[Corine Solomon 5] Agave Kiss Read Free Page A

The drive took us through town, which was probably charming, but I was too numb to appreciate such things—and out the other side, where the tighter streets gave way to country roads. Shannon watched the scenery with a permanent smile in place; like me, she had grown up in Kilmer, which meant she had never been anywhere. Chance had taken me to Europe once in celebration of solving a particularly difficult case, but that meant I saw echoes of him here. He haunted me.
    The driver’s store of small talk dwindled the further we went from the city limits, and as we turned toward the countryside, he focused on driving. No more polite chat. He seemed tense too, as if he regretted agreeing to convey us out to the ghost cottage. I didn’t mind the silence, as it gave me a chance to evaluate what, if anything, I knew about Ian Booke. It wasn’t much. I didn’t have any idea of his age or appearance; at this point, I could only be sure that he was male and English. And he lived in a place the locals called the ghost cottage.
    Which they believe to be vacant.
    After half an hour in the car, the driver turned down a rocky, rutted lane, overgrown with tall grass. Seeing the route, I understood why he’d questioned our destination; it didn’t look like anyone had passed this way in a long time. With darkness falling, the terrain became even eerier. Trees gained claws, and the ripple of the wind through the leaves seemed ominous.
    “A tad ramshackle” is quite the understatement.
    Shan slipped her hand into mine as if she sensed my courage needed bolstering. I gripped tightly as Butch whined. This little dog had saved my bacon more than once . . . and if he sensed trouble, then it was definitely on the way. But then, I had known as much already from Booke’s tangible fear during our phone call; he wasn’t the sort of man who cried wolf. Whatever his personal problems, he’d never shared them before, never asked for help.
    The road was barely passable for a normal vehicle, with steep drainage ditches on either side; it would be impossible to pass if another car met us head-on. The possibility of a collision sent a chill through me, burying my less mundane fears. Two pale, freckled hands gripped the steering wheel as the driver peered into the darkness, made more opaque by the brightness of our headlights. The shadows didn’t feel like they came from a normal sunset—no, it was more like we’d passed some barrier that kept the light at bay. Ahead lay a weathered stone bridge, worn from years of exposure to wind and rain; it didn’t look as if anybody maintained it.
    Abruptly, the driver stopped the car. “This is as far as I’ll take you. If you peer hard, you can see the cottage from here.”
    Yes, there it is.
    As he’d said, I glimpsed our destination, nestled amid a thicket of thorns, across the dark arch of the bridge. I didn’t protest. His tone made it clear it would be a waste of breath. So I tipped him and slid out of the vehicle. My belly roiled, an echo of the upset from the train. The house did have a haunted, run-down air, justifying the stories that circulated about the place. Before we’d moved off more than two steps, the driver was already maneuvering the car in a slow five-point turn, being careful not to back into the ditch. I could pretend that was why he hadn’t wanted to come further—he didn’t want to get stuck—but that wasn’t the reason.
    Shannon’s face was pale in the half-light, still unpainted from our hurried departure, and her cosmetic-free countenance offered stark contrast to the punky streaks in her black hair. “Shall we?” I asked her.
    She squared her shoulders. “This idea seems worse all the time. But yeah, obviously . When have I ever let portents of doom discourage me?”
    That time, my smile was real. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
    “Hey, you went to hell and back for me. The least I can do is check out a little ghost cottage.” In her tone, I heard