At a quarter past four the next morning, Maisie threw the blankets to the side and rose from bed. She’d been awake for over two hours, festering over Stuart’s funeral, which was to be a bit later in the day. Her insides were knotted and tight, like a heavy weight she couldn’t lift no matter how hard she tried.
Deciding fresh air was what she needed, she did something she hadn’t done in a long time—she pumped up the tires on her bike and hauled it out of the garage. It wasn’t grand or fancy like Stuart’s mountain bike. In fact, it wasn’t even a mountain bike at all. It was a turquoise and white beach cruiser with orange accents and a silly wicker basket attached to the front.
Riding a bike again after so many years was almost like riding for the first time. It made her anxious at first, but once she’d made it down the street in the dark, the jitters faded away, and a sense of peace set in. Peace she hadn’t felt in the last week. It was almost like Stuart was right there, riding along with her, like he wasn’t really gone.
An hour of fresh, clean mountain air later, a weary but refreshed Maisie rode back into her driveway like a seasoned pro. She hopped off the bike, set it against the side of the house, and eyed the garage door. It was open, which was a huge red flag. She’d closed it when she left. She was sure of it. Not wanting to jump to any premature conclusions, she considered the fact that the garage door had needed to be replaced for some time now. On occasion it had a tendency to pop back open once it was shut.
The open garage door could be explained away, but something else could not.
The light in the garage was off.
And she’d left it on.
Erring on the side of caution, Maisie didn’t enter the house through the garage like she would have normally done had everything seemed all right. She crept onto the porch, punched the code in on her front door, went to her bedroom, and returned out the same door, pistol in hand. She entered the garage. All was quiet. And given the fact she always kept it clean and tidy, if someone had been inside, they weren’t there any longer. There was no clutter for anyone to hide behind, no nook or cranny to crawl into, save one: her unlocked car.
It was now a few minutes shy of six a.m., not yet light, but dawn was creeping in. Gun pointed toward the car, she flicked the switch on the wall, and the overhead light sparked on. It was then she confirmed she wasn’t alone. From her vantage point behind the car, she made out the silhouette of a person sitting in the front seat.
“Whoever you are, open the door and step out,” she said.
No movement.
“I said now. Get out of my car.”
She waited. Nothing happened.
“Fine. Don’t get out. But hear my words. You’re trespassing on my property, which gives me the right to shoot you if I so choose. And you should know, when I do shoot, I never miss.”
Still nothing.
She wanted to be tough, the steely ball of female badass she usually was, but she was also something else, something she didn’t feel often—afraid.
With slow, methodical steps, Maisie approached the car, her gun raised, ready to fire at the slightest movement of the person inside. In her haste, she realized she’d left her cell phone in the house, and she regretted not calling the police. Now, two feet away from the driver’s-side door, Maisie caught her first glimpse of the person inside the vehicle. It wasn’t a man. It was a woman, a petite woman, with a long mane of blond hair. None of it made any sense.
And then ... a sense of familiarity.
She took one more step closer.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
One more step and she was there.
She cupped her hands looked inside.
“Zoey!”
Maisie yanked the car door open, grabbing hold of Zoey’s shirt, yanking her forward. “Zoey! Say something!”
Zoey’s head slumped to the side, allowing Maisie to see the photograph pinned to the left side of her chest. It was a picture of Maisie in the Marshalls’ backyard, at the very moment she had pulled the gun from Caesar’s doggy grave.
Someone had been watching her.
But whom?
And for how long?
And ... was she being watched now?
She whipped around, the gun in her hand aimed left, then right, canvassing the street for any other signs of life, but there weren’t any. A wave of nervous anxiety spread throughout her body. She breathed in, centered herself, focused, then returned her attention to Zoey and the note pinned to the right side of her body.
A warning.
Mind your business, Maisie Fezziwig, or you’ll be next.