Page 117 of I’ll Be Watching You

The only vehicle we saw at the cabin was Tim’s truck. Even though it wasn’t snowing and the skies and roads were clear, the ground was covered in white, telling me that it was cold. The dashboard now said 33 degrees. We’d dropped nearly 10 degrees going up this damn mountain.

Tim Miller had better be grateful that we’d come to save his ass, because I did not like the cold. Give me two months of 100-degree days over two days of freezing temperatures anytime.

Cal drove past the cabin, turned around, and slowly drove back. We didn’t see any vehicles on the road, but that didn’t mean the killer hadn’t parked down a driveway or even hiked in through the trees. Cal backed in behind Tim’s truck. “Has he responded?”

“No.”

“Then we check out the perimeter first. Good?”

“Yep.”

We each pulled our guns and kept them low as we exited the Escalade. The cold air slapped me in the face. Fortunately, I wore good boots and didn’t slip on the icy ground, but I was reminded yet again why I hated coming up to Flagstaff in the winter.

The snow was mostly crunchy ice as we traversed the property. I went first, Cal walked behind me and slightly to the side, keeping a lookout among the trees.

We saw no one around the property, and we didn’t see any footprints other than those from Tim’s truck to the side door, which had a lock box on it.

I pounded on the door. “Tim! Open up, it’s Margo Angelhart.”

Silence.

“Shit,” I muttered and tried the door. Locked.

“I’ll go look through the windows,” Cal said. “Wait here.”

A minute later Cal returned, looking disgusted. “He’s passed out on the couch, a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the table.”

“That idiot!” I said. I pounded louder on the door, then called his cell phone. I heard it ringing inside. I could break a window. I just might.

He answered the second call. “Hey, I fell asleep,” he muttered.

“Open the door now.”

I was freezing, and Cal didn’t look all that happy either. If a killer was watching, we might as well have a target on our backs.

Tim opened the door a moment later, and we both burst into a too-warm house that made my skin tingle. Cal closed and locked the door behind him. He smelled the air and frowned.

I smelled it too. Tim was drunk and stoned. Double idiot.

“I’m going to put on some coffee,” Cal said.

“What?” Tim said as I pushed him back into the living room.

I pointed to the booze and the bong that sat on the table and said, “You dumbass. You said you feared for your life and you get wasted?”

“I’m scared!”

“Then by all means, pass out and make it easier for the killer to shoot you in the head.”

He paled and was unsteady on his feet as he went back to the couch and reached for his bong.

I grabbed it before he could and put it beyond his reach.

“Hey,” he protested.

“If I didn’t need you, I’d leave right now and wish you good luck against a killer.”

His expression was an unusual combination of scared and angry and perplexed.