Chapter 2

2

Cynthia Beck

D arkness envelops the room as I flick off the light on the bedside table, and now it's just the glow of the moon seeping through the window to illuminate my unease.

Cornwall lies next to me, snoring away at top volume. It's a wonder he doesn't wake himself up. It's a wonder anyone in this cabin will get any sleep because of it.

He left his breathing machine at home. Last year, I made him have a sleep study done where, lo and behold, they affirmed what I already knew. The man stops breathing regularly in the night. And once they issued him the CPAP machine, both of us have been sleeping better because of it.

We should have turned the car around once we discovered it was missing. But at that point, we were over halfway here, and that alone was a two-hour drive. Plus, we were too eager to catch up with old friends, to meet new friends, and readers next week at the book signing.

Cornwall figured he'd gone fifty-six years without that breathing machine, one lousy week wouldn't kill him. Not that I was factored into that equation—and believe me, a week without sleep might just be the end of me.

His snoring isn't the only thing keeping me awake. I've never been comfortable sleeping in someone else's bed. My hand pats the unfamiliar quilt over my stomach and I sigh.

To make matters worse, this isn't the bedroom situation I was envisioning when we accepted the offer to stay here. I wish Damien and Lydia had offered us the guest bedroom where Cornwall and I belong. Instead, they insisted we take the primary.

Cornwall and I put in a weak effort to deflect, but they kept coming at us with the selling points. It has its very own bathroom. A tub large enough to throw a pool party in. The bed is a California king. Cornwall will fall right out of the full bed in the guest room. That part was probably true. Not to mention the view of the lake is stunning from dawn to dusk from the private balcony—also true, come to find out. We've just been here for two nights so far, but the view is enough to make me want to move in permanently.

Back in Clover Ridge, our home overlooks a barren field. We had bought acres thinking we would have a working ranch, but as we quickly discovered, a working ranch is a heck of a lot of work and neither Cornwall nor I wanted to fund the endeavor by hiring hands to care for it all. So we're left with an eyesore of dry and dusty property in the summer and a pristine blanket of snow to look at in the winter. We should sell the place and move next to a body of water. Here at Sugar Pines Lake would be nice.

Hey? Maybe I'll check the local real estate listings and see what the inventory is like. I bet we could squeeze a second property out of our retirement fund. What else have we been working toward for all these years? Our kids moved out a decade ago and they hardly come around at all. We could relocate to Mars and they'd be fine with it.

Sleep. I need to find it asap. If I keep this up, I'll be a zombie in the morning.

I try to force myself into thinking of nothing, but my brain is too unsettled for that. Instead, I lift an eyelid and examine the space around me, Damien and Lydia's bedroom. Sure, it's their second home, but still. I can't shake the feeling I'm intruding on their lives simply by taking up space here.

That conversation I had with Lydia earlier comes back to me and I shudder.

The evening started out on such a good note. Steaks grilled to perfection. The corn was undercooked, but I didn't complain. Dessert was a bowl of ice cream for each of us and each of us had seconds; some of us had thirds.

We played cards for hours, laughing and screaming like teenagers, just having a good time.

Writing is such a lonely task, that when we do get together with people—especially other writers—it feels good to cut loose.

Then afterward, we shared our works in progress, critiquing ideas, throwing the proverbial spaghetti at the wall, offering one another the final puzzle pieces that we ourselves couldn't figure out.

It all felt like such a relief. We really should do this more often.

Cornwall and I don't attend many writers' retreats, mostly because when two writers live together they are a writers' retreat in and of themselves, a permanent one, but still. Although these past few nights prove that we need new blood to get recharged, and that's exactly what this has been, a proverbial refilling of the well.

But as the night wore on, Lydia cornered me in the den and began to prattle on about their lives in Briarwood and the horrible fights they've been in with their psychotic neighbor.

She went on and on about the horrors that man has inflicted on them, detailing a series of encounters ranging from savagely vandalizing their flowerbeds to disputes over property lines and noise complaints. He sounds like the neighbor from hell. And when I said so, Lydia laughed and said that hell was what Damien was putting her through. That's when she let the darkness seep from her mouth and aired out the dirty laundry I never wanted to know.

She was obviously buoyed by one too many glasses of wine. Now her words claw at my consciousness, refusing to be stilled. She spoke of tensions, of betrayals festering beneath the surface of her marriage, and then the darker details that have tattooed themselves onto my gray matter without permission. And even though her revelations may have been given in a private, intimate conversation, I'll forever be burdened with the unwanted knowledge.

The hour wears on and I do my best to wrestle with sleep, but it's clear I'm not winning that war any time soon. Instead of resting up for another day of my restful retreat, I'm ruminating over Cynthia's words as if they were a monologue I have to recite.

Now what? It's clear we can't stay here.

The lodge that's hosting the book signing still has vacancies. Cornwall and I will make up an excuse in the morning. Maybe we'll say his back is killing him? Maybe it will be my back. Nonetheless, I need an escape from the accidental confessional that took place.

I'm pretty sure Cynthia will be embarrassed once she realizes what transpired. That is, if she remembers it at all. She was pretty blasted. The amount of ethanol emitting from her breath was enough to power the space station.

Yes, tomorrow, we will find a way to leave. But for now, I'm wide awake, pondering the cost of secrets too heavy for me to hold.

Cornwall's snoring hits a crescendo that seems to vibrate through the cabin's darkened walls and my mind drifts toward the upcoming Sugar Pine Thriller Fest.

I look forward to that author signing every year. It's essentially a chance to step into the limelight, however briefly. Although my presence at these things has always been a little lackluster. There are always newer authors, younger authors, far more charming authors scattered about the ballroom, luring readers to their tables by way of free water bottles, stickers, and ridiculous slap-on bracelets. Stickers , for Pete's sake.

