Heroes Are My Weakness(30)

She looked toward the dark living room, and the back of her neck prickled. What if someone were still in the house? She backed out the door she’d just entered, rushed to the car, and locked herself in.

The sound of her ragged breathing filled the interior. There was no 911 to call. No friendly neighbor she could run to. What was she supposed to do? Drive into town for help? And exactly who was going to help her on a lawless island with no police force? If any serious crime occurred, police came over from the mainland.

No police. No neighborhood watch. Regardless of what the maps said, she’d left the state of Maine for the State of Anarchy.

Her other option was to drive back to Harp House, but that was the last place she could turn for help. She’d thought she was being so subtle with her scary noises and ghostly pranks. Obviously not. This was Theo’s doing. His retaliation.

She wanted a gun just like the other islanders. Even if she ended up shooting herself, a gun would make her feel less vulnerable.

She investigated the interior of Theo’s car. A high-end sound system, GPS, a phone charger, and a glove box with registration papers and a car manual. A windshield scraper lay on the floor in front of the passenger seat, a travel umbrella in the back. All of it useless.

She couldn’t sit here forever.

I would, Crumpet said. I’d sit here until somebody came to rescue me.

Which wasn’t going to happen. Annie flipped the trunk switch and inched out of the car. Looking around to make sure no one was sneaking up on her, she crept to the trunk. There she found a small shovel with a short handle. Exactly the sort of thing a smart islander carried around to dig out his car if he got stuck.

Or if he needed to bury a dead body, whispered Crumpet.

What about the cat? Was it still inside, or had Annie rescued it from imagined danger only to drag it to its actual death?

She grabbed the shovel, pulled out the flashlight she kept in her coat pocket, and crept toward the house.

It’s awfully dark out here, Peter said. I think I’ll go back to the car.

The snow had gone through a thaw and freeze yesterday, and the icy surface wasn’t likely to reveal much in the way of footprints, even if she had enough light to see them. She made her way to the front of the house. Surely Theo wouldn’t have hung around after he’d done this, but how could she be certain? She maneuvered past the old-fashioned wooden lobster traps near the front door and crouched beneath the living room window. Slowly she raised her head and peered inside.

It was dark, but she could see just enough to realize this room hadn’t been spared. The taupe armchair that looked like an airline seat had been turned on its side, the couch was askew, its pillows scattered, and the tree painting hung crookedly against the wall.

Her breath frosted the glass. Carefully she raised the flashlight higher and directed it toward the back of the room. Books had been thrown off the shelves, and two drawers of the Louis XIV graffiti chest gaped open. The cat was nowhere to be seen, dead or alive.

She ducked and felt her way around to the rear of the cottage. It was even darker here, more isolated. Lifting her head inch by inch, she finally had a clear view into her bedroom, but it was too dark to see anything. For all she knew, Theo could be lurking under the window on the other side.

She braced herself, drew up the flashlight, and shone it into the room. It was exactly as she’d left it—no mess other than the one she’d made herself this morning.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

She screamed, dropped the shovel, and whirled around.

Theo stood in the dark not twenty feet away.

She started to run. Back the way she’d come. Racing around the side of the house, trying to get to the car. Feet churning, brain screaming. She slipped and lost the flashlight as she fell. She clambered back up and kept running.

Get inside. Hit the locks. Get away before he catches you. She’d run over his feet if she had to. Run over him.

Heart hammering, she rounded the front of the cottage. Changed direction. Looked up . . .

He was leaning against the passenger door of the Range Rover, arms crossed over his chest, looking as relaxed as could be.

She jerked to a stop. He wore his heavy black suede jacket and jeans. No hat or gloves. “It’s strange,” he said calmly, the light from the kitchen window cutting across his face. “I don’t remember you being this crazy when you were a kid.”

“Me? You’re the psychopath!” She hadn’t meant to scream it—hadn’t meant to say it at all. The word hung in the air between them.

But he didn’t come after her. Instead, he said calmly, “This has to stop. You realize that, don’t you?”

The surest way for him to make everything stop was to kill her. Her chest heaved. “You’re right. Whatever you say.” She began to back up, moving slowly, carefully.

“I get it.” He uncrossed his arms. “I was a monster when I was sixteen. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But a few years with a shrink straightened me out.”

Shrinks couldn’t straighten out his kind of pathology. She gave a shaky nod. “Good. Great. I’m glad for you.” She inched backward another step.

“It happened years ago. You’re making yourself look ridiculous.”

That sent an angry rush through her. “Go away! You’ve done enough.”

He pushed himself away from the car. “I haven’t done a damn thing. And you’re the one who needs to go away!”