Page 62 of Sinister Secrets

When I was in school, I had a whole arsenal of tricks to help me focus. Ways to laser my attention on the task at hand, which was usually studying for a test. And while a bad grade was a strong enough consequence to keep me motivated, now the stakes are even higher—life and death. My future. My freedom. My happiness. So why is my brain failing me now?

I click off the TV, knowing that it’s not helping. Sure, the first time I watched the breaking news report I learned some valuable information I would have otherwise missed out on, but the half dozen times since have only worked to increase my distraction and frustration and worry. Emphasis on the worry.

Because it’s not just me that has the needle on my concern meter tipped firmly into the red. It’s Jake, too. When I called earlier, knowing that I shouldn’t interrupt him but also that I needed to hear his voice, he’d sounded stressed. And tired.

I wish there was something I could do to help bring him home sooner. I miss him. It’s only been forty-eight hours, but I long for his touch. The bed feels too big, too empty. The nights too long.

Have I come to rely on him too much? If I’m being honest, yes. But that’s been true practically from the moment I stepped foot back into Gator Glade. Alone, traumatized, confused, and with crippling anxiety attacks, Jake had seen past the wreck I’d become to the woman I had been—and the little girl he used to know.

Had it been that little girl that compelled him to step between me and the gun Alicia DeWitt had aimed at my head? It had been my mess—my grandfather, my sanctuary, my land that they wanted—and yet he’d been the one to end up getting shot.

Is that part of the reason he’s so stressed now? That he’s staying at his condo and keeping his distance while I work this case?

I sit up straighter, unable to believe that I hadn’t made the connection before now. Jake and Gordon hadn’t been friendly before everything went down, but after Jake found out that Gordon was involved? I have no doubt that he would have gladly seen Gordon pay for his crimes.

Does he feel guilty about that now? Even worse, does he think I could have had something to do with it? I imagine him sitting in his condo, watching the news report. Putting the clues that seem so obvious together.

As I’d expected, Sheriff Kingston and his team had discovered a chest freezer when they searched the duplex leased in Greg Moore’s name. One that led them to contact the state police to request a forensics team.

I don’t need any more details to know that there must have been enough evidence for even a bumbling idiot to deduce that it had held a body. I also don’t need access to the reports when they come in to know whose body it was. Surely any trace blood or hair they removed from inside will be a match to Gordon’s.

None of that matters. What does is who put him in there—because it certainly wasn’t me—and how I’m going to prove it to the rest of the world.

According to the news broadcast, the rental company said that the man they knew as Greg Moore had paid the entire year’s rent in advance. They also said there was less than a month left on the lease, which is going to make proving his time of death almost impossible. He could have been killed eight months ago, as part of the blowout of what happened. Or he could have been killed last week.

There’s no way to know for sure, which is going to make proving my own innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt a monumental task. The only way it’s going to happen is by tracking down the real killer, and in order to do that, I need some clues to go on. Too bad they all point to me.

The tone of the code being pressed on the front door’s keypad is a welcome break in the silence around me. I look up, fixing a smile on my face as the deadbolt clanks and the sound of footsteps approach.

“Hey,” I say as Chelsea enters the kitchen.

“Hey.”

I watch as she grabs a glass from the cabinet and pours herself some juice from the fridge. I know I don’t have any time to waste—Director Lopez made that abundantly clear. I also know that I won’t accomplish anything if I continue to allow my thoughts to spin in circles all night.

“I was thinking about running into town in a bit to grab some dinner. You in?” I ask.

“Sorry, I can’t.” Chelsea drains her glass, sets it on the table with a heavy clank, and gives me a big grin. “I’ve got a date.”

“Oh… that’s great. Someone you just met?” The question feels like prying, but the last thing I need is to add to my worries with unfounded suspicion that the woman has decided to give her abusive ex another chance.

“Recently, yeah. And I think this one’s going to be a keeper.”

“That’s great news. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But you should still go out and grab a bite. I’d hate to think that you’re here all by yourself, doing nothing.”

The words rankle, because they’re true. I am doing nothing. Just sitting here, watching my time run out like grains of sand trickling through an hourglass without doing a thing to stop it.

“Yeah, maybe I will. You want me to grab an extra dessert for later if I do?”

“That’s sweet, but unnecessary. I doubt I’ll be around to eat it.” Chelsea gives me an exaggerated wink. “In other words, don’t wait up. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I watch her leave, feeling like the only kid not invited to the party.

Yawning, I check my phone. It’s just past six. I can sit here, torturing myself all night, or I can put myself out of my misery. I choose the latter.

Appetite now gone, I pack up my notes and carry them back to the bedroom, wash up, and crawl under the sheets. Hopefully I’ll be renewed and refreshed and ready to hit the ground running in the morning. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to kick, bite, and scream.