Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
The call of a seagull over the water catches my attention. Even from here, I can see the blue-green depths of the ocean bordering his house. What would it be like to live in a place like this? I’d hazard a guess the view isn’t the only reason he lives here, though.
His house is far enough off the beaten path to deter strangers from visiting—at least, most of them. No little girls in uniforms would make this walk to peddle their Girl Scout cookies, no Jehovah’s Witnesses would come knocking to save his besmirched soul. It’s almost a fortress of sorts, set far from the main roads, but not so far that a twenty-minute ride wouldn’t bring you into the city to get food or gas.
The closest Air Force base is in Hanscom, only thirty-two minutes by car. I checked.
Here, in the light of day, when I’m not compromised and as badly injured as I was when I first arrived last night, I note things I didn’t see before—a large, sunny porch that overlooks the private beach, immaculately well-kept and homey, and a pathway lined with brilliant white rocks that leads to the front door. It’s like a trail to the gingerbread house, set just far enough back to beckon unsuspecting victims.
I always did have an overactive imagination.
The last time I came here, he wasn’t home, and I was injured. I missed lots of details.
Here in Salem and the surrounding cities, it’s unusual for a home this close to the water to be much bigger than three or four bedrooms. Small colonial homes are the bedrock of the North Shore. Much larger homes are rare and cost a small fortune.
As I draw nearer, I note a four-car garage, a large, paved, circular driveway, and two main entrances, both bedecked with large but simple wreaths. The landscaping’s immaculate, well-groomed and maintained, and if I peek a bit to the right of the main entrance, I can see into a rock-lined garden that overlooks the sea. Is that a barn or a shed out back? I also catch glimpses of a heavy gate and fence and another glimmer of water. A pool?
The owner of this home favors privacy.
A brisk wind kicks up as I near the main entrance. Here, right by the water, the temperature’s dropped by at least ten degrees.
I’m not alone. There’s someone in the side yard tending the garden, humming as they pull weeds. A small pile of drying dandelions sits beside him. Someone else is rummaging around in the garage. I’m guessing the people I met last night aren’t the only staff he employs.
At least I should be able to get someone’s attention.
I walk up to the closest entrance, draw in a deep breath, and square my shoulders. The front entryway’s swept neatly, and a large potted plant stands to the right. Everything’s masculine and utilitarian, no welcome mat by the door, nothing flowery or bright. I ring the doorbell.
The clanging of the bell reverberates inside, a deep, musical baritone. Footsteps sound on the other side of the door, and I see a tall, thin man through the rectangular windows that flank each side of the double doors.
I let my breath out, then draw in another to steady my nerves. From here, I can see the kitchen entrance where I went in last night and the sitting room where I saw the doctor. No sign of the master of this house.
He’s in there, though. I know it.
Will he see me?
When the door opens, I notice a uniformed guard standing in the shadows to the right of the doorway, armed and ready. His face is set in stone, his eyes staring at me unblinking from the shadows. Now that’s a sight you don’t see every day.
My pulse staggers.
I wonder if the guy at the door’s a daytime butler, or housekeeper or something. He’s older than I am, pale, with a receding hairline, but he’s wiry and strong. When he looks at me, only one eye is seeing, the other is dull and lifeless.
He gently bows his head in greeting, and when he speaks, he has a gentle southern accent. “May I help you?”
I clear my throat. It’s make-or-break time. I give him what I hope is a disarming smile, but I’m rusty with such formalities and only manage to bare my teeth at him. Cringy.
Step one. Confirm the name of the owner of the house. Say it with confidence.
My voice rings loud and clear. “I’m here to see Mr. Master, please.”
He nods. Check.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I briefly consider lying just to get inside, but quickly dismiss that idea. It could backfire too quickly.
I shake my head. “I don’t. Is he in?”
He holds my gaze for a moment before he responds. Is he sizing me up? He quickly schools his features and gestures for me to come in.