Still Lake

by Anne Stuart

  “And what have you found out?”

  “Not much. How much do you trust me, Sophie? Not very much, I expect. For all you know you could be my next victim.”

  “How reassuring.” She felt slightly faint.

  His smile was oddly self-deprecating. “I can give you a ten-minute head start. I’ll promise to stay on the porch long enough for you to get home safely.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you?”

  “You don’t have much choice. There are problems with that scenario, though. What if I’m not the killer? What if someone else is lurking in the woods around Still Lake? Waiting to catch you alone?”

  “I think I’ll take my chances.”

  Why did he have to have such a sexy mouth, particularly when he smiled that rueful smile? “There’s another thing, too.”

  “And that is?”

  “You don’t want to go home. You want to trust me.”

  She laughed at that. “I’m not that much of an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot at all. Your instincts tell you to trust me. Your brain tells you to run.”

  “So it looks like a draw.”

  He shook his head. “Throw in your hormones, and the answer is clear. Get out of the damned car and come upstairs.”

  “Upstairs? You’re out of your mind,” she said flatly. “You tell me you’ve been lying to me ever since you met me, you tell me you may be a mass murderer, and you expect me to sleep with you?”

  “You already knew I was lying. You already slept with me. I haven’t quite figured out why, but you want me almost as much as I want you. Which, trust me, is a hell of a lot. I’m here for a reason, and I don’t need distractions, and yet all I can think about is you. So get out of the fucking car and come upstairs with me.”

  “I thought you said I could go home if I want.”

  “You can. I just don’t think you want to.”

  “Watch me.” She unlocked the door, half expecting him to jump her.

  He didn’t move from his spot on the porch, his long legs still propped on the railing. He just watched her out of dark, hooded eyes.

  She opened the door, stepping out on the weed-choked driveway. He wasn’t coming after her, she knew. He wasn’t going to touch her, coerce her, force her.

  “You know, if you’re a serial rapist and killer, then you’re doing a piss-poor job of it,” she said, closing the door behind her. “You’re not supposed to give your victims a chance.”

  “Maybe I like the idea of a chase. I only said I’d give you ten minutes.”

  She blinked. He sounded so calm, so matter of fact. She was standing in the middle of a deserted clearing with a man who’d been convicted of killing at least one woman, and he’d been warning her, plainly and obliquely, waiting for her response.

  “So what is it, Sophie? Run like hell through the woods, or go to bed with me? Who do you trust?”

  “Whom.”

  “Fuck you,” he said genially. “Get in the house.”

  “Make me,” she shot back.

  He shook his head. “Those kinds of games can be fun, but we need to save them for later. Right now you have to choose. And it better be soon. I’m getting tired of waiting for you.”

  “Ten minutes, you said?” She glanced down at her wristwatch. It was a delicate, old-fashioned, marcasite one that had cost too much and didn’t keep time very well. It had stopped.

  He glanced toward the sky. “Better run now, Sophie. Darkness is coming. So’s the bogeyman.”

  “It sounds as if you’d rather I ran,” she said in an even voice. “Why? Why are you trying to scare me?”

  For once she’d managed to surprise him. “Maybe because that’s the smartest thing you could do. I’m a dangerous man, Sophie. For some reason I think I want you safe.”

  “I thought you just wanted me, period. And maybe I’m tired of being safe.” She didn’t even know where those words came from. She only knew they were true.

  He pushed up from the chair and took a step toward her, but her momentary bravado failed. She took off, disappearing down the lake path as fast as she could run.

  It wasn’t the first mistake she’d made that night, nor the last. Just one in a long line of idiotic moves that were dumb enough to die for. She got lost.

  It wasn’t really her fault. She hadn’t spent much time wandering in the woods in daylight, much less after dark. She’d been too busy with the neverending projects at the old house.

