Page 17

Maybe I should have called Ma. Just to let her and Alistair know I was planning on using the place.

I dismiss that notion. When politeness might get you sliced and diced, you have some leeway.

I park and shove open the door, waiting for my glasses to adjust to the glare of the sun.

The front door is locked as expected.

I hike around to the side and find a sliding glass door locked as well, also expected. There must be a key for invited guests who arrive early. It’s a cabin on a lake, likely used by family and friends seeking relaxation and sport.

Or, as in my case, a hideaway.

I head back around to the front and spy an ugly as sinfrog statue with a grimace instead of a grin. He’s holding a butterfly in one webbed palm and a net in the other.

I remember some story about that frog. Something about a neighbor trying to buy the ugly thing to scare a grandkid…

But I don’t see any neighbors around, and the memory is tatters in my mind, at best. The thing has a stupid name too. Ferdinand, I think.

Ferdinand the Frog, concierge of Savage Gardens, and hopefully the keeper of the key.

“Aha!”

The key is where I thought it would be. I slide it into the lock and give it a twist. The door swings open into a large living room–dining room combination.

At least the place is clean. Lived-in and loved. The furnishings might be a little dated, but the Formica countertops are free of debris and dust, and the air is scented with some kind of apple and vanilla freshener.

It’s homey. The walls haven’t been touched since the original builder put the place together, and the honey-colored wood is offset by the lighter stain on the floor. Several rugs break up the space from the cozy open floor plan toward the galley kitchen to my left.

I cross through the living room toward a closed door facing the kitchen. It’s a large bedroom, thankfully, but looks like it’s part of an addition, with an attached bathroom that’s huge, done in black and white tiles with a rainhead shower and a soaking tub. Nice.

In this room, the wood floor is covered by dove-gray carpeting. A queen-size bed rests beneath a row of high windows set into the upper portion of the wall. The linens look fresh, too.

Probably someone local comes out a couple of times a month to make sure the place is clean and ready for use. Ready for me to use as a getaway, courtesy of the blanket invitation Alistair extended eight years ago.

A quick tour of the remaining rooms reveals two morebedrooms, original to the cabin, another bathroom, and a small mud room near the back door.

I head back out to my car for my bag, and paranoia strikes again, so I decide to park the car around behind the cabin so it isn’t immediately visible should anyone drive up.

The cabin will still look empty at first glance. Better safe than sorry.

Inside, I lock the door and drop my bag onto the bedroom floor without bothering to unpack anything. I flop down on the inviting mattress. It’s soft as a cloud with a firm center to keep me from sinking in too deeply.

This one makes mine at home, a used mattress picked up at a Salvation Army thrift store, feel like a piece of cardboard over a bed of nails.

Between the comfort of the mattress and my mental and physical exhaustion, I’m toast. My last coherent thought is to take off my sneakers and maybe soak my scratched-up feet.

Later. Too tired to think anymore. To even move. Tired…

A throat clears. A male throat.

A male close enough to grab my ankle and give it a sharp tug.

I jerk awake, scrambling against the touch.They found me.

The scream is automatic and visceral.

How in the world did they find me? I’m away from my home territory. I chucked my cell phone out the car window. And I don’t have a weapon handy.

There’s no baseball bat for me in this place. No lights on in the room. The man still has a hold of my ankle and I lurch and kick out at him.