Chapter 14 Louise
LOUISE
The headlamp slipped from my fingers, splashing light across the bookshelves as it tumbled to the floor. The squeal that came out of me echoed off the walls, reminding me of how totally alone I was—excluding the person holding a gun to the back of my head.
How did he, or she, get the drop on me?
Aside from the howling wind outside, the room had been dead silent. I should have heard footfalls, or even breathing.
“Name.” The voice was so deep, so menacing that it startled me.
Man. Definitely man. Big. And not young, I guessed.
“Louise.” My voice cracked with panic.
“Louise what?”
I hesitated, trying to read him through the thickness of his voice. Was he angry? Curious? About to kill me?
“Sloane.” Terrified, I breathed out the word. “Louise Sloane.”
“What are you doing in my house, Louise Sloane?”
My house.
Shit. The house wasn’t vacant. And I was a total, complete idiot. I’d just broken into someone’s house.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
The gun pressed harder into the back of my neck.
“My car broke down. Down the road. I’m stranded. I didn’t know anyone lived here. I’m sorry.”
The silence that followed stretched like a noose. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. This was it. He was going to kill me. Dump my body in a snowbank. Another cold case. Another ghost buried in the mountains of Berry Springs.
I closed my eyes and began counting in my head.
Three . . .
Two . . .
One . . .
The metal lifted off my neck, leaving a circle of tingles on my skin.
I released my breath but didn’t dare move.
“Turn around,” the voice demanded.
I didn’t move. I don’t know why. Maybe because I didn’t want to see the monster who had just held a gun to my head. I scanned the room for an escape route. Unless I was going to jump through a window, I had no option.
“Turn around,” he said again, less a demand and more of a growl.
My knees wobbled as I slowly turned.
A tall shadow loomed over me, silhouetted in the dark by the headlamp that I’d dropped.
The man was huge. Massive. Not only tall, but as wide as an ox.
I didn’t want to look at his face, but I also didn’t want to appear weak. So I focused on his chest—at eye level for me—and jerked my shoulders back.
He didn’t move—not a single muscle—but I could feel his stare on my face. I’d never felt so small in my entire life.
“You smell like a liquor cabinet.”
My head jerked back, my eyes popping out of their sockets. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. I looked up at the face I couldn’t see, but could feel the disapproval rolling off of him.
I took a step back, having no idea how to respond to that. Jerk came to mind, but then I remembered he was holding a gun.
Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room like nothing had happened. Like he had some important appointment to get to, or maybe the babies he kept chained in his basement needed their nightly whipping.
What. The. Hell?
I blinked a few times, frozen in place, watching the silhouette pass under the arched doorway, the gun dangling casually at his side, before slipping back into the shadows.
Then I snapped to action, spun on my heel, and darted for the windows. Desperately, I patted the icy glass, searching for a lock or a way to open them. There was nothing.
Frantic, I whirled around, scanning the room. Now what?
I ran back to the scene of my almost-death and plucked my headlamp off the floor, spun around, and aimed the light at the doorway.
The man was gone.
Brandishing the light like a weapon, I slowly crossed the library. Ice pelted the windows from outside, the only sound in the house.
Where did he go?
My hands started to tremble as I crossed under the doorway and stepped into the living room.
My bags were no longer in the haphazard line that I’d left them in when I’d crossed the room. Instead, they were tucked neatly in a row against the wall by the front door. My purse, my backpack, my duffel bag. Smallest to largest.
The faintest smell of disinfectant hung in the air, but I didn’t have time to dissect that weirdness at the moment.
I lunged for my bags and threw open the door. The wind punched me in the face like a fist of ice. I rushed onto the porch, hit black ice—and went airborne.
I landed with a sickening thud. My bags flew. My purse hit me in the face.
For a few seconds, I didn’t move. Just lay there, humiliated, freezing, furious.
And then the rage hit.
I wasn’t just cold and stranded—I was pissed. At the storm. At the resort. At Ansel and his stupid bald tires. At the man who could’ve helped me but instead scared the crap out of me.
Did he really have to pull a gun on me? I told him I was stranded. In need of help.
“You smell like a liquor cabinet.”
What a jerk. I was stranded on the side of the damn road in the middle of the night with hell raining down around me. If there was any time for a drink, it was then. What the hell was I supposed to do?
Maybe not drink an entire bottle of wine, Lou.
I clenched my teeth and pushed to my feet, gathering my things with the last shred of dignity I had in me.
The conditions had gotten worse. The wind had picked up, creating blizzard-like conditions and an even colder atmosphere. I figured it would take me double the time to walk back to Ansel, which meant more than two hours. And that was assuming that I could pry open the frozen door once I got there.
I stared down the snow-swept path, my jaw clenched.
I had no choice.