Page 28 of Sinister Secrets

“I said I’ve got it.”

He gives me a sharp look, waiting until I hold up my hands and back away before he goes back to grumbling over his task. While he struggles to get the door open, I take in my surroundings.

A pair of hanging flower baskets, now mostly dried leaves and weeds, hang from the eaves. A grill fills one end of the space. On the other, a pair of wicker armchairs flank a cooler. The view faces west, the Ten Thousand Islands area of the Gulf visible in the distance.

I imagine my old friend sitting out here in the evenings, watching the sun sink low in the sky. Cooking meat and sipping beer. Entertaining?

Gordon didn’t have many friends back when we were in school. He wasn’t particularly shy, or even quiet. He’d just always been more concerned with doing his own thing than being social. But as I look at the collection of empty beer bottles beneath the chairs, I have to wonder if that had changed.

I cast a quick glance over my shoulder at Kingston, still wrestling with the lock, as I pull a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket and slip them on. Crossing over to the cooler, I hold my breath and crack open the lid. Mold streaks up the interior. Five unopened bottles float in water made sludgy by dissolved labels.

It seems unlikely that Gordon was in the habit of leaving beer in the cooler on his deck—not unless he liked to drink it hot. Even in winter there’s only a handful of days a year where the blazing Florida sun wouldn’t melt a bag of ice in under twenty-four hours. Had he been sitting out here with a friend when he decided he needed to leave town? If so, who?

My gaze travels to the empty bottles. Though there’s little chance of recovering anything useful like fingerprints from them after they’ve been exposed to the elements for so long, it wouldn’t hurt to try—especially the one on its side that rolled under the balcony railing.

Closing the lid, I use it to brace myself as I lean over, reaching toward the green glass. Freeze as I spot the faded black lettering inked onto the back of the cooler.

PROPERTY OF MK

MK—not GM. This wasn’t Gordon’s cooler.

Straightening, I run the initials through my mind. We went to school with plenty of Mikes, but not with a last name beginning with K. There were two sisters, a Marianne and Miranda Stoltz… maybe K was one of their married surnames. Closing my eyes, I try recalling who is on the same page of my high school yearbook with me.

A sense of uneasiness spreads through my veins. My gut clenches just as Sheriff Kingston says, “You watch yourself, now.”

I spin around, half expecting to see him with his weapon drawn, aimed in my direction, policing my thoughts. His son Matt at his shoulder. “What?”

He eyes me suspiciously as he gestures toward the open door. “I figured you’d want to go in first.”

“Oh sure. Thanks.”

“Just make sure you don’t disturb anything important.”

My heart thunders in my chest as I nod, pulling my phone from my pocket. Bringing up the camera app, I turn it to video. Wish I could use it to film behind me instead of in front as I hit record, lean my head in until I can see the light switch and flick it on, but nothing happens. The power’s been turned off. Reluctantly, I cross the threshold into the darkness beyond.

A wave of stale air assaults me as I step inside. Even in the dim light trickling through the blinds, it’s easy to see a thick layer of dust coats every surface. Pulling the shade, my nose twitches, fighting the urge to sneeze as I slowly pan the recording from one side of the living room to the other and back again.

Judging by the quality of Gordon’s belongings—the supple leather of his couch, the polished furniture, not particle board but real wood, even the art on the walls—he’d done well for himself. A bitter taste coats my tongue as I wonder how much of his success had been due to hard work, and how much had come at the expense of others’ well-being, or worse, their lives.

I’m not a superstitious person, but being here gives me the creeps. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, raising a shiver that causes goosebumps to spread down my arms. The sound of the sheriff’s breathing is loud in my ears, reminding me that it’s not ghosts but a very real threat that I have to worry about.

I hurry away from the door into the kitchen, eager to put some space between me and Kingston, but the man stays on my heels. Turning suddenly, he stumbles to keep from running into me. I pretend not to notice the flush that rises in his cheeks, instead pointing to the dirty dishes growing fuzz in the sink.

“Doesn’t look like whatever trip he went on was planned.”

Kingston shrugs. “There’s one way to tell.”

“Don’t open the—”

But it’s too late. A flash flood of stench permeates the kitchen as he opens the refrigerator, releasing eight months of rotting food odors. Immediately, he staggers back, gagging. It’s enough to buckle my knees, my eyes watering as I swallow hard against the nausea rising inside me, but it’s worth it as Kingston races toward the door, retching and muttering something about air.

His act of foolishness has bought me at least ten minutes—I intend to make the most of them. Quickly I start a systematic search of the house, opening each drawer and cabinet, recording everything that I see. I search every pocket, under the mattress, in the exposed slats of the bed frame, even the exhaust fan and the toilet tank, but find nothing out of the ordinary—just the disarray in the bedroom that suggests Gordon packed and left in a hurry.

“How’s it going in there?” Kingston calls through the open front door.

“Good. Just going to document and check the bookcase, then I’ll be done.”

A petty part of me hopes the sheriff’s grumbling is being picked up on the audio as I film the titles on Gordon’s bookshelf, all nonfiction: Making the Sale. Getting to Yes. Hidden Treasures in Natural Resources.