  And she’d had a horrendously unsettling couple of days, capped by Gracey’s meltdown and John Smith’s outing himself as Thomas Ingram Griffin. She wasn’t quite sure if she believed him or not. All she knew was that she was scared shitless, and the one thing she wanted to do was get back home safely and lock the doors behind her.

  At least Doc was there. The lying, treacherous snake who’d rented the Whitten house wouldn’t dare try to break in with him there. Not that Doc was that magnificent a specimen as a bodyguard, but he was enough. Griffin wouldn’t come anywhere near her.

  She stopped her useless wanderings, heat flushing her face and roiling in her stomach. She had slept with him. Made love with him. Had sex with him. Fucked him. It was crazy, stupid, self-destructive, unbelievable. And she couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop remembering the way his hands felt on her skin, the way he felt inside her.

  She let out a useless little whimper. She’d somehow gotten off the main path and was now smack-dab in a thicket that unfortunately seemed to consist of thorny berry bushes. They caught at her hair, her clothes, scratched her hands as she tried to shield her face, but the more she floundered around, the deeper she got in the tangle.

  She knew he was there seconds before he spoke, though she wasn’t quite sure where he was standing. “If you hold still I’ll get you out of there,” Griffin said.

  “I’m fine.” She couldn’t tell if he was behind her or ahead of her—but she knew it was no use trying to escape from him.

  “I thought you were a bear caught in the bushes,” he drawled. “You make enough noise for one.”

  “Go away or I’ll scream.”

  “And what’s that supposed to accomplish? No one will hear you out here—the trees muffle any noise, and the wind’s heading toward the lake. They might hear something down at the village beach, but by the time it reaches there any kind of cry will be too faint. Someone will probably just think it’s a loon.”

  She could hear him moving closer, though she still couldn’t see him. She tried to free herself, but her skirt was caught in the tangle of thorns, and the branches were pulling at her hair when she reached down to try to release herself.

  “Hold still,” he said, closer. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  She could see him now in the moonlight, hear a snicking kind of sound as he approached her, and the tangled thicket fell away as if by magic as he loomed up in the dark. And then he was there, surrounded by the thorns, and she saw how he’d gotten there so easily.

  He’d cut his way in with the hunting knife he held in his hand. It glinted silver in the moonlight, not stained with blood and rust like the one she’d found in Grace’s drawer. It was a new one. Maybe this was the first time he’d get to use it.

  She tried to back away from him, but the bushes were all around her, trapping her. The moon was bright overhead, and she could see him quite clearly, the calm efficiency, the determination as he sliced his way toward her with that huge, sharp blade.

  And he’d be able to see the total panic in her eyes as he finally reached her, and the glittering knife slashed through the night. She opened her mouth to scream, but the only sound that came out was a breathless, terrified squeak.

  19

  “That sounds like the noise you make when you come,” he said in a conversational voice, slashing away at the branches trapping her. She heard the ripping sound of fabric as he sliced through the long hem of her skirt, but she couldn’t even utter a protest, just stood there frozen as he cut around her.<
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  And then she was free of the branches. With Griffin blocking her avenue of escape, his eyes glittering like the blade of the knife. “Come on,” he said.

  “That’s not the way I got here,” she said with a croak.

  “No, you took the long way. I came in by the gazebo.”

  “What gazebo?”

  He didn’t answer, she didn’t move. After a moment he lifted his arm, and she closed her eyes, expecting the knife to slash down. Instead he grabbed her hand and began hauling her through the rough path he’d cleared.

  He was moving too quickly, and she had a hard time keeping up with him, but she knew she had no choice. Maybe once they were out in the open she’d be able to escape. Doc wasn’t that far away—he could help her. She just needed the moonlight to guide her.

  The damned moon went behind a cloud, plunging them into darkness. She stumbled after him, falling against him, as she stepped free of the thorny bushes.

  He caught her, both hands on her arms, and she wondered where the knife had gone. He didn’t release her, and his grip was strong, holding her, keeping her from escaping. She couldn’t tell whether it was threatening or protecting.

