One Last Step Sarah Sutton (i read books TXT) 📖

back, or how she tended to the lawn of a rundown bed and breakfast, or the way she looked at Tara—an odd, blank stare, as if she were looking through her.

Tara stepped out of the car. She could feel her gun tucked under her shirt and she cautiously kept her hand near it as she walked across the lawn.

 When close enough, the woman’s smile grew wider.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Her voice shook with age as she spoke. “Perfect for my garden,” she added as she turned back to her flowers and watered them once again.

“Yes, it is,” Tara replied. “Are you the owner of this bed and breakfast?”

The woman suddenly stopped watering and turned back around toward Tara.

“Yes,” she replied with question in her tone.

“I was just admiring your sign out by the entrance,” Tara began. The woman’s head tilted to one side, her eyes locked on Tara, studying her. “That setting sun, did you carve that yourself?”

The woman’s smile suddenly vanished. “No,” she said as she shook her head. “My son made that sign, many years ago.” Her voice trailed off as if the mention caused her to remember a happier time.

Tara thought for a split second. “I’m a photographer and I was just driving past. I was hoping I could take some pictures of your beautiful property.”

She let the lie roll out and she smiled to herself. It was the exact lie that she needed.

“Oh! Why yes! That would be lovely,” the woman said as she placed the watering can down and brushed the dirt from her hands onto her dress.

Her eyes moved toward a barn behind the bed and breakfast that Tara hadn’t noticed before.

“You will need to speak to my son though. He doesn’t usually like strangers walking around our property.” She paused for a moment as she stared blankly in the distance. “But who knows. He might surprise us both,” she added, and then she turned back to her flowers. “Oh, it would be wonderful to have pictures of my garden.”

“Where can I find your son?”

The woman looked up again, her eyes moving in the direction of the barn once again. “He should be just over there,” she replied as she pointed her long bony finger.

She then turned back to her flowers, until she seemingly became lost in them completely, and Tara turned to the barn.

Chapter Thirty One

Just like the bed and breakfast, the barn showed the test of time. It was faded yellow, beaten raw from the sun year after year, with a roof that was missing shingles. It stood behind the main building and as Tara approached, she could feel eyes on her—it was the old woman, standing off in the distance behind her—and it sent a shiver down Tara’s spine. She was watching her intently. Tara was sure of it. And as she turned her head ever so slightly, checking in the corner of her eye, she could see her there, still standing by the garden, still watering, but her gaze was in front of her—on Tara—with that odd, hollow smile on her face again.

Tara quickly looked back ahead of her. She didn’t quite know why the woman was watching her, if it was because she didn’t trust her—because she somehow knew that Tara had told her a lie—or if it were for simply no reason at all but to make sure she found her way. But Tara knew it wasn’t just that. She could feel it in each step she took, in every breath of air—each time a bad feeling would flutter in her chest.

Her body tried to tell her in every way to turn around, to not go further, but she knew she couldn’t listen to her instincts. Because, if she was right, if some victims could possibly still be alive, if this property housed the true killer, then she couldn’t let any feeling turn herself away. And so, she continued to creep across the lawn until she stood in front of the barn and her feet stopped.

The incessant burn of the woman’s glare had vanished and Tara turned her head again. She could see her moving away from the garden, toward the bed and breakfast, until she was completely out of view, and it gave Tara a strange feeling. She was relieved to have her gone, but something about her leaving seemed more unsettling than everything else about her. As if her job was done, as if all she needed to do was get Tara to walk to where she was, like holding a carrot above a rabbit trap, but now that Tara was here, she didn’t need to witness what happened next.

Tara crept forward. The door was slightly ajar, but it seemed too intrusive to just walk in, so she knocked and waited, but there was no reply.

“Hello?” she said.

She could hear movement. Someone was in there, but no words were spoken. They had to have heard her, she was sure of it.

“Hello?” she said again, this time louder.

But again, only the sound of movement was heard in response. Whoever it was, wasn’t trying hard not to be heard. In fact, it was as if they wanted her to hear it all because each time she spoke, the sound echoed in return. It was as if someone were moving across the floor, dragging their feet.

She waited a moment and then knocked again, but the sound suddenly stopped only to be replaced by another. It was as if someone were banging against the wall—no, throwing themselves—but underneath it all she could hear a faint, muffled cry and Tara immediately knew something was wrong. She reached for her gun and flung the door open.

Tara’s eyes opened wide as the light of day flooded into the barn and she could finally see the source of the sound. Against the wall, across from her, the light flickered in a girl’s wet eyes. Her mouth was stuffed with something and layered with tape. Her hands were tied behind her