Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

“I’m not hungry. I’m very tired. I’d like to get some sleep if it’s okay with you,” I said. I couldn’t believe I was asking for permission to go to sleep.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Follow me.”

I followed him up a floating staircase, each step secured on only one side and hanging magically. On the second floor, there was a loft-style hallway with three doorways. On the first, the frame and door were covered with tiny holes as if hungry termites had found their heaven. The damage was not in keeping with the rest of the cabin.

Kendall pulled the door open and stepped aside for me to enter.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I said. I thought it odd that the door opened into the hallway instead of the other way around.

The bedroom was small. It had a dresser, a television, a king-sized bed that ate most of the floor space, a closet, and an antique chair in the corner with a towel folded on the cushion. A small window opposite the door was blue with moonlight.

Kendall motioned to the bed. It was made, the comforter tucked tight under the mattress and wrinkle-free.

“Good enough?”

“It’s very nice,” I said. “And well kept. Were you expecting a guest?”

“I always try to be prepared,” Kendall said. He remained in the doorframe. “If you don’t mind, I need to head back to the office. I’ve got just enough time to make it back to Dark Haven before your foster father comes in for the morning. We have to keep up appearances, right? We can’t have anybody thinking that I’m aiding and abetting the notorious Rosie Casket, now can we?”

“Of course not,” I said, weary. “Will you tell Robert I’m okay? Once that video leaks about Mettle, he’ll be sick with worry.”

“Absolutely. Consider it done,” Kendall said. He turned the lock on the door handle. “You’ll be safe in here.”

“Thank you. Again. For all your help.”

“It’s the least I can do for the daughter of my boss,” Kendall said. “I’ll be back this evening and bring you some clothes. The fridge is stocked and there’s a shower in the master bedroom. Feel free to go for a walk on the grounds, but be careful around the lake. The fog is thicker than chowder and the banks are soft.”

I nodded. “Can you bring me a phone charger? I left mine back at the inn.”

“Sure,” he said. “I doubt you’ll get a signal though. We’re pretty remote.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got a library of books on my phone to keep me busy.”

“Of course you do,” Kendall said. He smiled and then stepped aside to gently close the door behind him. I listened to his footsteps pad down the stairs and then I shuffled to the window.

I leaned on the sill and craned my head for a glimpse of the Mercedes as Kendall sped out of the driveway, the moonlight whipping over the vehicle’s sleek curves and melting at the bottom of the rear window before the taillights disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

I listened hard for a good five minutes. The house was completely quiet except for the soft buzz of what I presumed was the battery backup for the solar panels. There were no settlement pops, no groans from stressed timbers, no phantom noises to keep me up at night.

The quiet unnerved me.

Once I was convinced that I was completely alone, I collapsed on the bed and let it out. I cried deeply. I punched the pillows and kicked my heels as if I were trying to dig my own grave in the silk sheets.

I sobbed until my eyes were swollen and my throat was ragged from whimpering.

Finally, all cried out, I wiped my eyes, crawled under the covers, and fell fast asleep—the escape to nightmares about Chrissy my only refuge from the torment of reality.

33

When I woke the next morning, the sun was burning through the window and laying a twisted rectangle of yellow across my shins. My stomach was empty, my midsection a deep cavity beneath my ribs. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten, yet I still wasn’t hungry.

I crawled out of bed, my eyes throbbing from all the crying, a headache nestled in the base of my skull like a vicious hangover. I grabbed my phone from the top of the pile of towels.

It was 10:15. I hadn’t slept that late in months.

I swiped through my contacts. For decades, old-man Eldritch had stayed awake all night and slept through the day. I wondered how well he was doing with the inversion required to take care of my inn.

Unfortunately, like Kendall warned, there was no signal.

I took my phone to the window and held it to the top of the curtains. Still no bars. I climbed onto the chair and held it up to the corner of the room.

Still nothing.

I went to hop down from the chair, but the legs wobbled and gave a loud crack. I grabbed the wall to steady myself and then climbed down and kneeled to inspect the chair for damage.

My heart skipped like a bad scratch on a CD.

It couldn’t be.

I leaned closer.

The feet were iron. They were shaped like hooves.

I swiped to my picture album and found the photo of Chrissy that Dimitri had taken. I pinched the screen, enlarged it, and held it up to the foot of the chair.

They were the same cloven hooves.

What were the chances this was the same chair? The one in the photo looked much older, scratched and worn, but this chair was in decent condition, making it unlikely that this was the same chair, but there was no doubt they had come from the same set.

If the chair was mass-produced, it could have been a grim coincidence. But it was more unique…

Seriously, how many chairs had feet like that?

“Stop being paranoid,” I said out loud. “Lots of antique chairs have clawed feet.”

But those were the devil’s hooves.

Out of habit, I snapped a photo and went to