62

Not Fast Enough

Gravel crunched under her car’s tires as she pulled up to the lakehouse. It was slightly overcast today — the pine didn’t look as bright and falsely cheery as it had the other day when she’d been here with Claire.

She’d expected to see a truck parked outside — it was five-thirty, after all. Her sneakers sank into the gravel as she climbed out of her car and paused for a moment with her arm draped over the door.

Should she call him? Find out where he was? Or would that look too desperate? She was, after all, as unconcerned about this place as she was with the money. He was doing her a favor, taking it off her hands. At least… that’s what she wanted him to think.

Sliding her handbag’s strap over her shoulder, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared through the gap between the house and the pines, out over the lake. It was gunmetal gray today, what with the silver clouds above and whatever lurked in those waters that made them so dark.

She’d wondered about that more than once. Even looked it up. Only one random blog post had mentioned anything about the lake’s dark waters — they attributed it to the abundance of the dark pebbles that littered the shore.

There didn’t seem enough of those to make the waters that black, though.

Behind her, a car crunched over gravel, slowing. She turned and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder as the driver door opened with a creak.

The trucker stepped out, this time bereft of a cap. His brown hair was still long, but clean today. Caught in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. And, when he turned, she stiffened.

He’d shaved off his beard.

A vest poked through the opening in his jacket, but all his clothes were clean. Had it not been for those oversized police sunglasses that hid most of his face, she wouldn’t have thought it was the same guy. He was handsome, despite the scar on his lip and the jaunty angle of his nose.

The duffel bag he brought out with him was all the confirmation she needed. Her eyes darted to it, stuck there like a fly trapped in honey.

It didn’t look heavy enough.

“Hey,” she called out.

“Hey yourself.” Bruce crunched to a halt beside her and gave her a wide grin. “I thought you were bringing your realtor?”

“Oh… no, she couldn’t make it.” Angel tightened her grip on her handbag. “But she knows I’m here.”

Bruce chuckled. “’Spose that’s a good thing,” he said, shrugging as he walked past her. “Place like this, anything can happen.”

She tried desperately to ignore the queasy fluttering in her stomach, instead wrestling the lakehouse’s keys from a tangle of tissues, hand wipes, and discarded shopping receipts.

“You wanted to see inside?”

The man nodded and then gave her a double take when she held out the keys to him. “What, you’re not coming with?”

“Nah. Sick of it. That’s why I’m selling.”

He frowned but took the keys without another word. Then he trudged down the stairs, duffel bag in one hand and keys in the other. He fumbled with the front door a while until he found the key that worked, turned, and gave her a friendly wave before disappearing inside.

She slumped against her car door, pulling her hair free and redoing it with a vicious tug that brought tears to her eyes.

Fuck it, she hated feeling afraid. If there was one thing she would never forgive Drew for, it was that. She’d never once been scared of anything; not riding the bus by herself when she was five, not staying alone with her uncle despite how he used to look at her, not sitting for an exam. Nothing had scared her.

Until she’d met Drew.

Until he’d brought her here and she’d looked down into that ink-black water.

Until she’d heard that gunshot and been reduced to a shivering mess knowing — knowing — that he was on his way back for her.

Now… now she slept with a night light because the shadows moved too much when her room was dark. She’d even rented out one of her bedrooms to a roommate just so she wouldn’t have to be alone. Except, Ruby was barely ever there, so she was still going around three in the morning checking to make sure that everything was locked.

Shoving a cigarette between her lips, Angel tried to light it. Making her hand into a quick fist to try and work out the tremors, she managed to light it on the third try. Lifting her sneaker behind her, she rested against the side of the car, head on the roof, as she stared into the gray sky.

Why was he taking so long? There wasn’t that much to look at; a fucking kitchen and four bedrooms and you were done. She shifted, glancing over at the lakehouse.

And then froze.

A shadow moved behind one of the windows.

She pushed away from the car, cigarette dangling absently at her side.

The shadow lifted a hand, waved. Disappeared.

It was the trucker guy. It could only be him.

But, just as surely as she was standing there, she knew it wasn’t him. She dropped her smoke to the gravel and ripped her phone out, already halfway inside the car. She switched the car on and revved the engine.

On instinct, her eyes flashed to the rearview mirror as she put the car in reverse.

The phone dropped into her lap.

The rust-colored truck barred her way. The man had parked it at an angle, completely blocking the drive. And, because the drive was fringed with pines, she’d have to crash into the side of his car to try and get out.

She reached for her phone with numb fingers.

It rang before she could answer. She yelled, the sound too loud in the confines of the car, and lifted the phone.

Bryce.

