Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(17)

“And . . . you don’t think that was an accident,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

She nods and fights back another wave of tears. “They thought they got me, for a while. But I’ve been moving around, finding places to stay low. One good thing, I took up painting, and the gallery I showed them to says I’m pretty good at it. I need to sell these and get out of the country. Maybe it’ll be easier somewhere else. Sweden, maybe.”

“These files you took,” I say. “Arden . . . do you still have them?”

I’m praying she says yes, but she gives me a sad look and shakes her head. “They were stored on a thumb drive,” she says. “It went up with everything else. I don’t have anything to hold over them now. I’m scared to death, Gwen. Aren’t you?”

“I am,” I tell her. “Are you sure you don’t know anything that can help me find them . . . ?”

She thinks about it. Picks at a stray red hair on her jeans and lets it drift down in a ray of sunshine. Watches it fall.

“I know one thing,” she says. “The asshole who was the angriest about me, I know where he lives. That was the last thing I found before I was afraid to push it anymore.”

I glance at Sam. He turns to look at us and nods. “Then . . . would you tell us? Let us go after him for you?”

Arden folds her hands together in her lap and sits up straight. She meets my gaze, and there’s defiance in there. Anger. Fear. But mostly, there’s resolve.

“I wasn’t a good person,” she says. “I hated myself, and I thought the world was shit and everybody deserved what they got. I wanted to see everybody hurt the way I did. But I’m not like that anymore. And I’m sorry for all the people I went after online. I never meant—” She stops and shakes her head. “I know that doesn’t mean much. But if you can get this guy, maybe that’s a step in the right direction. You got a pen?”

I’ve left pen and paper in the car, but Arden just shrugs, goes to the rolltop desk, and pulls out supplies. She writes, walks back, and hands it to me. I blink, because I’m expecting an address.

“GPS coordinates,” she tells me. “It maps to a cabin in Bumfuck, Georgia. But you be careful, Gwen. You be really careful. I was a terrible person, but this guy’s evil. I get the creeps just thinking about him.”

“Thank you,” I say, then put the paper away. I get up and hesitate. “Will you be okay?”

Arden looks up at me. Her eyes are clear, her perfect jaw set. I recognize the look. I’ve seen it in the mirror. It comes when you own your fear and use it as fuel. “Not yet,” she says. “But someday. Yeah. I will be.”

I offer her my hand, and we shake. Sam comes closer, and I see Arden’s body tense a little. She’s gun-shy with men, and I wonder how much abuse she’s already taken. But he just extends his hand, too, and she finally completes the gesture.

“You’re really good,” he tells her. “Keep doing this. And keep safe.”

She gives him a faint, cautious smile. “I will. You, too. Both of you.”



I call the kids from a pay phone that is sticky with sweat and other things and smells like spilled beer. Connor is as tight-lipped as ever, and Lanny adopts a cool, distant attitude that tells me how angry she is about me being gone. I hate it. I hate that I’ve had to leave them. It won’t be long. This might be the break we need.

Maybe I’ll let Sam go on without me, I think as I hang up. But though it makes me ache with guilt, I also know I probably won’t. I need to stop Melvin.

Just a few more days.

It takes us another full day to get near the GPS coordinates Arden’s provided, and I hope they’re not random numbers she scribbled down to get rid of us . . . but she’s right, they do lead us to the ass end of nowhere in Georgia, which is as remote as it gets. After some discussion, Sam calls in to his friend Agent Lustig, and we tell him what we know from Arden; Lustig says he’ll check it out when he has the manpower.

We decide that might be never, and that we don’t care to wait.

We sleep in the SUV for a few hours down on a logging road, and when Sam finally wakes me up, it’s night. Chilly, too, and damp. There’s a light freeze in delicate crystal lace over our windshield.

“We should get moving,” Sam says. “See if this guy’s home.”

“Tell Lustig we’re going in,” I say.

“Mike will tell us not to.”

“Well, then he can get his ass out here and stop us.”

Sam smiles, dials the phone, and gets voice mail. He gives Lustig a brisk account of where we are and what we plan to do, and then he turns the phone off and puts it in his pocket. I silence mine, too.

“Ready?” he asks me. I nod.

And we go.

It’s a hard hike up a steep, difficult slope, and if we hadn’t known where we were heading, we’d have missed it entirely.

I kneel behind a screen of Georgia underbrush, in the shadow of a looming pine tree. It’s a small cabin, two rooms at most, and it’s well kept up. Gingham curtains in the windows. A neat stack of firewood waiting to make the place warm and cozy. Nobody’s burning a fire tonight. No smoke coming from the chimney.

A light flickers on in the main room. Someone’s home. Sam’s made me agree to observe and report, and only go in if we’re sure no one’s inside; after Arden’s warning, neither of us wants to be in a violent confrontation with a sociopath. So we’re going to have to wait for him to leave . . . or come back later. As cold as I am, I’m in favor of the latter option, because it’s murderously dark already, and there’s a wind with a viciously icy edge to it that brings tears to my eyes. Every breath burns like a paper cut. And I’m sore and stiff, and I want to go home and hug my kids forever.