Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385) by Celia Jerome Page B

for me to leave, just so she could terrify me with a mangled corpse? What kind of person thrives on mutilating animals, or scaring people? Not the kind I wanted to meet.
    I looked around but spotted no one suspicious, no one hiding behind a parked car or in a basement stairwell.
    I didn’t look too hard, just clutched my stuff and keyed the door open again. Little Red yipped in his carrier, between growls. “Hush up. You can’t climb the stairs to the third floor by yourself anyway,” I told the three-legged dog. The first-floor renters yelled so loudly at each other, maybe they wouldn’t hear him. I hustled up the stairs, talking to calm both of us.
    â€œEasy, good boy. The rat is dead. We’re safe. For now. And we’re getting out of Dodge in the morning.”
    I eyed my door to see if anyone had broken the locks. That’s what all the good detectives did, wasn’t it? Nothing looked different, and nothing waited on my doormat. I breathed easier.
    As soon as Red scrambled out of his container, I called the manager to get rid of the rodent before any of the other tenants saw it. I did not say I had anything whatsoever to do with its presence.
    Then I called Van at the police station. He told me rats died all the time.
    Not with their heads cut off, they didn’t.
    â€œGet out of town. Escalation is never a good sign.”
    â€œNeither is animal torture. That’s how serial killers start, right?”
    â€œYou don’t know if the unsub killed the animal herself or simply butchered an already dead one to get your attention.”
    â€œIt got my attention, all right.” An unsub is an unidentified suspect, which I knew from those same cop shows on TV. “And I know precisely who did this. You’ve got to find her.”
    â€œI’ll get my guys tracking this Deni person. Save the rat.”
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding.”
    He thought about it. “I guess not. If you can’t do that, at least get out of town.”
    I looked out the window at the fading twilight. “It’s too late. I’m not going outside at night, when I couldn’t tell if she’s waiting for me. Even if I took a cab to the Hampton Jitney bus stop, she could follow me. I’d be waiting there by myself, in the dark.” With Little Red, my laptop, a suitcase, and tote bag of drawing supplies and broken cookies. I’d eaten a flattened Cadbury bar while I talked.
    â€œOkay, I’ll be off duty in an hour. I’ll bring a pizza, sleep on your couch, then put you on the bus in the morning. How’s that sound?”
    I’d lived alone for years, until Little Red this spring. I was good at it, came and went when I wanted, ate cereal for supper if I wished, left the bed unmade sometimes. Solitude worked better for my work, with few distractions. I had my books, my friends, lots to do and see in the city, and Paumanok Harbor for when I wanted, rarely, to have my family’s company. Of all the things I feared—and the list suddenly kept growing by the minute—staying alone in my apartment had never been one of them.
    I almost wept in gratitude that Van offered to stay the night. “Sounds like heaven.” I started hiding the cookies and candy and dirty dishes and my washed bras hanging from the shower curtain. “Thank you for being such a good friend.”
    I felt so much better I decided to check for phone messages after I fed the dog, while I cleaned the apartment and waited for Van. Another threat from Deni wouldn’t bother me now, not when a policeman was on his way. He’d hear it, get the call traced, nab the bad guy, or girl, like they did in books, and I could go back to worrying about the Andanstans and the rash.
    Oh, my god, the rash. And Van was coming. I raced to the mirror to look and lather on concealer, bronzer, a flesh-colored Band-Aid under my nose. Now I’d pass for someone with a bad reaction to a