Nikki froze.
She’d been certain she was alone.
But—
More footsteps.
Nikki spun.
Raised the bottle.
And found herself staring at a slim, athletic woman in a short robe and sandals. Her face was in shadow, but she saw that her dark hair shined as if wet.
In her clasped hands was a large pistol.
Aimed straight at Nikki.
Chapter 19
“Who are you?” the woman demanded, her voice loud but trembling slightly, her two-handed grip on the pistol less than steady. “And what the fu—What’re you doing in my backyard?”
“Your backyard?” Nikki repeated, her eyes trained on the gun, every muscle in her body tense.
“Yeah. You’re—you’re, like, trespassing!”
But she didn’t sound convincing, her voice high-pitched to the point of squeaking. Just how old was she?
“I thought this was Archer Greenlee’s house.”
“It is.”
“And you are?”
“I asked you first,” the woman said childishly, and Nikki knew then she was even younger than Nikki had guessed.
Archer had a daughter, she knew that much, but Caroline Greenlee was in her thirties, and this woman—thisgirlwasn’t far past her teens, if that. With a sinking heart, Nikki had the feeling that she knew her.
“I’m Nikki Gillette, and I’m looking for Archer Greenlee. I’m—”
“Oh! Oh, my God! You’re Ophelia’s aunt? You’re that reporter!” The gun lowered as the girl stepped closer, her face suddenly illuminated by the glow from the hot tub. “And you wrote those booksabout murders around Savannah! I know. I read the last one about those three girls who went missing!”
“Yes, that’s right.” Oh, Lord. Nikki did know her. She was sure of it. But why couldn’t she place her? And how was the gun-toting woman-girl connected to Phee?
“It was really, fu—I mean really, really creepy,” she said enthusiastically. “I read all kinds of books like yours, and I’m a major fan of Ann Rule. And, oh, Erik Larson. And even though most of his books are fiction, IadoreStephen King! I mean talk about creepy. Like, to the max! They scare the living shi—daylights out of me!” She was smiling broadly by this time, babbling wildly, and though her features were still shadowed, Nikki was starting to place her. “I watchDatelineandForty-Eight Hoursand all that true-crime stuff, too. I know it’s kind of weird. None of my friends are into it, but I can’t help myself. I love scary stuff! You know, they say truth is stranger than fiction, and I believe it. I really do!”
“Right.” It was rare that Nikki met a fan, even though she lived in the city where the crimes took place. And it was stranger still that it was while she was investigating a crime.
“Could I—could I get your autograph? Like on one of your books? I mean, I asked Ophelia for a signed copy of one, but I guess she never asked you. Or maybe you don’t do that?”
Again Ophelia’s name. And this is what they were discussing? Nikki’s books? After the girl had threatened to blow her away?
And then as the girl tilted her head, her profile catching in the shifting light from the hot tub, her long, black braid reflecting the watery illumination, Nikki finally put a name to the face. “You’re Annabelle.” Ophelia’s riding instructor. And a girl Nikki had seen fleetingly at Lara Kittle’s sweet-sixteen party a few weeks earlier. On the night Billy Huber was murdered.
“Yes! Annabelle Van Camp. But mostly I go by Annie. I’m a couple of years older, but, yeah, Lara and I took group riding lessons together back in grade school, like a long time before I became an instructor. Lara and some of the others dropped out, but I just adore horses, Iloveworking with them, so I kept at it. Now I get paid to do what I love! It’s so cool! Kinda like you must love what you do, right?”
“Right,” Nikki said, noting the girl’s enthusiasm and the disturbing fact that she was still holding the pistol, though now she was gesturingwith her hands. The gun was no longer leveled at Nikki, but Annabelle still held one finger on the trigger. And she was so excited, who knew if she might accidently fire it. “So, Annie, why don’t you put that gun down and we can talk?”
“Oh! God! Yeah!” As if she hadn’t realized she was still holding the heavy pistol, Annabelle quickly set it on the table, knocking over one of the wineglasses as she did. “I don’t even really know how to use it. Really. I’ve never shot a thing in my life. I mean I’m a vegan. I don’t eat animals. Not even fish! Ugh! Like nev-ver! And I certainly don’t shoot them!” She righted the glass again. “Anyway, Archer, he thinks I—we—need a gun. For protection. He’s been super freaked out ever since someone, you know, killed his wife.”