the sheriff and judge.”
His brows drew together a touch but he said, “Right. Go to your motel, so I’ll know where to find you. Get some sleep.” She turned to pick up her bag and he added, “And listen, you don’t have to worry about Sheriff Mann. He’ll take care of things.”
You’re damn right he will,
Erin thought, fingering the cabin address in her pocket.
Sooner than you think.
Just over an hour later, her GPS announced the last turn to Sheriff Mann’s cabin, in the middle of nowhere. On her left, strange silhouettes rose in the darkness—mounds that looked like pyramids and huge buildings with security lights. Erin caught the reflection of standing water—ponds?—and just when she’d decided it must be a quarry of some sort, her headlights picked out a sign that said W EAVER’S C LAY M INE .
Maggie Huggins came to mind, evidently a well-known sculptor now. Like her husband, she seemed to have found her niche in life over the past few years. Justin hadn’t had the chance to find his.
“
You have arrived at your destination
,” said the mechanical female voice in the phone. Erin slowed, searching for whatever the GPS thought was there. Beyond the clay mine, there was nothing, but on her right, a gravel lane cut into the woods. She turned and followed it, the trees like skeletons with straggly remnants of white stuck to trunks here and there. A hundred childhoodfairytales rose to mind, all of them leading some poor, unsuspecting girl deep into a cold black forest toward certain doom…
“Stop it,” she said aloud, then saw the house. “My God.”
The word “cabin” was ill-chosen. The house was enormous, with a deep wraparound porch, French doors, and bay windows. The windows glowed with a faint, flickering light that qualified as downright eerie.
She pulled her Florida-weight jacket tight then walked up the porch steps by the glow of her headlights, which hadn’t turned off yet. At the top of the stairs sat a Styrofoam cooler with a roll of paper on top. A black marker lay on the porch railing. Erin started toward the door and the toe of her shoe kicked something. Small, dark objects were scattered on the floor like dead bugs. She bent to pick one up.
Shell casings.
She swallowed, wishing she could have brought her gun on the plane, then looked at the front door. It stood open an inch—like a dare—and she tamped back a pang of worry. Just do it.
She knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, harder, and the door glided open. She stepped inside.
“Sheriff Mann?” she called. “Sheriff, my name is Erin Sims. I need to talk to you.”
Nothing.
She glanced around. The light came from deeper in the house, sputtering as if from a candle or lantern, maybe a
Forget it. All’s fair in love and war. Her fight to save Justin was all-out war.
Erin gave him five seconds and began rooting through the desk. Address, address… Somewhere, there had to be some indication where the sheriff was. A cabin—that much Jensen had told her—and it couldn’t be far. Not when a man went there to hunt for just a weekend.
She pushed papers around, opened those drawers that weren’t locked and looked at the computer. No, she didn’t dare try getting into that. Keeping one eye on the front door and an ear peeled for Jensen’s footsteps behind her, she went to a smaller desk that sat near the door—that of a daytime receptionist, she supposed—and found a Rolodex. A good, old-fashioned Rolodex.
Her pulse skittered and she fingered through… Mann, Mann, Mann. And there it was:
Mann—cabin.
Erin snatched the card from its file and chanced aglance down the hall, then pocketed the address just as Jensen came back.
“Here’s some antiseptic and—”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said. “You know, I think you were right in the first place. There’s nothing I can do right now without the sheriff and judge.”
His brows drew together a touch but he said, “Right. Go to your motel, so I’ll know where to find you. Get some sleep.” She turned to pick up her bag and he added, “And listen, you don’t have to worry about Sheriff Mann. He’ll take care of things.”
You’re damn right he will,
Erin thought, fingering the cabin address in her pocket.
Sooner than you think.
Just over an hour later, her GPS announced the last turn to Sheriff Mann’s cabin, in the middle of nowhere. On her left, strange silhouettes rose in the darkness—mounds that looked like pyramids and huge buildings with security lights. Erin caught the reflection of standing water—ponds?—and just when she’d decided it must be a quarry of some sort, her headlights picked out a sign that said W EAVER’S C LAY M INE .
Maggie Huggins came to mind, evidently a well-known sculptor now. Like her husband, she seemed to have found her niche in life over the past few years. Justin hadn’t had the chance to find his.
“
You have arrived at your destination
,” said the mechanical female voice in the phone. Erin slowed, searching for whatever the GPS thought was there. Beyond the clay mine, there was nothing, but on her right, a gravel lane cut into the woods. She turned and followed it, the trees like skeletons with straggly remnants of white stuck to trunks here and there. A hundred childhoodfairytales rose to mind, all of them leading some poor, unsuspecting girl deep into a cold black forest toward certain doom…
“Stop it,” she said aloud, then saw the house. “My God.”
The word “cabin” was ill-chosen. The house was enormous, with a deep wraparound porch, French doors, and bay windows. The windows glowed with a faint, flickering light that qualified as downright eerie.
She pulled her Florida-weight jacket tight then walked up the porch steps by the glow of her headlights, which hadn’t turned off yet. At the top of the stairs sat a Styrofoam cooler with a roll of paper on top. A black marker lay on the porch railing. Erin started toward the door and the toe of her shoe kicked something. Small, dark objects were scattered on the floor like dead bugs. She bent to pick one up.
Shell casings.
She swallowed, wishing she could have brought her gun on the plane, then looked at the front door. It stood open an inch—like a dare—and she tamped back a pang of worry. Just do it.
She knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, harder, and the door glided open. She stepped inside.
“Sheriff Mann?” she called. “Sheriff, my name is Erin Sims. I need to talk to you.”
Nothing.
She glanced around. The light came from deeper in the house, sputtering as if from a candle or lantern, maybe a
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