This is a thriller convention, not a third grade trip to the library. But then, that's what nabbed the masses last year.

That and the fact that younger, shinier authors all looked so hip, so Goth, so decked out like the villain from one of their books. I wore a plum-colored pantsuit and had my roots touched up for the occasion. I've brought the same pantsuit along in navy this year and once again touched up my roots, but I'm suddenly feeling as if I've left a few important items off the list.

Maybe I should run into town and get my nails done? The signing isn't until next week. A moody color, maybe black. I could probably find something snazzy to wear in one of the boutiques that lines the lake. Something leather.

This year things should be different. It'll be a new me. An edgier me. Maybe I'll be the one in black from head to toe. I'll pick up some edgy jewelry to go along with it. A few statement pieces.

Last year one of the authors had a necklace in the shape of a silver snake that sat with its tongue dipping between her boobs. Maybe I'll find something like that.

I'll stand out, not just blend into the background like part of the furniture.

A dull laugh pumps from me, then a light cough.

I should get some water and try to convince the sandman to visit once again.

My feet swing over the edge of the bed as I make my way to the door as quiet as can be.

Maybe I should decorate my signing table a bit more as well? I could buy some fake skulls and maybe a few black candles.

How's that for edgy?

Maybe next year those young bucks will lose a night of sleep trying to come up with a way to out-edge me .

I step into the hallway. The wooden steps creak softly underfoot as I head downstairs, and the nightlight glowing in the kitchen is there to guide me the rest of the way.

The cabin is immaculate, glorious in every way. I had no doubt it would be, considering the combined income of Damien and Lydia must be nearing seven figures. They both outsell Cornwall and me.

But then, maybe this year, at Sugar Pine Thriller Fest, I'll finally capture the attention my work deserves.

The cabin feels different at night as if it's a living, breathing being with a life of its own. Slumbering and snoring as the hum of the refrigerator whirls quietly.

Just before I reach the kitchen, I pause to glance out the window into the black expanse and a shiver runs through me.

It's so eerie out here. So very quiet. There's not another cabin around that the eye can see, just the four of us and every woodland creature that calls this place home.

Something stirs in the woods and I squint that way. I could swear on my life that I just saw a shadow traipse by. It could be a coyote but seemed bigger than that. It could be a bear. It's early fall; they're still doing their thing. Or it could be a person.

It could be a killer.

This could be my last night on Earth—for all of us.

I shake the thought out of my head.

A breeze pushes in through the window and I drink it down, trying my best to let all of my anxieties float right out of me.

It's clear that the two-hour plotting session we just endured is getting to me. It's just the aftereffects of the thousands of twisted mystery plots we dissected and rebuilt tonight.

The stories always find a way to linger in the corners of my mind, more so in the solitude of night. I've never been good at letting my characters, and the dark situations I put them in, rest. Cornwall is built different. I'm too much of a chicken when it comes to all the death and murder I spend hours crafting in my story worlds. That's exactly why I sleep with a nightlight back home. And probably why I can't sleep here.

It's dark as a coffin in that room. Okay, so there was a sliver of moonlight, but still, that was just enough to fuel more fodder in my twisted mind.

I do my best to shake off the unease, head to the kitchen, and fill a glass of water before making my way back to where I came from.

I sneak into the room where Cornwall's snoring hits an all new octave, land the glass of water next to me, and tuck myself back under the covers without so much as taking a sip.

So much for that.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, and feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness. The secrets will have to wait until morning and so will my escape plan.

I'm just about to nod off when the sharp creak of a floorboard pulls me back from the edge and my eyes snap open in the darkness.

I hold my breath and strain my ears. Sure enough, the sound of footsteps can be heard creeping along the stairs, slow and deliberate. It's probably just Damien or Lydia.

Maybe they're having a hard time sleeping as well?

Although it's probably not Lydia. For starters, she doesn't weigh enough to make the stairs or anything else squeak, and the way she was drinking tonight, I don't expect to see her until two in the afternoon tomorrow.

A small part of me breathes a sigh of relief that I hadn't bumped into either of them during my midnight water run. Given the unsavory revelations that were spilled my way, the last thing I want is a face-to-face with either of them—especially in the dark.

The footsteps draw nearer and a whole new sense of unease washes over me.

Why are they walking so slowly?

They seem too careful, too quiet.

My heart starts to pound well into my ears.

The door to our room creaks open and a breath catches in my throat.

"I think you got the wrong room," I say playfully, just above a whisper and a silhouette pauses in the doorway.

They take another step inside and I can hear the sound of their breathing picking up.

"No mistakes here," they say back, just a touch louder.

An explosion shatters the silence and a scream gets locked in my throat.

Cornwall and I sit up at the same time.

"What the hell?" he shouts, but no sooner does he get the words out than another blast goes off and nails him in the chest.

Cornwall grunts before slumping onto me and a scream drills from my throat before three more shots are fired and my body bucks twice in response.

White-hot pain shoots through my arm and my chest. I try to draw my next breath, but I can't seem to do it.

Warmth pools around my midsection and my hands dip down and fill with liquid.

No .

The sound of voices emits from the hall, and I look that way, only to find the silhouette gone.

I have to get up. I have to call for help.

My phone. Where did I leave my phone?

My legs swing over the side of the bed and I crumple to the floor.

Adrenaline surges through me as I try to get on my feet, but I can't move another muscle.

This isn't just a nightmare unfolding. It's a calculated attack.

Someone doesn't just want to scare us—they're here to silence us, forever.

The room begins to sway and I begin to lose consciousness.

It wasn't the sandman who showed up.

It was the Grim Reaper.