  Moonlight, she prayed silently. Just a tiny bit of moonlight, enough to guide her away from this frightening man, back to safety. That was all she needed. Please God, some moonlight.

  As if on cue, the moon came out again, bright and clear, and there was no way she could get away from him. They were at the edge of a small clearing, a spot she’d never seen even in her exploratory walks. A long picnic table sat in the middle of the space, though the chairs were gone, and the turrets of a fanciful gazebo loomed against the night sky.

  “You’re a mess,” he said, pulling her into the open space. “This is getting to be a habit.”

  “What is?” She sounded just as normal as he did. Bizarre, she thought distantly.

  “Rescuing you.”

  “Is that what this is? A rescue? I thought you were trying to kill me. Did you change your mind?”

  “I was trying to scare some sense into you,” he said. His grip on her arms tightened suddenly, almost painfully, as he lifted her and set her on the picnic table. And then he let go of her, and if he’d just move, just turn his back for a moment, she could run…

  “I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” he said, reading her mind. “This place is hard enough to get out of in the daylight, even if you’re used to it. You run off again and I’ll end up cutting your entire dress off. Which isn’t such a bad idea at that. Feel free to go for it,” he said helpfully, stepping back.

  She looked down at her dress. It was now officially a rag—the hem was ripped and tattered around her long legs. She’d lost her shoes in her mad dash for the bushes, but at least she’d spent a lot of time barefoot that summer. Her feet would survive.

  That is, if the rest of her did. She tried to take a calming breath, but it was hard going. Her heart was still racing, her breath coming unevenly from her crazy dash through the brambles, and the man looming over her in the silvery moonlight didn’t inspire her with serenity. Particularly when he had a knife tucked in his belt.

  He saw her looking at it, and a faintly ironic smile lit his face. He held it out to her. “Would it make you feel safer if you held on to this?”

  “I don’t think it would be much of a defense against you if you decided to hurt me. You’re a lot bigger than I am, and faster.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, not terribly reassuring. “But you’d cause some damage, and when they investigated your murder I’d be a prime suspect. It would be difficult to explain away the physical evidence. That’s what got me the first time.”

  His calm words made the situation even more macabre. She couldn’t be sitting here in the moonlight, conversing with a killer. Could she? He seemed perfectly ready to convince her that she was.

  “Did you?” she asked suddenly.

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you kill those women? Any of them?”

  He hesitated. “And you actually think I’ll tell you the truth? That all you have to do is ask me?”

  She thought about it for a moment. He was threatening her, with body language if not with the knife, trapping her against the picnic table. There were no witnesses, no one to know where she was. If he was a crazed killer, then the only way she’d survive was to be very, very careful. Asking him leading questions wasn’t the smartest thing in the world.

  She looked up at him. The moon was behind his head, casting his face into a canvas of light and shadows. His brooding eyes were hidden in the dark, but she already knew the expression that would be in them. His mouth was twisted in a cool smile, but she knew that mouth. Knew the taste of it. Wanted to taste it again.

  And then she knew, with an absolute certainty she seldom possessed. The man looming over her, trapping her, might very well be Thomas Griffin, convicted murderer. But he’d never killed anyone, even in a drug-dazed rage. She could feel it in her bones.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I think all I have to do is ask you,” she said patiently.

  His mocking grin faltered for a moment. And then he nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. I don’t know for sure. I was drunk, stoned in a haze I can’t even begin to penetrate. I found her body in the toolshed. But I don’t have any proof.”

  His voice was flat, unemotional, and the words should have chilled her. But they didn’t.

  She was suddenly in a perfect oasis of calm and quiet. The soft breeze from the lake had stilled, the moon hung bright overhead, and the only sound was their breathing.

  Back at the inn her mother had slipped over the edge into a completely delusional state. Her younger sister was off somewhere, probably corrupting the morals of the only decent teenage boy left in Colby, and she was alone with a convicted murderer who just happened to be the first and only man she’d ever made love with.

