CHAPTER ONE
RUE
I stare at the Moccasin Cove sign, wondering if the new, updated number includes the dead bodies at the bottom of the lake—or if those are officially marked off the list after a few months.
Honestly, it could go either way and I wouldn’t be surprised.
Pursing my lips, I press my foot against the accelerator, pushing my SUV a little harder past the eerie reminder.
These tires have never graced the winding gravel and shitty asphalt roads around the lake, and the surrealness of navigating them now has the acid and watery iced coffee in my stomach curdling.
It’s just for a few weeks. Then I can I go back to Los Angeles.
I don’t even have to be seen by anyone in town. No one has to know I’m here.
My heart thumps an extra beat as the rising suns glints against my windshield in a way that purely blinds me—which is exactly why I don’t see the shadow of a man stepping out into the road until it’s almost too late.
Holy shit!
I slam the brakes, my heel colliding with the floorboard as the tires squeal and I suck in a breath so sharp it makes my chest hurt. The car comes to a screeching halt, and I squint through the glare to process the figure looming just in front of my bumper.
What the hell? Did he not see me? Is he freaking blind, too?
A mixture of irritation and shock floods my system, but the more I’m able to make out the tall, broad-shouldered man in a black hoodie, the more I find myself feeling uneasy. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would take this sort of thing with a grain of salt.
No, he looks like the type to maybe swing a tire iron at me for it.
I brace, my back against the seat and hold my breath, my hands sweating against the heated steering wheel. The man appears to be frozen in place, and I keep my eyes narrowed, doing my best to make out even the smallest of movements.
Maybe he’ll just murder me.
I bite into my lower lip at the intrusive thought. There’s something about this town that causes my mind to run straight to violence. Well, and my body, too.
But let’s not go there.
I keep my eyes locked on the presumable human I almost just man-slaughtered, still blocking my path. His body is angled far enough from me that I can’t see his face, and part of me wonders if he’s contemplating his next move.
Or maybe just tweaking out on meth.
Again, another charming trait of this place that could go either way.
I peel my fingers from the steering wheel, and move them to the horn, hovering over it as my heart skips yet another beat. It has a tendency to do that—a habit that started years ago and has never quite righted itself.
Gently, I place my hand against the plastic, and press, the horn blaring into the silence of the early morning. The sound is jarring, enough so that the man visibility winces, and then darts off into the woods on the opposite side of the road.
Well… That was fucking weird.
I shake my head, the messy bun on the top of my head bouncing in way that reminds me I haven’t slept a minute in the last twenty-four hours it took to get here. I should’ve flown, but the odds of a car crash are greater than an airplane falling from the sky.
And I was hoping to maybe get in on that statistic.
Oh, to be so lucky. I let out a sigh, and find the gas again, easing my car forward.
My eyes drift to the thick woods to my right, where the man disappeared to.
There’s no trace of him, even in the way the leaves are falling and the branches now mostly bare.
Moccasin Cove has a way of swallowing people like that…
And driving them mad.
My mind flashes to a darkness I haven’t recalled in years, but I shudder and shake it off before the sick feeling can return to my stomach. The best coping method for me to deal with regret is to just fucking forget it, and pretend it never even happened.
Sometimes, I can actually convince myself of that, too.
The next two miles of twists and turns pass without incident, though the creepy guy in the black hoodie remains front and center in my brain for whatever reason. Something about him seemed familiar, but that’s probably because he is.
I know just about everyone in this town.
And I’m certain they still all know me.
You don’t forget the girl whose beloved boyfriend was murdered, his body found afloat in the ghostly waters of the lake, a Water Moccasin resting on his bloated chest full of stab wounds.
That I may—or may not—have been responsible for.
“Don’t go there mentally,” I warn myself as I take the turn-off to the lake, and consequently my childhood home. The car jostles against the washed-out section as I weave through the trees, red dirt mixing with what little gravel remains.
There’re two sides to this lake, the one cleared for tourists and the one that’s overgrown and uninhabited. The latter is where my late father built our cabin, preferring to be away from people. I used to not understand that sentiment, but now…
I understand more than ever.
My lungs expand as I take a deep breath and make the final turn into the long driveway. The two-story cabin looms in the distance, and what was once a manicured lawn with a couple of large pine trees is now an overgrown mess of weeds and briars.
I frown at the sight, the wooded side of the house faded and warped from neglect. My presence sets off the howl of Bullet, my mom’s old Beagle, who sits on the decrepit front porch beside a wilted rose bush in a pot.
Welcome to the House of Horrors.
I pull in behind my mom’s old Dodge pickup and put the car in park. I flip the visor down, feeling the need to wipe the sweat from my brow. However, as I meet my jade irises, there’s no sweat on my skin. I just feel like there is.
Swallowing the nerves that follow that realization, I pop it back into place and reach for my backpack resting in the passenger seat. I drag it across the console onto my lap and grab my phone from the console. I hit the unlock button, and sigh.
