Island of Deceit Read Free Page B

Sheriff?”
    â€œThey’re under your spell. How would they know to complain?”
    Barbara laughed.
    â€œOne day you’ll let me have my way.”
    Barbara stumbled. Just the thought sent a pleasing ripple through her.
    â€œI’m already under your spell,” he said. “Be careful, you hear? Have a good day.”
    Harper pulled ahead and turned a corner before Barbara realized he still had her hat.
    Â 
    Three miles from Barbara, Trent Seaton cut the motor in his boat and paddled the rest of the way to shore. He’d rented the old house for four months and needed to get the lay of the land before he moved in. With his binoculars, he watched some asshole leave the house with a magazine tucked under his arm, scratch his belly, and amble to the outhouse as if he belonged there. What the heck was an outhouse doing there? The place had an indoor bathroom. But maybe the electricity hadn’t been turned on yet. After all, he wasn’t supposed to arrive for a few more days.
    And the owner had said the house hadn’t been rented out since the end of September. He’d also mentioned a brother-in-law who tried to sneak in freebees. Trent couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have some asshole walking in on him or spying on him. He was going to nip this shit in the bud right now.
    Trent hunkered down in the marsh behind some bushes. Made him remember the old times when he was in the Marines. He waited ten minutes. A flock of birds flew south. A great gust of wind blew in, sending a shiver up his backside and bringing the stench of death with it. He shivered again. Must be a dead animal somewhere. Or else it was the unique stench of the marsh. He’d have to put up with it for the next couple months.
    Was the guy going to read the whole friggin magazine in the stinking outhouse?
    This had seemed the perfect place. Isolated. No houses in sight. Didn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors getting in his business, trying to keep tabs on him, reporting his movements to what stood for pitiful law enforcement on this hick island. Now that part suited him just fine. He didn’t need any jerkwater cop trailing him.
    Trent took aim at the outhouse. It was time it came down anyhow. This was the twenty-first century for chrissakes, in the good old US of A. Trent fired over the man’s head, peppering one end of the outhouse to the other.
    The man yelled “Jesus H. Christ!” from inside. Was more than likely crouched on the floor. Trent emptied his gun, dropped the clip, inserted another one, and fired again.
    â€œAll right, for crissakes! I’m leaving,” the guy hollered out.
    Trent stopped firing, and after a moment, the man gingerly cracked the door, probably to test the waters.
    Trent had already reloaded, but he wasn’t going to shoot the guy.
    Pulling up his britches, and without even bothering to pack his gear, the guy sailed to the truck and fumbled the remote to unlock the door, all the while looking around like a scared rabbit, expecting to feel a bullet any second. Once in the truck, he jammed the key in the ignition and sent gravel spewing as he pulled off.
    Trent had paid good money to rent the cabin and no SOB was going to encroach on his time. As soon as the loafer was out of sight, he retrieved the motorboat from its hiding place and started the motor. Soon he was bumping across the choppy water back to Norfolk. Good thing he had a cast-iron stomach, else he would have upchucked the breakfast he’d eaten at the IHOP.
    Okay, so maybe his mother wouldn’t have approved. She was always whacking him upside his head, telling him to use the brains the Good Lord had seen fit to give him.
    He didn’t take drugs or sell them, and he didn’t steal. But his mama disapproved of his career choice. He felt so laden with guilt and grief he couldn’t stand it. His mother loved him. And he’d never been a good son. Only brought her worry and