  And was about to make love with again. She knew it, in her heart, her stomach, between her legs. And she wasn’t going to do anything to stop it. She was going to start it, because it was inevitable, because she wanted it, because she was out of her mind. The reasons didn’t matter.

  “I don’t believe you killed anyone,” she said.

  He was singularly unimpressed by her declaration. “Prove it.”

  How could she feel so calm and so nervous at the same time? So certain and so afraid of what she was about to do? “I can’t prove you didn’t do it,” she said. “I can only prove that I don’t believe it.” And she put her hands on his shoulders, drawing him down to her mouth.

  He didn’t resist, he simply braced his hands on the picnic table and let her brush her lips across his. She’d been expecting a more enthusiastic response, and she pulled back, quizzical.

  “Honey,” he drawled, “that ain’t trust and it ain’t true love. That’s about sex, pure and simple.”

  It took her only a moment to rally. “And do I strike you as the kind of woman who has sex with a man who murders women? I haven’t been known for my high-risk behavior.”

  “Being around me is high-risk enough,” he muttered.

  She looked at him, cynical, angry, irresistible, and she smiled. She couldn’t help it. “Honey,” she said in a perfect mimic of his drawl, “you’re trying awfully hard to be a bad boy. I’m just having a hard time believing it, despite all your romantic brooding. So answer me just one question. Do you think you killed them?”

  He stared at her, probably astonished at her calm cheer. “No,” he said finally.

  She nodded, satisfied. “And do you want to go back to the house and make love with me?” Her heart was pounding. She knew she’d said it, knew she wanted it, but hearing the words out loud, in her voice, was shocking.

  Not as shocking as his answer. “No,” he said.

  She felt the color drain from her face. She’d never been so horribly embarrassed in her life, and she had no idea what to say. Something breez
y, casual, dismissing him, as well. Instead she sat on the picnic table looking at him like a wounded puppy.

  “I want to fuck you right here,” he said simply.

  Marty tried to keep the pout from her face as Patrick drove down the winding drive to the lake. It had been a perfect night, from the flowers to the dinner in Stowe to the drive home. They talked. She wasn’t used to talking with boys, and she and Patrick Laflamme had nothing in common. He was from the country, hard-working, ambitious, moral to the point of being judgmental. She was a city girl, looking for a good time, which he was clearly not about to provide her. And yet she found herself telling him things she hadn’t told anyone in years.

  He pulled up in front of the house, and she gathered her slightly bedraggled flowers in her hand and reached for the door. He’d assured her there wasn’t going to be a good-night kiss, but she still was reluctant to leave him.

  “I had…” She was about to say “a wonderful time,” but that sounded too coy or too gushing. “An okay time,” she finished, trying to sound jaded. “Thank you for the flowers.”

  “I got them from Doc,” he said with a faint grin. He really did have the most delicious-looking mouth. He was wearing a jacket and tie—never in her life had she gone out with someone in a tie. She liked the novelty of it. “I didn’t want to tell you since you said Doc creeps you out, but he said he heard we were going out and wanted me to take the flowers to make a good impression. I didn’t tell him I’d already planned to bring you flowers.”

  “And you didn’t tell him I didn’t need impressing, either, did you?” Marty said. “You probably told him you had to beat me away with a baseball bat.”

  “If I had beat you away, then I wouldn’t have asked you out, would I?”

  There was no answer she could make to that, so she simply sat there in silence. He said nothing, as well, as if he didn’t want to break the moment, either.

  But they couldn’t sit there forever, and he wasn’t going to kiss her. She fumbled for the door handle, only to have the spotless truck cab flood with light as he opened his own door and got out, then walked around to open her door for her. He even gave her a hand to help her down from the high seat of the truck. The outside lights were on, and she caught him looking at her legs. Admiring them. At this point it was the best she could hope for.