Of course, there’s no service here.
I roll my eyes and shove it into the side pocket, deeming it useless. I then reach for the handle of the car, and kick it open with my converse, startling as I’m met with the obnoxious pant of Bullet.
“I don’t know how you’re still alive,” I tell him, my tone warm as I take in the white around his eyes. “It’s been like, what? Fourteen years since I brought you home?”
His white-tipped tail wags obnoxiously as he jumps up, placing his paws against my black jeans. I’d have given anything to take him with me, but my mother insisted he’d never make it in a city like Los Angeles.
The only rabbits he’d be able to hunt there are the furry, human kind.
I give him a good scratch behind the ears and then slide the rest of the way out, my feet colliding with the grass mixed with gravel. “I guess Mom doesn’t have Mr. Wilson help keep up with the yard anymore?”
Bullet tilts his head at me, like the suggestion is completely foreign. I shrug it off and wince at the weight of my bag. My shoulders and back ache from a long stretch of driving and no sleep.
I use my heel to kick the driver’s side door shut, and take a moment to breathe in the heavy, musty scent of pine and distant lake water. I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tightens, and a gurgled groan erupts distantly in my ears.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I don’t have to let the memories creep back in just because I’m here.
My eyes fly back open, and I swallow the bile rising.
I clear my throat and head for the front door.
The yard is even worse up close, and I focus on that instead of the memories threatening to drown me.
The chipped steps give to my weight as I ascend to the porch, glancing back at my beige Pathfinder.
I could just leave now.
But Bullet drags my gaze back as he whines and bounces along beside me, like my homecoming is actually a good thing. I once read that dogs can’t remember specific details of events, only how they made them feel.
I guess that’s why he still likes me, despite seeing the worst day of my life.
A shiver rolls down my spine as my mind flashes back to the red stains on his white fur, and the vigorous scrubbing my father did to rid Bullet of them. My head swirls, and suddenly, I feel like I’m right back to all those bad dreams it took years to rid myself of.
Bullet spins in circles as I reach for the knob, unsurprised to see it’s unlocked. After all, this is the kind of place they say you can leave your door open, and the only thing you have to worry about is the wildlife.
I’m not sure that’s entirely true.
I push the door inward, and blink as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit cabin. It’s less chaotic than the yard, but still stale and musty inside. Bullet comes in beside me, as I scan the clutter, searching for any signs of life.
“Rue!” A voice erupts from the back room, and I ignore the wave of dread that settles in my gut. “That better be you in this house!”
“Yep,” I choke out, still clinging to my backpack strap as I make my way through the small living room to the hallway, leading to the master bedroom. The walls are still clad with family pictures of the four of us, though I’d hardly consider us much of a family these days.
I’ve barely spoken to my sister in nearly a decade.
And I can’t blame her for that—or the way she ignores my mom’s calls.
She got the hell out just like me, but unlike me, she doesn’t owe a single person in this town a thing.
My eyes shift away from the photos as I reach the master bedroom, the door ajar.
I press it inward, my eyes landing on my mother, sitting in a wheelchair.
She’s got some sort of splint up to her right knee, and her left arm is in a cast. Her gray hair hangs loosely to her shoulders, and as she turns her head toward me, the fatigue is evident.
As is her annoyance.
“You said you’d be here around six-thirty,” she snaps, her dark brows furrowing. “I had to get out of the bed and into this wheelchair on my own.”
“I’m sorry.” I swallow the urge to defend myself. She’s just cranky because she’s hurt and doesn’t have my dad to help her. It’s not personal.
But it sure as hell feels personal.
“Just help me get to the kitchen,” she says, her sigh lingering in the silence between us as she meets my eyes. “I’m glad you’re home, Rue. Really, I am.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, good to see you in person.”
“Hmm,” is all my mother says as I make my way to the wheelchair. I grab the handles and guide it toward the hallway, trying to steady myself as the fatigue suddenly pulls at my eyelids like a weight.
I really need a nap, but that’s not going to happen.
The wheelchair bumps over the transitional piece as we enter into the kitchen and I situate it so that she can look out across the unfenced backyard, rather than me trying to operate the forty-year-old coffee pot that should’ve been replaced two decades ago.
As I fill the pot with water, I startle sideways, Bullet letting out a suddden eerie bay, straight out of the Hounds of Baskerville. I whip my head around to see the beagle, sitting at the threshold of the open front door, his attention on the front woods.
Did I not shut the front door? Seriously?
I turn the water off and set the pot down, heading for the door. “Does he do that often?” I ask my mom as I rush across the house.
“No,” she calls out, just as I reach the threshold. “He does not.”
I stare out into the tree line, my heart in my throat as Bullet keeps barking, his attention still focused out there on something…
Or someone.
I swallow hard, reminding myself there’s only technically two people who might want to hurt me. One is dead. The other is in prison—and has no idea who I am.
But I still flip the lock.
Just for safe measure.
*COMING NOVEMBER 11, 2025*