Night Stalker. Shirlee McCoy

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      She had thought their relationship was strong enough to weather anything.

      But anything had not included the death of their son.

      She stepped into the mudroom, old linoleum crackling beneath her feet. A wide doorway led into the 1920s-style kitchen, the farmhouse sink and yellow subway tile just quaint enough to be chic. She and Adam had painted the walls ivory and the old pine cabinets bright white. Adam’s job as deputy sheriff of Whisper Lake, Maine, hadn’t paid much, but they’d managed to make the cottage their home. They’d been a team back then. Daniel’s autism diagnosis had tossed them into the deep water of parenting, and they’d clung to each other to keep from going under.

      That had changed after Daniel’s death. Somehow, rather than mourning together, they’d mourned apart, their grief a raw wound between them, a deep chasm that neither had been able to cross.

      Even after so many years, Charlotte sometimes wondered if she could have changed things. A word spoken into the silence. A hug offered at just the right time. Tears shared rather than hidden. Maybe they’d still be together.

      But maybe not.

      Probably not.

      They’d been middle school kids when they’d met. Best friends. Allies. High school sweethearts. Too young to understand how challenging and heartbreaking life could be.

      Floorboards creaked as she stepped into the small living room. Cozy was the word her grandmother had always used. Tiny was a more accurate description. When Daniel died, Charlotte and Adam had been saving money to build an addition. Instead, they’d purchased a burial plot and a casket.

      Charlotte frowned. It had been years since she’d thought about that. So many dreams had died with Daniel. She’d created new dreams, crafted a new life, imagined herself leaving Whisper Lake dozens of times. Stayed through summers and autumns and long winters. Into springs and back through summers again. Seasons passing—life passing—while she sat on the swing on the back porch.

      Would she still be there five years from now? Ten? Twenty-five? That was the question she’d been asking herself recently. The cottage had been standing in this spot for nearly a hundred years, the Sears Roebuck bungalow built by her great-grandfather and passed down from one family member to another. Her grandmother had deeded it to her a year before Daniel’s death—a twenty-first birthday gift and a celebration of the fact that Charlotte had made it through high school and college despite the challenges of teen pregnancy and a special-needs child.

      Pregnant at seventeen. Married at eighteen. Grieving parent at twenty-two. Divorced at twenty-three. And now, at twenty-eight, alone and mostly happy about it. It was hard to be hurt when there was no one around to hurt you. The cottage held memories and sorrows, but being there was solitary and safe, and she craved that as much as she craved anything.

      Clover loped through the living room, stopping near the front window, his head cocked to the side, his attention on the floor-length curtains. The lights were off, but she could see him there, a dark shadow in the gloom, his body stiff, his tail high and still. He growled, the sound making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

      Clover didn’t growl.

      He rarely barked.

      His happy-go-lucky, calm personality made him the perfect therapy dog.

      “What’s wrong, boy?” she asked, creeping to the window and easing the curtains back.

      It was still dark, the first rays of sun hours away. The motion-sensor porch lights hadn’t been tripped, and the yard looked empty, the old maple tree a hulking shadow against the blue-black sky.

      Clover growled again, pressing his nose against the windowpane.

      Beyond the yard, a narrow dirt road separated her property from state land. Out here, there were more animals than people, more trees than houses and more hiking trails than roads. The only other house on Charlotte’s street belonged to Bubbles, her elderly neighbor. The octogenarian wandered the lake shore and the woods at all times of the day and night, collecting leaves and flowers, mushrooms and wild herbs. Charlotte had cautioned her to be careful. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, and it was very easy to get lost and hurt in the Maine wilderness. People died there. People disappeared. But Bubbles had grown up on the lake. She’d learned the land before she’d learned to read.

      At least, that was what she’d told Charlotte.

      Still, Charlotte worried, and Clover’s behavior made her worry more.

      “Stay,” Charlotte commanded as she walked to the front door and opened it. Clover whined but dropped down onto his belly.

      Good. The last thing she wanted was her dog getting in a tussle with a bear or a bobcat. More than likely, that was what he’d been growling at. On the off chance that Bubbles was outside, hurt or in trouble, Charlotte would take a quick walk to her property and make certain the old house was locked up tight. She grabbed her cell phone and tucked it into her pocket but didn’t bother grabbing the bowie knife she carried when she hiked. Whatever had been outside was probably long gone by now.

      She stepped onto the porch, the security light turning on immediately. Somewhere in the distance an engine was rumbling. Surprised, Charlotte stood still and listened. The nearest paved road was a quarter mile away and stretched from the small town of Whisper Lake to its closest neighbor twenty miles away. During the day, the road got some traffic, but at night it was usually quiet.

      A soft cry drifted through the darkness.

      An animal?

      She told herself it was, but her heart was racing, her pulse thrumming. Winter-dry grass snapped beneath her feet, the cold spring air seeping through her jeans and sweater. She reached the old fence that marked the beginning of Bubble’s property and stepped onto the road to get around it. A few hundred yards away, the house jutted up from the grassy landscape. Victorian and ornate, it had been on the bluff overlooking Whisper Lake for more than a century. Bubble’s family had owned it for most of that time.

      It didn’t take long to reach the driveway. Bubble’s Oldsmobile was parked there, its glossy paint gleaming. The house was quiet, curtains pulled across the windows, the lights off. Charlotte tried the front door. Locked. Just like she’d hoped. The back door was locked, too.

      Everything looked just as it should, but the air crackled with electricity and the engine still hummed in the distance. She went back to the road, told herself that she should go home, but something made her turn left instead of right. Toward the crossroad. Away from the cottage. Heading toward the stop sign and the paved road beyond it. She’d just reached it when something crashed through the trees a dozen yards away.

      She jumped, her hand reaching for the bowie knife she hadn’t bothered bringing. A stupid mistake. One she vowed to never make again. There were predators out here. Usually, they didn’t bother people. Sometimes, though, food was scarce, they were hungry and they went after anything weaker than them.

      Just head, asphalt marked the end of the private road she lived on. Headlights illuminated the dark pavement and a purse that lay abandoned there. Its contents had spilled out. Wallet. Lipstick. Keys. Phone. A few other odds and ends. None of them belonged in the middle of a country road in the darkest hours of the morning.

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