Hard Evidence by Roxanne Rustand Read Free Book Online Page A

pocket knife. He grinned and lifted it for inspection. The case was heavily tarnished, but it was still pretty cool—three blades, plus a corkscrew and all sorts of tools on the opposite side. He looked around, ready to shout after the man who’d left. But there was absolute silence, except for the rush of the waterfall. Not a leaf stirred.
    A bone-deep chill worked its way down his spine as he took in the menacing shadows of trees that seemed to press in on him from every side. The darkening clouds that were barely visible over the heavy canopy of branches overhead. A twig snapped…then another.
    Suddenly he knew—without a shred of doubt—that staying here a minute longer would be a terrible mistake.
    Ignoring the leg muscles that screamed in protest, he pivoted and started running—raced over the tumble of rocks around the pool and fled down the path, slipping and sliding on loose pebbles and pine needles until his lungs were raw and aching and the cabins finally came into view. He collapsed on the steps of the first one he reached, his heart pounding and muscles quivering.
    Had he heard a harsh curse the moment he’d started to run? Had there been someone just behind him? Maybe it had all just been his imagination, born of too many Stephen King books read late at night.
    Then he uncurled his fingers and stared at the knife in his palm. He hadn’t thought to drop it. Maybe the owner was the guy he’d seen—and would follow him here, irate and accusing Ian of theft. If he told Dad…
    Ian’s stomach lurched.
    He absently rubbed at the drab, outside case of the knife, wondering what to say. A sharp beam of sunlight lasered up into his face from the spot he’d just cleaned, where the metal now gleamed like molten silver.
    Holding his breath, he carefully snagged one of the blades open with the edge of a fingernail.
    Though the case might be real silver, the blade was badly rusted, and flakes of brownish residue blew away on the cool breeze. Disappointment washed through him. It was just a stupid old knife—probably lost for years and years—though at least he didn’t have to worry about that creepy guy coming after it.
    Disgusted, he nearly dropped it to the ground…but then had a sudden thought.
    Who knew? There were faint initials on it—not clear enough to read. But maybe it had belonged to a fur trapper. Or even an explorer. If it was really old, maybe he could try selling it on eBay.
    His spirits lifting, he shoved it deep in his jeans pocket and sauntered down to Cabin Five.
    Dad still might be mad about him going off on a hike, though, so he wouldn’t say anything about it just yet.
    After all, what could be the harm in that?

FIVE
    M ichael parked his patrol car in the shade of several towering pines by the lodge and sauntered up the walk. Just as he’d expected, Ian was slumped in a porch swing at the far end of the porch. Alone, and appearing completely bored.
    The boy didn’t even bother to look up when Michael dropped into a weathered wicker chair next to the swing. “So…did you have any fun today?”
    Ian angled a brief look at him that suggested Michael was insane, then silently slouched even lower.
    “Play video games?”
    Silence.
    “Watch any movies?”
    No answer.
    “Read?”
    He wanted to ask if Ian had pulled out the new charcoals and sketch pads Michael had casually left in his room after work on Thursday, but knew it was a dangerous topic to broach.
    The physical therapists back home had worked with Ian for months, trying to bring back some of his old dexterity. Encouraging him to begin drawing again, however laborious.
    After a few awkward attempts, Ian had thrown the art materials against the wall in a rage, and with them, every hope of regaining his artistic gifts.
    Before, he’d fought his pain, pushing himself to the limit in therapy to regain his strength and agility. But since that failure, he’d fallen into a dark and moody place where attempts to reach him were often