Her fingers dug into the cold soil. She had to be out of her mind to do this.
Maybe she was crazy. Most people wherever she went ended up thinking so.
It really didn’t matter what kind of secrets the innkeeper had. Hell, it could be that dead rat she’d already considered. But that old familiar story instinct just wouldn’t let it go. Maybe she would—
Her fingers encountered a texture different from that of the dirt. Hard. She adjusted the beam of light.
A book?
A journal.
She opened it. Shook off the page. Boldly scrawled handwriting filled page after page.
A date at the top of one page caught her eye. February tenth, twenty years ago. A diary?
That packing sound that loose snow made when compressed by a footfall whispered against her eardrums.
She froze.
Sarah heard the thwack before she felt the pain.
The blast erupted in the back of her head.
Lights burst in her retinas.
Then nothing.
46
7:00 p.m.
Kale wasn’t letting her leave like this.
He wasn’t giving up that easily.
He parked next to her car. She was still here. Anticipation wired him.
He still had a chance.
As he jogged across the parking lot, another vehicle arrived. He recognized it. Mrs. Harvey. She and her kids climbed out, grocery sacks in hand. Inside, he glanced at the reservation desk. Deserted. He bounded up the stairs to Sarah’s room. Her door was closed. He banged on it. No answer.
“Sarah!”
Still no answer. He tried the knob. Locked.
He started to bang again and a scream stopped him.
He bolted for the stairs. Took them two at a time.
The lobby was still empty.
“Dad!”
Brady’s voice. Kale followed the sound through the kitchen and to the mudroom.
Barton Harvey lay on the floor, blood pooled around his head. Bags of groceries had spilled around his motionless body. Brady was on his knees next to his father. Mrs. Harvey and her daughter were holding each other, sobbing.
“What happened?” Kale dropped to the floor next to Brady and checked Mr. Harvey’s carotid pulse. Faint, but there.
