CC95
So sorry, I need to reschedule. Something came up. Tomorrow?
The woman is standing me up? We’re about a forty-five-minute drive from my isolated lakefront cabin in Lake Savage, so not exactly around the corner. Ballsy of her to stand up a hired people hunter.
She doesn’t know about the serial killer part, of course.
Normally, I wouldn’t mind making the drive again, but the forecast says we’ll get hit with a pretty big snowstorm tonight.
What’s her plan? Why not just talk to me?
Me
If the storm isn’t too bad
I dramatically stand, shrug into my black jacket, and take a last swig of my coffee, giving her time to scatter, as I’m sure she’ll do. When I get out of Maine Coffee Co and feel the icy cold on my face, I subtly observe her take two steps back. Trying to hide, maybe?
She can’t actually be part of a crime family, because she isn’t pulling this off very well.
My car’s only a block away, and I slowly stroll to it and slide into the front seat, keeping an eye on her rushing to her own car across the street. Surely she’s not going to follow me.
But when I pull my car out of the street parking spot, she makes a crazy U-turn, drawing all the attention to herself. Isnort as I slow, stopping early at a yellow light so she doesn’t miss it.
Her impulsiveness reminds me of Noah. I don’t understand people who don’t have a concrete plan in place before doing something potentially dangerous. But she seems harmless, and her nervousness intrigues me in a whimsical sort of way. So I guess we’ll see what happens.
There’s no way she’ll trail me out of Portland once she realizes I don’t live around here, right? I’m a stranger to her, communicate on an anonymous encrypted app, and might be willing to find someone who doesn’t want to be found. Not the kind of person you casually follow out of the city.
But she does.
Callie keeps a bit of distance on the road out of Portland and toward the inner state lake areas, but subtlety is hopeless once we get off the main road and snake along the small county routes to Lake Savage, a tiny town set on a large lake, very popular in the summer tourist season, but quiet in the off season. We’re on a narrow two-lane road with houses set back from the street, a rough gravelly shoulder, and lots of trees.
So yeah, I can clearly see her following me. Eighty-year-old Ruth Roy would see her.
Then again, that old lady has the senses of a fucking hawk, and the murderous instinct as well. She’s probably a fucking axe murderer.
Once I merge onto the even more sparsely populated lake road leading to my cabin, Callie drops farther back. I slow so she doesn’t miss when I turn onto the long private driveway leading to my lakefront cabin.
I pull up to the cabin and into my garage and consider texting Noah, figuring my brother will be home at his own cabin just amile down the road.
But I can handle this myself. Whatever this is.
Andthisisn’t my fault. I didn’t bring her here or try to get her to follow me. I might’ve made it easier, but the woman seems like she needs something but is too scared to talk to me, so really I’m helping her. Still, I probably should’ve tried to shake her on the drive home, or gone to Main Street in Lake Savage to get her to leave me alone.
Something about her intrigues me, and it only has a little to do with the fact that she’s cute. I don’t let myself talk to women very often because there’s no point. I don’t have many friends, and I definitely don’t have girlfriends. Only some acquaintances in Lake Savage and my brother, plus the work we do.
The plan right now is to wait for Callie and then send her on her way after a quick chat.
I slowly get out of my car, forgoing the garage door entrance and instead whistling to myself as I stroll around the house and up the rocky path to my cabin’s front door. I pause for a second to admire the view of the lake. I’m looking forward to the winter storm that’s due to hit. There’s a gorgeous silence and serenity that comes when the world—or at least my woodsy part of it—is covered in a thick fresh blanket of snow.
While I’m standing here, I click through to my extensive network of cameras around my property. It shows Callie’s parked her car on the road and is slowly walking down the driveway. Like, just walking down the middle of it, crunching gravel, as if I’m not going to notice. Oh, look, she popped behind a tree.
I press my lips together to suppress a grin. I guess I’ll go in and wait.
Once inside, I call out to Sir Fluffy. He comes amblingover from the family room, where he was almost definitely napping in the crook of the old gray armchair.
Sir Fluffy showed up at my door a few winters ago half frozen and hasn’t left. The elderly black cat limps over and meows, so I squat and pet his head. This sweet soul is a little mangy, with one ear looking like it was previously chewed on by something with big teeth. His fur isn’t fluffy or particularly soft, but I didn’t want him to get a complex, so I named him Sir Fluffy. For some dignity in old age.
“Come on, kitty.” He follows me into the kitchen, and I pour a too-large portion of hard cat food into a bowl, then drop a treat on top. As he chomps away at his dinner, I admire the apple pie I baked this morning, under the glass and safe from the cat.
