Sinful Suspense Box Set Read Online Free Page B

and pickles.”
    “Sounds good. Thanks again, Everly. See you soon.”
    The bus driver followed me out and opened the hatch. He pulled out my duffle bag and my guitar. I threw the strap around my shoulder and moved the guitar to my back.
    “You’re a musician,” Everly called from the window she’d opened. “Can’t wait to hear you play.” She waved as the bus driver motioned for her to put up the window. 
    The bus kicked up some diesel smelling dust as it roared past. I took a deep breath and turned toward the highway. I headed away from the small town that was just downhill from the bus stop. Everly had warned me Trumble’s Bridge was a grim place, and it was definitely that. But it had been the last stop before my journey to Blackthorn Ridge.
    The forest ranger station that I had mysteriously shown up at when I was seven, lost confused and beyond terrified, was located just five miles north of Blackthorn Ridge. It was the reason I’d chosen the town as my starting point. Several cars sped past, one with an annoying driver who laid on his horn as he raced by, nearly startling me right over the edge of the road.
    The tall evergreens thinned, and I could see straight down the side of the road to the valley below. In the distance, I could see the mill. It seemed the smoke had dissolved, and the activity had stopped. The mill had obviously closed for the day. Everly’s warning about working at the mill had not helped to boost my already waning confidence. My skills were good, but I hadn’t ever worked for anyone but Margaret Kipple, a wonderful woman with a thriving real estate business. Her son lived in The Grog, and even though she was a business woman and lived outside of the commune, she was, in her own way, one of us. I could only imagine how gruff a mill owner might be. But at least I’d found a friend and a place to stay. I looked forward to getting to know Everly better. She was a lifelong local. She knew a lot about the area. And, it seemed, she wasn’t afraid to tell any of the dirty local secrets.
    I stopped and stared at the smooth curve of road in front of me. I hadn’t expected it, but my heart raced ahead of its normal pace and my stomach fluttered with nerves. As Everly had promised, there were several makeshift roadside memorials, including two crosses, handmade and decorated with fake flowers that were caked with roadside dirt. The white railing that ran along the curve was a different shade of white than the rest of the highway. It was easy to spot where the new railing had been welded to the old.
    With the shoddy, sporadic internet service in The Grog, I’d made the trek to the local library at least a dozen times before starting my trip. I’d found seven separate fatal accidents blamed on the deadly piece of road. All of them had been trucks driving through town late at night. My dad, the third recorded fatality, had been driving his truck on an overnight delivery. Occasionally, he’d had to fill in for other truckers and then he’d be gone a few days. The truck had been filled with his usual cargo of wine and spirits. His trucking friends had always called him by the handle Rum Runner. He’d worked for the same liquor company for ten years and had managed to snag a local, daily delivery route soon after he was thrown into the role of single parent. A wonderful woman named Greta would come and babysit me while he worked. She had big round shoulders and a heavy accent and she made the best chicken soup when I was feeling sick. Whenever Dad was asked to go on a long route, she’d come with her bag of yarn and knitting needles and spend the night. She was the only mom in my life for the first six years, but she’d moved back to Europe to be with her own family. I was bounced from day-care to day-care while my dad worked.
    I walked up to the first cross. The name Mikey the Bear was etched on it. I remembered an article about the man they’d called Bear because of his size and girth.