Still Lake - Anne Stuart [90]
No, that was out of the question. So was sitting in her bedroom trying to read. Maybe she should just go down to the Whitten cottage and face John. She needed to make it clear she had no interest in him, in his hands and mouth and any other wicked part of his body. She wanted her old life back.
She slipped out the front door into the warm night air, as silent as she could be. Through her mother’s window, she could see Doc sitting by Grace’s bed, reading something out loud. It looked like the Bible, and Sophie had to bite back an inappropriate urge to giggle. Grace had never cared much for organized religion, but right now she had no choice but to put up with it from Doc’s gentle company.
Sophie moved across the grass, her thin shoes making no sound. She had to be out of her mind, coming out on a night like this, going to face her nemesis. But she couldn’t sit around and wait anymore. She had to find out exactly who and what he was, and why he was living in Colby, Vermont. There was no innocent excuse, she knew, and the only reason had to be something to do with the old murders.
He wouldn’t have run her off the road—Doc was crazy to have thought so. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d had any number of chances to do so. Besides, what possible reason would he have to do her harm?
She’d walk down to the Whitten house, find the answers to her questions, then come back to relieve Doc. There was nothing to be afraid of. John Smith, or whoever he was, didn’t want to hurt her. No one did.
At least she had the dubious protection of Doc back at the inn. If she needed help all she had to do was scream—Doc might have slowed down a bit, but his hearing was almost supernaturally acute. If she got in trouble he’d come running.
So why was she walking into danger when she really needed to keep her distance? She knew perfectly well she was taking the first excuse she could find to see him. Maybe she just wanted to finish things up—once she got it over with she’d have no more excuses to go down there, and she’d be safe, whether she wanted to be or not.
The battered old Jaguar stood in the clearing. There were no lights coming from the house, and for a moment she wondered if he’d gone for a walk. She should just go home, come back in the light of day when it was safer. Except that she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be safe anymore.
She should have turned and run. But the place looked still and quiet, and if he was anywhere around he would have seen her by now. She may as well walk right up to the front porch. If she was that stupid.
Still no sign, no sound from the dark house. She turned to go, both relieved and disappointed, when the Jaguar distracted her. She didn’t believe a word John Smith had told her, not even the anonymous name he’d given her. Didn’t she deserve to know whom she’d inadvertently slept with?
That wasn’t fair of her—there was nothing inadvertent about it. No one forced her, and she couldn’t really call sex an accident. Even if it felt like the most impulsive thing she’d ever done in her short, safe life.
She opened the passenger door of the car and slid inside. The glove compartment was right there, and she had no reason to feel guilty. She opened it and pulled out the leather case that held his registration.
Or someone’s registration. The car belonged to someone named Thomas Ingram Griffin of Sudbury, Massachusetts.
So why did that name sound familiar? She’d never been in Sudbury in her life—there was no reason she would know him. Who the hell was he, and what was he doing there?
She put the registration away, memorizing the name and address, and turned to open the door again.
Only to let out a shrill scream.
He was standing by the car looking at her, an unreadable expression on his face as he reached for the door handle. She acted instinctively, slamming down the lock, then reached across and locked the driver’s side, as well.
He took a step back, and if there was any humor in his dark eyes she didn’t see it. Instead he simply walked back to the