Right now, I was living in Cabin Twelve, which was several cabins away from Hattie but close enough to see her glowing against the glass like a butterfly in the living room. She had moved the table directly against the main windows, which would make her incredibly hot in the morning when the sun streamed in, but itwas probably beautiful right now with the breeze coming in. The whole A-frame was lit, Hattie at its center, her T-shirt slid over one shoulder, her golden hair down her back as she bent over her task, the woods quiet around her.
She was awfully trusting to be way out here alone with just me. We were miles from civilization and any help. There’d be nobody to hear her scream. She was lucky I was a good guy. Didn’t she know any better from all that true-crime shit? The thought pissed me off.
Glancing back at her as she swung her bare legs back and forth, I groaned.
Damn it. I poured myself a shot of whiskey and then turned off all the living room lights. Going to the back bedroom to change out of my dusty clothes, I hurried through a shower. The day had been long, and I’d spent most of it hiking, but now, thinking about Hattie sitting out there all exposed to the darkness, I was harder than I’d ever been in my life. I soaped up, sliding my hand over my hard dick, thinking about those pouty lips of hers and how she’d moan when I slid into her. Gripping the shaft hard and squeezing, I shut off the water and toweled myself dry.
Taking my whiskey, I sat back on my couch where I knew she couldn’t see me. Anticipation thrummed through me at what I was about to do. It wasn’t exactly right, but there was morally grey, right? This wasn’t going to hurt her anyway.
Keeping my eyes on her, I eased the waistband of my sweatpants down and pulled out my dick. Pre-cum already leaked over the tip, and I groaned out loud as I rubbed my thumb through the crease, enjoying the sensation of my finger against the delicate skin there. “Fuucck.” It only caused a fresh surge of moisture, and it felt like I was fourteen all over again, hiding in the barn while I got off.
Willing myself to take my time, I stroked into my hand the way I liked, watching Hattie across the way as she worked.
When she got up from the chair, and her toned legs unfolded, revealing themselves in all their glory, I pumped more frantically, tightening my grip. Jesus. I was so close. Then she turned around, showing the apple of her ass as she moved towards the kitchen, bending into the refrigerator, showing tiny ass panties. My balls drew up, and I bit my lip thinking about how I’d bend her over like that and drive hard into her pussy, making her moan for me. My orgasm exploded through me as I came, my head collapsing onto the couch as my hand milked my cock for every last bit of come.
CHAPTER 8
Hattie
I finished my Cocoa Puffs, drinking the sweet cereal milk in my sleep shirt while watching a deer poke through the clearing. Kipp had left early—so early that I’d still been working as he headed to the official-looking truck with the decal on its side. Yesterday in town, he’d been driving a lifted Jeep, but today he left it parked. Now I was wondering how he was making enough money for his fancy Jeep and all these cabins he wasn’t renting. It seemed like it would be expensive. He’d tipped his head toward Cabin Six, then pushed a ball cap onto his head and got in his truck.
Maybe he thought he was invisible yesterday when he got home, but I’d seen him moving through his cabin on the edge of the property. It might have looked like I was working, but instead, my whole body had been tuned into what was happening in Cabin Twelve, where Kipp had moved through before turning off the lights andgoing into the bathroom. I was pretty sure his cabin was a mirror image of mine, so I’d imagined him in the shower stall while I sat in soaking panties. For a second, I’d caught a glimpse of him bare-chested in the hallway before he came back into his living room, but the angle of his cabin kept me from knowing what he was doing. After a few minutes, I wondered if maybe he was watching me like I was watching him. Bending over at the refrigerator seemed a little childish, but I’d hoped he was looking.
My online team did a deep dive into our latest case last night. My small group may be made up of true-crime enthusiasts from diverse backgrounds, but no one could question their commitment to the work. All of them gave 110% effort. Today, I started out after reviewing all the police reports from the crime scene and the search efforts (all three days of them)—eye-roll.
One thing that stood out to me from the start was how the police reports seemed lacking in detail for a case like this. Still, I was trying to approach it with fresh eyes. I requested a meeting with local police, but it had already been denied. That wasn’t a good sign, but I was not going to let it stop me.
