Jane gathered her things, kissed her father goodbye, and took off for the lake house.
As she drove, she fantasized about her career. Jane vowed she’d make partner soon, and then win a huge, prestigious case. Her father wouldn’t worry about her so much then.
He’d see she was perfectly happy without a husband and children of her own.
I am, aren’t I?
Somehow, Jane wasn’t quite as sure now.
Chapter Three
Valentine’s cottage was at the end of Burr Lake off a bumpy gravel road.
Without GPS, Jane wouldn’t have found it. The properties were all exclusive, gated with names marked by plaques—Applewood Cottage, Plum House, Pine Lodge.
Come to think of it, Jane hadn’t seen this property listed on any search warrants the FBI had served. The Valentines made their money in real estate so the cabin might belong to another relative.
Jane pulled up in front of a wooden frame cottage on the water’s edge. The house number was affixed to a painted oar beside the door.
Jane got out of the car and grabbed her briefcase. She smelled smoke in the air. A campfire, perhaps?
Her cell phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen.
When are you getting here?
Byron Beauregard. Insufferable, nosy, arrogant mobster.
Jane thumbed a quick response about being in a meeting.
She knocked on the front door.
“Ms. Hunter, is that you?” This disembodied voice came from the gated back yard.
“Yes,” she called. “Sorry, I’m a bit late, Mr. Valentine.”
“Not a problem. Hope you don’t mind, I already started making supper. The door’s unlocked—come on through the house, I’m on the patio.”
“Okay.”
The cottage had a nautical theme—paddles on the walls, framed pictures of Burr Lake, along with lighthouses and anchors. The place was charming, but she couldn’t quite picture Valentine living here. Like her, he had a serious demeanor and the kitsch didn’t match his somber personality.
Although it was very neat and tidy—no dust and everything in its place, which was very like him. Jane also detected the faint whiff of bleach in the air.
In their prep sessions, he’d noticed her OCD tendencies and confessed he felt the same way about germs. Valentine said the prison conditions were filthy, and they’d bonded over their mutual eccentricities as well as Jane’s beliefs in prisoner’s rights.
Outside, she found a fire pit surrounded by four Adirondack chairs situated near a wooden pier on the water. The wind rippled the water’s surface. Oscar Valentine stood beside a long wooden picnic table, scraping something on a board, but she couldn’t quite make it out due to the dim lighting. The sound was harsh—crackling.
“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Valentine.”
“Thank you. Unfortunately, it isn’t mine.” The corner of his mouth lifted. Valentine was nearly six feet tall with black hair and mismatched eyes—one blue, one green. He wore a thin white sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans. “It’s been in the family for years, and I recently…acquired it.”
What an odd way of putting it.
Jane got a bit closer, and that’s when she saw the back fin of a fish slowly flapping, flailing beneath his hands.
Valentine was cleaning his own fish. There was a nauseating crunch of bone and the scrape of metal.
Her stomach rolled.
Well, he’d mentioned fresh fish. Evidently, he’d meant very fresh.
Jane ate meat, but she’d never seen anyone kill an animal. It made her a hypocrite of sorts, but she found the scene before her disturbing. The thing was trapped on his board, helpless as he hacked at it.
Valentine chopped the head off and flung it into the water. There was something bottomless in his eyes when he turned back to her, something dark and empty.
Involuntarily, Jane took a step back.
What a strange thought. Where did it come from? Jane didn’t believe in anything as flighty as intuition or foreboding, and yet she suddenly had the urge to run back to her car and screech out of the driveway.
Maybe Georgia’s and her father’s misgivings were clouding her judgment.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” She sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly, forcing herself to calm down and act sensibly.
“Nonsense. You saved my life. The least I could do is make you a home-cooked meal.” He added the fish filets to a grilling basket and then dangled it over the fire. Another basket full of veggies hung beside it.
“Join me by the fire. The food shouldn’t take long to cook.”
Jane sat beside him, and he pulled two chilled bottles of Pellegrino from a cooler, wiped his fingerprints away with a paper towel, and handed one to her.