Still Lake - Anne Stuart [73]
She should probably go to the police to report the incident, but what good would it do? She hadn’t been able to see the other car—her main impression was that it was huge. It might have been a van or a truck.
And it wasn’t the kind of publicity she was looking for. Stonegate Farm was a brand-new business—the wrong kind of newspaper coverage and people would start canceling their reservations.
She drove with particular care, back down the long, empty stretch of highway that led to Colby. She was usually organized enough to keep tissues in the car, but Marty had been having allergy problems recently and she’d snitched them. Sophie tried to dab at the flowing blood with the hem of her skirt, but it didn’t seem to be making much of a difference. At least it wasn’t going into her eyes.
It was after ten when she drove back through the tiny town of Colby, past the quiet town green and up the street to the lake road. Doc’s house was dark and closed up, only a faint light coming from one of the upstairs windows. He’d get up and help her, she knew, but at that moment it seemed too much to ask. She kept the Subaru pointed straight, her hands gripped tightly to the steering wheel.
She almost made it home. The aftermath of her near miss began to take effect just as she was turning toward the north-end road, and she realized she was trembling all over. Too much in twenty-four hours, she thought with a trace of hysteria. It was bad enough having sex with a stranger. Almost getting killed was carrying things a little too far.
The rain was coming down at a steady pace, and the road around the lake was more mud than dirt, slick and deceptive. She was driving too fast in her need to get home. She misjudged the turn, missed the corner, and ended up sliding off the road, tilted sideways in a ditch that no four-wheel-drive would get her out of.
Sophie considered herself a tough, unsentimental person. But she burst into tears, loud, noisy sobs, and put her bloody head down on the steering wheel, indulging herself.
She hadn’t cried that loudly, that long, for years. She couldn’t even remember when. Crying was supposed to relieve stress, but all it seemed to do was wind her up tighter than ever. She was gulping for air in between sobs, having a full-blown anxiety attack.
“Smarten up, Sophie,” she muttered through her tears. “This isn’t doing anyone any good.” She tried wiping her tears away with her full skirt, but it was already wet with blood, and she hated to think what kind of mess she was making.
She knew she couldn’t stay there all night feeling sorry for herself, as tempting as the notion was. For one thing, she’d run off the road before the fork, and she was, in fact, closer to the Whitten cottage than the inn. Too close for comfort. She needed to get home, soak for a long time in one of the claw-footed bathtubs, maybe have a nice cup of herbal tea, and crawl into bed. She’d gone through enough for one day.
She slid out of the car, into the rain, sending a mental note of thanks skyward that at least there was ground beneath her feet. She slid as she climbed up the embankment, going down in the mud, but she was beyond caring. If she’d had one ounce of energy left she would have run home. As it was, she could barely drag herself down the narrow drive.
She saw the beam of the flashlight through the rain, and she let out a low, miserable moan. She didn’t want to see anybody. Not her family, not John Smith, not the Northeast Kingdom killer. She just wanted to get home. She halted, considering whether she could dive into a ditch again, hide from whoever was out on such a miserable night. It couldn’t really be anyone dangerous, though in fact she’d rather run into a legendary murderer than the man she’d spent the night with.
The bright beam of the flashlight caught her, and it was too late to hide. She couldn’t see who was behind the light, only a large, shadowed figure, dressed in a raincoat. Shades