My team had a list of people they’d talked to about the case, and I was already investigating. Even if the Briar Fall police department had built a solid case, we were going to look through what they had because Allison Finch was still missing. Not to mention, I wanted to check out allthe places Allison frequented to get a feel for things before I made my first podcast about the case.
All of my pods were streamed, but I posted local pictures on my website whenever it was appropriate. Not crime scene photos or anything weird like that, or of the victim, but pictures of the local town. Stuff like that.
There was a fine line with voyeurism. True crime attracted all kinds of people, and you couldn’t deny that for some, there was a sick pleasure in other people’s misery. But there were good people who listened for all sorts of reasons. Some were going through a trauma, others simply loved a good mystery. I learned over the years that my audience was just as diverse as anything else in the world, and to do my job, my judgment had to be checked at the door.
Briar Falls was a bit of a drive from Wildwood Meadows, especially once I had to drive from the cabin. The trip out to the town was the kind that didn’t seem too bad until you realized it was the sort of country road that had long stretches with no cell service, and my Sirius XM didn’t work. It was narrow, winding, and so bumpy that my car bumped along it even when I kept my speed reasonable. The road had deep embankments that made you wonder whether anyone would find you if you were in an accident.
The woods here were thick and dense. Tight enough with undergrowth that nobody could find a body if it were hidden back here. Yep, these were the thoughts thatI had these days. Enough time spent in my profession made me question every potential picturesque location as a murder site.
Six years ago, I walked through woods like these calling my sister’s name, and I knew more than anyone that they would swallow you up without mercy.
That memory lived under my skin like a bruise — never fading, always there when I pressed too hard. Even on days like this, with the sun pouring through the windshield, the heat curling against my cheeks, and my thoughts buzzing too fast to sit still.
I turned off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows instead of thinking too hard. Pine, sap, and asphalt followed me in. I hit record before the line in my head could evaporate.
“Briar Falls. The population might be fifteen hundred on a good day. Pine trees. Rust. Gossip thick enough to spread with a spoon. Geez, Hattie, that’s cliché as hell. Edit that dumb shit out. The kind of place where stories last longer than people. It was one of the last places where our victim was seen.”
I let the recorder run a little longer, catching the rattling hum of the road, then switched it off. That was a little corny. Probably wouldn’t use it, but I’d learned that snippets I’d capture on the road could always come in handy later. My brain never really turned off, but sometimes a line or an idea would pop into my head, and if I didn’tcapture it right then, it was ephemeral, and I’d forget it twenty minutes later, no matter how good my intentions were to remember it. It was better just to record it, even if it was shit.
Briar Falls wasn’t quite as charming as Wildwood Meadows. While the latter was well-maintained and the shops bustling with customers, here they all looked like they were struggling. When I drove through yesterday, I noticed the shuttered storefronts and those that appeared a little worn out. The main anchors were the diner and the hardware store, but even they seemed to have seen better days. There were several antique stores in town that were fun to browse, but some looked more like flea-market stalls than carefully curated shops.
I eased my car into a parking spot in front of the hardware store, which looked like the oldest building in town, judging by the faded green paint barely visible over the brick. In the police reports, they noted that this was one of the places Allison had visited and that it was frequented by her husband.
The bell chimed when I stepped inside, and the woman behind the counter looked up with a cheery smile. She reminded me of a 1950s pin-up with her hair in an updo, dyed an almost off-putting shade of bottle red, and wearing lipstick of the same shade. Somehow, she made it work, though.
“Howdy, darling. Need help finding something?”
Giving her an even smile that wasn’t too bright, I said casually, “Yeah. I’m looking for some caulking. Like for a tub. Some of the white kind.” She nodded easily. I didn’t need any caulking, but the first rule of coming into a place was to buy something. Tucking my hand in my pocket and watching her start around the corner, I added, “And information, if you’ve got any. I’m looking into Allison Finch’s disappearance.”
I’d learned that ninety percent of the time, it was best to be honest and upfront. There were times to skate around who I was, but the truth always came out. It could be risky, but small-town folks didn’t like you to lie or beat around the bush, and they usually didn’t give you another chance easily.
