Stranger in the Lake(34)

“Stay in the house,” Micah says. “I’m coming down.”

The line goes dead, and I move to the front window just in time to see him coming down the hill, sliding from tree to tree, his coat flapping open behind him. He lands at the bottom with both feet, then takes off around the side of the house.

I hurry back to the mudroom and stare out the window, willing him to appear on the other side. I stare until my vision goes hazy from the swirling snow and the adrenaline, and maybe a little bit of panic—though I seem to be the only one. Chet is banging around in the kitchen behind me, pulling breakfast ingredients from the fridge and slapping them to the counter. I jump at the rattle of the coffee grinder, as loud and jarring as a chain saw.

I flinch when Micah appears in the window, covered in snow, fat flakes lodged in his hair and clothes. He motions for me to meet him at the mudroom door.

“What’s out there?” I say, once I’ve turned off the alarm.

Micah blocks the door with his body. “You don’t want to know.”

“The hell I don’t.” I stuff my feet in my boots and grab my coat from the hook, yanking it on as I push past him to outside.

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He follows me around the corner, to the narrow passageway between the side of the house and the stairwell. Like the rest of the deck, it’s covered in a thick blanket of snow, all but a bright red patch at the top of the stairs where something has bled out, staining the snow and melting most of it away. Whatever this messy heap used to be, it was warm when it died.

I take in the bloodstained fur, the lumps of waxy fat, innards the color of raw chicken, and a surge of nausea has me sucking in a breath. I pull my coat closed, wrap it taut around me. “Oh my God, I think I’m gonna puke. What the hell is that thing?”

“A pretty decent-sized opossum, or at least it was, before something mauled it.”

“A bear?”

Wouldn’t be the first time one has wandered into our yard, though they don’t typically come this close to the house, not unless we’ve left out some food or garbage. And despite what people think, bears aren’t violent, not unless they’re provoked. No way an opossum, not even a rabid one, could have gotten a bear riled up enough to do this.

Micah bends at the waist, leaning over the carcass. “See here? See how this skin is cut away, these bones sliced clean in two? Hunting knife, I’m guessing. A fairly big one.”

The nausea folds into a new spasm, reaching with claws into my chest. I take a step back, grounding myself with one hand on the siding.

A big knife. There was an unidentified person on my back deck with a big knife. I think of Jax out here just last night, the warning he flung as a parting shot. Watch your back. Jax has a big knife, and he’s known for skinning bunnies on the benches in town, but he does that for food, not as threats or for his own sadistic pleasure.

Or so I’ve always thought.

The footprints have already grown faint, filling in with a fresh coating of flakes.

“I’ll get Sam to send somebody out. Maybe they can lift a print, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. By the time he gets here, everything’ll be covered, including this carcass. He’ll pick up what he can, but you’ll probably have to wait until things thaw out to get the treads really clean.”

Micah’s right. Even with a shovel and an ice pick, that much blood means the stain isn’t going away anytime soon. The deck will need a good hosing down, and with Paul’s industrial-strength pressure washer. Yet another mess for Paul to deal with when he gets back.

“Did you see what he wrote?” I swallow, the image of that awful word slashed through the snow bumping around in my brain. I press a palm to my stomach, greasy and empty.

“I saw.” Micah goes quiet, watching me. “It’s just someone looking to get a rise. Don’t let them.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, it’s kind of working. Is it...? What did they use to write it with?”

“Blood, and from the looks of things, from more than just one opossum. More like a cow, probably.” Micah shakes his head, sighing. “Don’t you pay it any mind, you hear me? Other than to make sure the doors are locked and the alarm is armed at all times.”

“You don’t think it was just a prank?”

No. Micah’s carefully blank look tells me it’s not a prank. “I think it’s safe to assume that whoever comes that close to your door with a knife isn’t going to hesitate to use it. Now’s not the time to be taking any chances, especially when Paul’s away. When’s he back?”

“He said today or tomorrow, but now with this weather...” My stomach trips up with the lie, the knife, the blood. I wave a hand, scooping snowflakes out of the air. “There’s no telling.”

Micah takes this in with another grimace. “And Chet? How long will he be staying?”

One night, that’s it, I’d hollered after him as he raced out to the car for his duffel bag, but we both knew I didn’t mean it.

“I didn’t exactly give him a deadline.”

“Let him stay until Paul gets back at least. Where’d he go again?”

I shrug, holding my expression steady. “Work. That’s all I know.”

Another day, another lie, teetering at the top of the pile. If Micah notices, he doesn’t let on. I see only worry stirring in the depths of his gaze, the way his mouth goes tight. He rubs a hand across his lower jaw, then tugs me toward the mudroom door.