She stared at the screen, her mouth tingling and her tongue dry.

It was just a typo. She’d pressed ‘y’ instead of ‘u.’

The phone died and then started up again a second later.

She swiped a hand over her forehead and answered with a hesitant, “Yes?”

“Yeah… I’m not sure if you know this, but someone’s been staying here, Angel.”

“What… what did you say?” Her voice was hoarse.

“I think someone’s been living here. It’s a mess. You’ll prob’ly wanna come see this.” And then he hung up.

It was just a typo.

He hadn’t intentionally blocked her in with his car.

She glanced down at her phone, got 911 ready to dial, and let out a long, slow breath.

She fumbled with the door, swiping her tongue over her lips to try and get moisture on them. She lit another cigarette on the way down, walking into a billow of her own smoke as she reluctantly stepped inside the lakehouse.

Bruce stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips, turning from side to side. When he saw her, he stepped aside and shrugged.

“I mean, I could clean it up, but it’s going to take a few days. I’d rather you get someone…”

A buzz drowned out his voice.

The walls were red. Someone had gone to town on them with a bucket of paint. Not with a brush — there were just crazy splashes all over the place. Footprints — bare — all over the carpet and floor. A bright-red handprint stood out on the deck’s sliding door, blurred where the person had pushed to open it.

She took a step back, staggering when the heel of her sneaker caught against the door frame. With a cry, she grabbed hold of the frame before she could fall backward on her ass.

Her fingers peeled reluctantly from the wood when she’d found her balance.

Bruce hurried up to her, a crease on his brow. Two reflections of her own pale face reared up to her as the man leaned closer to grab her arm.

“You okay there?”

“I’m—” She swallowed hard, shaking herself free. “I’m fine.”

Bruce lifted his hands in mock surrender and then turned back to the room. “Piss someone off?”

“No.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. Her head spun when she brought her hands in front of her. She touched her thumb to the sticky red circles on her fingertips. “It’s still wet.”

“Geez — glad we weren’t here when they were.”

“They?”

“Prob’ly just some kids. You get them sometimes, out here. Too much time on their hands. Break into rich people’s houses and mess them up just for the heck of it.”

Bruce cast her a look — invisible behind those glasses — when she didn’t say anything.

“Hey, look, maybe we should back up here. You get this place cleaned up—”

She held up a hand, and the man went quiet, hands back on his hips.

“How’d they get in?” she murmured. “Was the door open?”

“Nope.”

“Broken?”

“Nope.”

When she turned around, the man had his arms crossed over his chest.

“Someone you know, maybe?”

A cold tremor worked its way up her spine. “No one has a key.”

“You do.”

“Just me.” She hugged herself hard. “Me and Claire.”

“Why’d the realtor do this?”

“I didn’t say that!” She tugged at her cigarette and then stared at the glowing tip for a few seconds. “It wasn’t her. She’s got nothing against me.”

“Who does?” The man turned slowly, lifting his hands. “I mean, this looks kinda vindictive, doesn’t it?”

She took a deep drag of her cigarette, glancing at the man through the smoke coiling from its tip. His sunglasses caught a flash of light from the deck when he turned back to her.

“You thinking of someone?” he asked.

“He’s dead.”

“Dead,” the man repeated quietly.

He did another slow circle, a smile gradually growing on his mouth.

“You sure?” he said with a laugh.

Nausea twisted her stomach into a fist. She swallowed bile as she ground her cigarette out under her heel and blew out a plume of smoke.

“You all right there, Angel?” Bruce said, stepping closer. “You’ve gone white as milk.”

“My name’s Angelica,” she said, but it was a whisper through a mouth that shook.

“Slip of the tongue,” he said, flicking his hand dismissively.

His jacket slid up his arm at the motion, baring a small, red smudge.

Dark. Dry. Flaking.

Her eyes flashed back to his face. Began hunting over his features.

He’d said he could only meet her later in the day. That he had a thing. Was that thing splashing paint all over the inside of the lakehouse? Why? Why the hell would—

“Gosh, where are my manners. Should I take these off?” His voice wasn’t gravelly anymore. It was smooth, perfectly enunciated.

He reached slowly for his sunglasses, pausing when she let out a low, “No.”

“No?” he laughed again. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She nodded hard and stepped out of the front door. Her heel kicked against the first step leading out.

But the truck was still in her way, wasn’t it? She could run… but how far would she get? Luckily — luckily — she’d worn jeans and sneakers today. Maybe it had been the man’s eyes on her legs that day outside Claire’s house, or the thought of how cold it was out here, but she’d decided against a skirt and heels.

So yeah, she could run.

But could she run far enough?

Fast enough?