Heroes Are My Weakness: A Novel

Chapter Seven

ANNIE TOOK IN THE DESTRUCTION. The cupboards and drawers hung open, with silverware, dish towels, boxes, and cans littering the floor. She dropped her backpack. The messy contents of her overturned trash was spread everywhere, along with paper napkins, plastic wrap, and a bag of noodles. Mariah’s kitschy salt and pepper shakers were still lined up on the windowsill, but colanders, measuring cups, and cookbooks lay on a bed of spilled rice.

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!”

“I’ve been inside the cottage. I got your message.” She lowered her voice, struggling to sound calm. “Just tell me . . .” She spoke even more softly, her voice barely trembling. “Did you— Did you hurt the cat?”

He cocked his head. “Mariah’s death must have been hard on you. Maybe you should talk to somebody.”

Did he really believe she was the one with mental problems? She needed to placate him. “I will. I’ll talk to somebody. So you can go on home now. Take the car.”

“You mean my car? The car you drove off in without asking permission?”

He’d told her she could take the car when she needed it, but she wasn’t going to argue with him about it. “I won’t do it again. Now it’s late, and I’m sure you have work to do. I’ll see you in the morning.” Not after this. She’d have to find another way to repay Jaycie because she absolutely couldn’t go up there again.

“I’ll leave as soon as you tell me why you were skulking around the cottage?”

“I wasn’t skulking. Just . . . getting a little exercise.”

“Bull.” He strode toward the cottage’s side door, pulled it open, and disappeared inside.

She made a dash for the car, but she wasn’t quick enough. He shot back out of the house. “What the hell happened in there?”

His outrage was so convincing that she would have believed him if she hadn’t known better. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He jabbed his finger toward the cottage. “You think I did that?”

“No, no. Of course, I don’t.”

“You do think I did it.” His frown turned to a glower. “You can’t imagine how much I want to walk away right now and let you deal with this yourself.”

“F-follow your instincts.”

“Don’t tempt me.” In two long strides he was beside her. She jumped as his fingers clamped around her wrist. As she struggled, he pulled her toward the door. “Will you shut up?” he said. “You’re hurting my ears. Not to mention terrifying the entire seagull population.”

The fact that he sounded exasperated instead of ominous had an odd effect on her. She began to feel stupid instead of threatened. Like one of those dimwitted heroines in old black-and-white movies who were always being dragged around by John Wayne or Gary Cooper. She didn’t like the feeling, and when they were inside, she stopped struggling.

He let her go, but his eyes were on her, and they were deadly serious. “Who did this?”

She told herself he was conning her, but she didn’t feel conned, and she couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth. “I thought you did.”

“Me?” He seemed genuinely confused. “You’re a pain in the ass, and I wish like hell you hadn’t shown up here, but why would I trash the place where I like to work?”

She heard a mew. The cat crept into the kitchen.

One mystery solved.

Seconds ticked by as he stared at the animal. Then at her. Finally he spoke, using the overly patient manner people employ when they’re dealing with a child or the mentally impaired. “What are you doing with my cat?”

The traitorous animal rubbed against his ankles.

“It . . . followed me home.”

“Like hell.” He picked up the cat and scratched it behind the ears. “What did this crazy lady do to you, Hannibal?”

Hannibal?