“So what’s happening with the truck?” she asked, stopping in front of the trashcan.
I leaned back in my chair. “Cole texted about an hour ago.” For some dumb reason, my heart flipped. It did it every time I said his name, and I’d been ignoring the stupid little motion in my chest. Well, I’d been failing at ignoring it, obviously. “He said the car will be ready this afternoon.”
Miranda dropped her plastic fork into what was left of her salad. “Does she know he stayed the night?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. If she does, she hasn’t said anything.”
Grabbing her take-out container, she closed the lid and rose. “I want to talk all about everything Cole said to you last night, but the whole deer thing . . .”
“I know.” I watched her dump the container in the trash. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Have you thought about what Cole asked?” She picked up her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. “A list of people who could be upset with you?”
Pushing up, I stretched my arms to work out the stiffness in my upper back. After the nightmare and everything Cole had said, I hadn’t fallen back to sleep. He’d left the bedroom and returned to the couch to sleep, I guess, while I stayed awake, my body unnaturally stiff. I’d used that time wisely, thinking of possibly anyone who could be upset with me. I normally didn’t sleep well anyway, but spending the wee hours of the night thinking about people who could potentially be angry with you wasn’t exactly the best bedtime thing to obsess over.
Lowering my arms, I rocked back on the heels of my flip-flops. “I have thought about it. I just . . .” I trailed off as I heard footsteps.
Mom drifted in, frowning as she glanced around the kitchen. “Have you seen Angela?”
I raised a brow. “I haven’t.” Folding my arms, I said, “I figured she was upstairs cleaning.”
“She hasn’t showed up or called,” Mom said, the skin tightening around her pursed lips. “That is very unlike her.”
“She might be sick,” Miranda said, heading toward the dining room. We followed. “There’s a nasty bug going around. Mrs. Chase, the tenth-grade history teacher, got it last week and was up all night, and barely was able to call in sick in time for the school to bring in a sub.”
“Oh no. Maybe I should bring her a bowl of soup,” Mom was saying as we crossed the sitting area.
I glanced at the phone on the registration desk to see if there was a message that I might’ve missed earlier. There wasn’t. Luckily, we only had one room booked, with two more coming in tomorrow. “I’ll head upstairs and take care of the Mattersons’ room. Tidy up the rest.”
“And then you’ll call me,” Miranda added as she opened the front door. “Because we still have a lot to—whoa. Oh my God.” She laughed, stepping back to the side. “I almost ran you over.”
Turning, I saw an unfamiliar man standing in the doorway. He was middle-aged, hair a light brown. He wore a dark brown button-down sweater and his tan khakis were pressed to the point I doubted they ever wrinkled.
The man smiled at Miranda as his gaze flickered over to me. “Miss Keeton?”
Unease blossomed in the pit of my stomach. “Yes?”
The man’s smile became a big one, displaying all his ultra-bright, ultra-straight white teeth. “Hi, I’m David Striker, but most call me Striker. I’m a freelance journalist working with the—”
“Oh hell no.” Miranda cocked her head to the side as my stomach sunk all the way to my toes. “Whatever you want, she’s not interested.”
Striker’s smile started to fade. “But you don’t even know what I want.”
I stiffened.
“Like I said, whatever you want, she’s not interested.” Miranda glared at the man. “Do I need to spell that out for you?”
The smile was completely gone now. “No.” His dark brown eyes narrowed. “Miss Keeton, I only need a few minutes of your time.”
Miranda opened her mouth, but I stepped forward. “You need to get back to work,” I told her. “I can handle this.”
“And by handling this, she means that no matter what your questions are, she’s not going to answer them.” Mom used her Mom voice—the voice laced with authority. “Now, if you would—” She’d stepped forward as she spoke and had caught the open door and started to close it.
Striker’s hand flew out, blocking her. “You know the body of the woman who disappeared out of Frederick was found in the exact same location that the Groom left his victims. You know that, right?”
The dread exploded like buckshot, spreading throughout my system. Mom tried to close the door again, but Striker wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was Miranda, and while my stomach was churning and a huge part of me wanted to dash upstairs, I didn’t want her to get into trouble. This was my problem. Not hers. Not my mother’s.
“Miranda, please go. I’ve got this,” I said, meeting her angry gaze. I smiled at her reassuringly. “It’s okay. This was bound to happen. Go.”
The press of her lips told me only an act of God was keeping her mouth shut, but she nodded curtly and then stepped around Striker, sizing him up with a dismissive curl of her lips.
I watched her cross the porch and then disappear around the corner before I focused on Striker.
He went on like we hadn’t given him an indication that we weren’t happy to answer his questions. “Mayor Hughes gave a press conference this morning on the discovery of the body and he’s saying—”
“I know you’re just doing your job and that is the only reason why I’m going to kindly tell you that I have nothing to say.”
“So, you need to leave and I need to close the door, because we’re letting all the warm air out,” my mom added, moving to close the door again. “And I’m asking that kindly.”
Striker’s foot jutted out, joining the battle along with his hand. “I know this is a sensitive topic for you and I understand that you’d be reluctant, but it is entirely too convenient that the same place was used to leave the body.”
I curled my hands into fists. “It is convenient and it also has nothing to do with me.”
“But doesn’t it concern you at all?”
I almost answered the question. My nails were digging into my palms. “Why would it concern me? This has nothing to do with—with what happened?”
He bit down on his lip. “Look, I just want—”
“I don’t care what you want,” I shot back as the welling irritation gave way to anger. “What happened to me isn’t some story to run in the Sunday paper to entertain people. It’s my life. It has nothing to do with what happened to this poor woman and it’s disgusting to even attempt to sensationalize what happened to her.”
Striker widened his stance, and I knew then he wasn’t planning to go anywhere; I knew by the change in his expression, the sudden hard jut of his jaw, he was going for it. “Is it true that the Groom was planning to kill you when you escaped—that you escaped during the attempt itself?”