Still Lake by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online

floating facedown in Still Lake.
    â€œShe doesn’t strike me as the murderous type,” he said carefully, leaning against the porch railing.
    â€œThings aren’t always what they seem,” the girlsaid cheerfully. “For instance, does this place look like the scene of a savage murder? Not likely. You’d be more likely to die of boredom than having your throat cut. Perfect peace and quiet.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m looking for.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t have found it twenty years ago,” she said with ghoulish enthusiasm. “There was a serial killer around here, and he murdered three teenage girls. Raped them and cut apart their bodies. It was really gruesome.”
    â€œIt sounds it,” he said in a bored voice. His memory wasn’t that bad—there’d been no rape, and only Alice had been mutilated, though the autopsy had revealed that all three girls had had sexual relations within twenty-four hours prior to their deaths. “Did they ever find the guy who did it?”
    â€œHow’d you know it was a guy?” Marthe said suspiciously.
    â€œMost serial killers are men. Besides, you said they were raped.”
    Marthe shrugged her thin shoulders. “Gracey would know the details—there’s nothing she loves more than true-crime thrillers. Of course, she’s gotten so addled she doesn’t even remember her own name, but if you’re curious maybe she might come up with some details.”
    â€œNot particularly,” he said, lying. “I was more interested in coffee.”
    The girl hopped up from her perch on the railing,twitching her flat little rump in what she obviously hoped was a provocative fashion. “I’ll show you,” she offered. “We’ll just have to hope we can avoid Sophie.”
    The kitchen of the old place had been completely redone. The painted cabinets had been stripped back to bare oak, the floor was a rough-hewn tile, the stove was one of those huge restaurant-style-things, and the countertops were butcher block and granite. A far cry from Peggy Niles’s fanatically clean surroundings—he always thought her kitchen was like an operating room. Spotless and scrubbed, even the homey smells of cooking hadn’t dared linger in its pristine environs. Only the door to the old hospital wing remained the same. Locked, probably nailed shut as it had been back then, albeit it was covered with a fresh coat of paint.
    This room was far more welcoming than its original incarnation. Or maybe it was just the smell of fresh coffee and muffins that gave him a deceptive sense of peace. Smells were one thing that could always betray you, make you vulnerable to old emotions. He’d fought against them all his life.
    There was no sign of Sophie Davis, and he didn’t know whether that was a consolation or a regret. She wouldn’t like her nubile little sister twitching her underclad butt around him, and he wasn’t any too fond of it, either. He was as healthy as the next man, but Miss Marthe Davis left him completely cold.Maybe because he’d never been particularly interested in teenagers.
    â€œSo what are you doing today, John?” she asked in an artless voice.
    Like a fool, it took him a moment to remember that was the name he’d given her. “Cleaning up the house I rented. I didn’t give them any warning when I was coming, and the place is a mess.”
    â€œI could help. If there’s one thing I know how to do nowadays, it’s clean houses,” she said with a moue. “I’m sure you could do with a little company.”
    â€œActually I’m fine….” he began, but she’d already twitched her way out of the kitchen.
    â€œI’ll just go put something on,” she called back to him. “I know Sophie wouldn’t miss me.”
    â€œHell,” he muttered. There were hand-thrown pottery mugs on the counter, and he took one,