Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
I climbed in his car and drove out to Hunter’s Crest. I looked up private investigators enough times, I knew which street to go down and how long to wait for him to open for the day.
Dropping my seat back, I nibbled on an egg sandwich I picked up at the drive-through.
I saw the appeal of Hunter’s Crest. Bigger town, bigger parades on Founder’s Day, more to do, more to see. Still, I wouldn’t live anywhere other than my patch of grass on the dot too small to show on a map.
The clock hit nine, so I got out, making my way to Gold Investigations. A tall, raven-haired man with temples just beginning to gray looked up from the coffee machine. He was handsome in an easy, approachable way. He flashed me a smile that loosened my tension.
“Hello? I’m Henry Gold. How can I help you?”
I pulled a black letter from my backpack. “I’d like you to find the serial killer who’s been stalking me.”
He didn’t blink. “I see. Sit down. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
An hour later, we were both on our third cup.
“Who is this Axel Verlice they mentioned?”
“Local bar owner,” I replied. “He happened to die shortly after the Letter Man ordered me to kill an innocent person. I thought I could save myself by claiming credit, but... he saw through me.”
“And killed your friend, Bella.”
I bit my lip, holding back tears.
“Have you shown the police this letter?”
“I can’t.” I jabbed the paper. “I’ve got friends everywhere. They let me know when a stupid little fool is trying to get one over on me. My boyfriend”—I dropped the word so casually—“gave a statement to the police about him and he found out in two days. I don’t know who I can trust. Why do you think I’m here?”
“Alright, alright,” he soothed. “I understand you’re in a difficult and deadly situation. What matters is you have come for help. There’s already been one innocent death. We don’t need another.”
Yes, one. I wasn’t saying anything about Scott Cavendish. He’d have to get to him on his own.
He took a notepad out of his drawer and flipped to a clean page. “Start from the beginning. When did this start?”
“That’s the thing, this may have started long before I thought,” I told him. “Two years ago, a company was harassing my grandmother to sell her farm. She refused them, and I woke up one day and found her lying in the cornfield. She was poisoned.”
“Goodness,” he breathed.
“I used all the money I had to get a private autopsy, but the results, along with the medical examiner, disappeared. I didn’t think any of that was connected to what is happening now, but she was killed and whoever planned to benefit from her death, didn’t. The farm wasn’t bought and soon it’ll be mine again.”
His head bobbed up and down as he scribbled. “Have any of the letters mentioned the farm?”
“No. It’s been crazy stuff about stealing my soul and turning me into a monster. One did say something about my ancestors running from the fight, but I wouldn’t.”
“Interesting.” Scribble. Scribble. “What’s special about your farm that someone would kill for it?”
I shook my head. “If I understood any of this, I wouldn’t be here. All I know is I’ve spent my whole life mucking around in pigpens. I was homeschooled. All my friends were feathered. I haven’t done anything to anyone for them to hate me as much as this person does. So if I didn’t start this, I have to believe it’s connected to the other unexplained tragedy in my life.”
“It’s not an unreasonable assumption. I will certainly dig deeper into the circumstances of your grandmother’s death. Is there anything else I should know?”
“A few little things that may add up to something bigger.” I told him about the cigarettes and kookaburra laughing at the end of New Dante’s show. “The first letter was a riddle about a kookaburra,” I explained, keeping it short. “Kookaburras aren’t such a common bird around here that I believe it’s a coincidence.”
“Indeed,” he said. “You’re not the first person to come up from Bedlam asking me to unveil Dante.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and I turned those cases down. I don’t do cheating spouses, setups, or unmask freelance journalists because people don’t like what they have to say. But if you’re saying someone new has taken over and they might be”—he looked at the letter in disgust—“this person. It’s worth finding out if only to find out if the previous Dante gave up his post willingly, or it was taken from him.
“Contact me immediately if you receive another letter,” he said. “I have a few buddies on the force. I trust them with my life.”
“I won’t have a choice if he tries again to force me to kill.”