responded quickly, “It’s a cult. Mostly women. Been there longer than Deception Bay. You could look it up. I heard a couple of the girls worked in town for a while, but they were yanked back real quick-like.”
“You have some colorful characters here,” Renee observed. “I ran into Madame Madeline earlier.”
“Madame Madeline?” She snorted. “If she’s a psychic, I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
Renee didn’t know whether that made her feel better or worse. But when her watch read ten, she walked back to her Camry and headed in the direction of Maddie’s old motel. Her tires scrunched on the weedy gravel, and as she pulled to a stop a dark cloud blocked out the faint rays of a watery sun. She climbed from the car and then hesitated again. Why was she here, really? What could this old woman tell her that she didn’t already know? What kind of answers could there be?
Annoyed with herself, Renee got back in her car and drove back toward the cabin, taking a last-minute detour to drive in the direction of Siren Song. It took her a while to find the large house shaded by fir trees from the road. All she could see were snatches of windows and cedar shakes and stone chimneys, and she was reminded of an old northwest lodge much like the one built at Crater Lake or Timberline, although not nearly as large.
At the cabin, she headed for her laptop, wondering whether she should stay and work some more or head back to Portland and the myriad of problems that awaited her with Tim. Stuffing the laptop into its case, she headed for the bedroom, grabbing up a T-shirt she used as a nightgown and tossing it into her bag. She packed up some toiletries from the bathroom, then shot a last look around the bedroom, intending to close her bag.
Her gaze skated over the nightstand, then snapped back.
No knife.
She looked more closely. Not on the nightstand, nor was it on the floor beside the bed.
She inhaled and exhaled a long breath, then headed to the kitchen where the knife block was filled—except for the single slot wherein the butcher knife had rested.
Renee bit back a sound of disbelief.
Where the hell was it?
Dear God…how? Who?
Oh, shit.
Listening to the sound of the wind pushing against the old cabin, the creak of ancient timbers, the light patter of rain on the roof, the thunder of her heart, she strained to hear any foreign noise. Was someone in the cabin with her even now? She thought of the loft, the second bedroom where she never ventured, and her blood became ice water.
She had to go up and check it out. The prospect filled Renee with dread. She was on the bottom step when she thought better of it and turned, grabbed her bag, laptop, and purse, and headed swiftly out the door, locking it behind her.
She had seen a face in the window. She had. A dark figure with soulless eyes.
She had…hadn’t she?
Sliding behind the wheel of her Camry, Renee spun backward out of the driveway, nearly hitting a post before slamming the car into Drive and glancing at the cabin again. The curtains in the loft window moved slightly and she was damned sure there was something dark and ominous behind them.
Only when her car was miles away, heading north on 101, and she was pushing the speed limit on the winding road high above the sea, the lighthouse barely visible on its tiny island, did she breathe again.
From the upstairs window, I watch her leave.
Frightened.
Trembling.
Scrabbling around like a frantic chicken running from a fox. Throwing her bags into the backseat. Too late. I’ve seen what’s on her computer screen, know where she’s been, what she’s doing. She’s getting close—stopping by the old woman’s shop, asking questions.
That damned old hag. Never to be trusted. I should have known, should have dealt with the crone.
I think of it—the killing of the old one, the traitor. I’ve thought of it often enough, suspected she knows more than she pretends, but here, in this tiny gossipy town, it might prove difficult.
And now there are others, one of whom is fleeing even now.
But she can’t run far.
And I know where she’ll go.
Back to the others.
She’ll lead me to them.
Standing behind the gossamer curtains, I finger the long-bladed knife in my hands and wait until the taillights of her car disappear around the corner, heading east, away from the sea, to the highway that runs parallel to the ocean, wandering in twisting turns north until it reaches the intersection where it splits and she’ll head inland.
To the others.
As she vanishes I rub my thumb over the razor-sharp blade, imagining what the thin steel edge can do. Quick and clean, a neat slice across the jugular and carotid.
But the time isn’t right. I need this one to lead me to the others.
Even though she has no scent, no odor.
She’s not one of them.
But she must be followed.
And she must be stopped.
Once I have no further use for her.
Chapter Eleven
Glenn Stafford raced down the stairs of his house, a gargantuan Georgian building of nearly four thousand square feet that Gia had insisted upon. He hoped his wife wouldn’t catch him on his way out. He was late getting to the restaurant. Late getting tasks done. Late, always late.
And that asshole cop McNally had called, wanting to meet with him. Wanting to meet with all of them, he’d said. But was he telling the truth? Or had he singled Glenn out? Not that there was any reason. Lord, no. He’d barely known Jessie Brentwood. She’d been Hudson’s girl, flirt that she was. But she’d had no serious interest in him, or any of them, well…maybe Zeke?…but that was short-lived. Nope, the girl had been interested in Hudson Walker, then, now, and probably forever.
Glenn headed toward the back of the house. He’d put McNally off. God, he didn’t need more damn stress. The restaurant was enough. Hadn’t he heard over and over again how difficult it was to make a go of a restaurant? Hadn’t he? But he’d believed in himself, believed in Scott. But Jesus…things were running in the red. How, how to get more interest in the place, more exposure? Did they need more Internet advertising? What the hell did it take to make a spot “in” or “hip” or whatever they called it these days? Not enough people knew about Blue Note, and that goddamned venture in Lincoln City wasn’t even hardly off the ground and Glenn felt it already might be doomed. Bleeding money. Scott had more faith in the place; he was the one taking off for the coast, trying “to get ’er going.” But Glenn was in charge of Blue Note, and it was bad business. Bad, slow business.
And…something was off financially. Things just weren’t adding up, literally. Did they have a sneaky employee who had found
