Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Me, nor they, nor anyone (possibly globally) had missed the series of stories of sex scandals, serial killers, psychopath shenanigans and shifty sheriffs that plagued that burg over the last several years.
In fact, Elsa Cohen herself, the new Barbara Walters, had interviewed what had become known as the town’s “Coven.” Wronged women who’d taken over a subdivision outside the town, and no men entered unless it was to fix a leaky faucet or flush some other kind of plumbing, after which they’d be thanked, possibly Post-it style (huh), and sent on their way.
I’d looked into that subdivision, believe you me. Like far too many other women, I was a member for sure, even if I wasn’t officially a member of that coven.
Alas, there were not only no homes available there, none of them had big workshops.
So that was out.
Mona and Kacey thought I was nuts for moving here.
I thought, since crazy crap kept happening to me since birth (no joke), even if crazy crap kept happening up there, I might as well be somewhere pretty, quiet and slow-paced when it happened, instead of too busy, full of traffic and tourists, muggy and hot most of the year (and full of bugs (not that there weren’t bugs up here, it was just that no bugs of my experience rivaled Florida bugs)).
And I might as well be somewhere where crazy crap was expected to happen rather than surprise clocking you full face with its cruelty.
Kacey and Mona thought I had a screw loose.
I knew I did.
It was in the genes.
Another big part of Misted Pines that sealed the deal for my move was the town itself.
Straight up, it looked like something out of a movie. I wasn’t sure even an inch of the town proper or the immediate surrounding neighborhoods had changed in the last, at least, seventy years.
There was an old, one-screen movie theater. There was a fruit and veggie shop that sold only fruit and vegetables, and in this day and age of superstores, it stayed solvent by some miracle (just to say, I also bought my fruit and veg there, so maybe it wasn’t that much of a mystery). Same with a butcher (and same with me getting my meat there). There was a ’50s-style diner. A tackle shop. A florist. A coffee shop with a massive mural on its side that was an indictment of both hunting and environmental waste. And there was more.
No, I was wrong.
There had been one change.
An entire block had been dozed so the town had a pretty garden with flower beds, lawns, benches, and a fountain in the middle, and that wasn’t original.
I had a degree in business. I hadn’t played this stupid.
I knew between the outdoor activities, the ski slopes that weren’t near, but they also weren’t far, the scenery and the scandals (no doubt about it, a ton of folks loved a good scandal), even if it was a far drive from the airport in Spokane, and a much farther one from Seattle, tourism here was strong.
Fortunately, Misted Pines also had an airstrip, though it was small and only small planes used it. Then again, MP played host to some tourists that were loaded, so that airstrip was busy.
This was because they even had a five-star hotel with a world-class spa abutting the biggest lake in the county (the source of the “mist” in Misted Pines, as it had a multitude of hot springs feeding it, so the water was temperate year-round, but when it got cold, the mist of the lake enveloped the town, even miles away up at my cabin).
As picturesque as all of this was, it still somehow didn’t hide the seediness that humanity got up to.
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a feel to the place that was so contradictory, it could make your head spin if you thought on it too long.
It was welcoming. It was warm. It was quiet. It was low-key. It was pretty. The people were friendly.
And it was seething.
Don’t ask me how this was real, it just was.
Prominent on the town’s only major street was the county’s sheriff’s office. A one-story brick building on a corner.
And that was where I aimed my truck.
It was early September, and somehow, even if the kids were at school, so vacations weren’t on offer, the tourist traffic hadn’t died down that much.
Perhaps it was due to the Pinetop Lodge, that aforementioned five-star hotel that hosted weddings and had the capacity for conferences.
Who knew?
I just knew I constantly had to hustle to keep the store stocked, because one couldn’t say I was killing it, but after month four up here, I hadn’t had to dig into his money to pay my employees, my rent, or feed myself.
I wasn’t adding to (or, God forbid, subtracting from) my other bank account, the one I left to earn interest, which had been created by me selling off my belongings before moving up here. The one I’d use as a down payment when I finally bought a house to settle—please God, once and for always—somewhere safe.