“I’ll take you to meet Mr. Pope tomorrow if you’d like,” Kale offered, in hopes of making her feel more comfortable. “You can ask him if he saw you.”
“I have a list of people I want to interview,” she informed him as she snuggled deeper into her covers. She was exhausted and it was catching up with her.
Great. He couldn’t wait. “We’ll start first thing in the morning after I check in at my office.” He stood. “You let me know if you need anything.”
“You locked the door, right?”
“Believe it or not,” he said, surmising that her question was a jab at life in Maine, “we don’t lock our doors because there are no robberies in Youngstown.”
“Only murders,” she reminded.
Right.
Only murders.
13
Saturday, February 28, 7:30 a.m.
Sarah’s nose wiggled.
She inhaled more deeply.
Bacon.
Another deep draw of the sweet smell.
She opened her eyes and looked around.
Shelves lined with books, some haphazardly placed. A comfortable, however slightly wear-worn chair. White walls. She sat up, pushed the thick layer of covers away.
Conner’s place.
Memories of rushing through the woods broadsided her. Her body ached from more than one full-frontal confrontation with solid wood trunks. Her pulse reacted to an adrenaline dump.
Someone had pushed her over that ledge ...
Her palms burned. She opened her hands and stared at the angry red marks there.
That certainly hadn’t been a dream.
Nor had running through the woods in the dark.
She shuddered. This had to be a new record. She’d scarcely settled into town and already someone wanted her dead or, at least, out of the way.
The aroma of fresh brewed coffee abruptly distracted her senses.
She turned toward the kitchen, then scanned the room for the time. An antiquated clock sat on the mantel, its arms reaching toward the numbers stenciled on its face.
Seven thirty-five.
She’d slept at least five hours. And no dreams.
Another record.
Sarah pushed up from the couch, grimaced as pain radiated up her torso and across her shoulders. Swinging from vines and intimate contact with trees clearly weren’t in her best interests.
Righting her clothes, she shuffled sock-footed to the kitchen door. Sprawled at her master’s feet, Angie swished her tail across the wood floor, but she didn’t bother raising her head. The dog had slept on the sofa with Sarah as if she’d needed a guard. Considering last night’s jaunt through the woods, maybe she did.
