Free The Winslow Incident by Elizabeth Voss Page B

they’d figure it out. I wonder if anybody down mountain
has heard yet.”
    “Doubt it. Seems like people are
whispering today. Like if they talk too loud they’ll hear it in the valley.
Have you noticed?”
    She nodded. “It’s creepy.” For all
she knew, her uncle had something hanging over the head of every citizen of
Winslow. It wouldn’t surprise her. Maybe he’d been collecting instruments of
blackmail for just such an occasion. “Like ghosts sharing secrets,” she said.
    Sean grinned at her. A lazy,
sultry grin. “Are we ghost hunting this summer?”
    “Only if you ante up the good
candy.”
    “I can do a lot better than
candy.” A slight smile played across his features.
    Suppressing her own smile, she
touched one corner of his lips where they turned up. Then she kissed that mouth
she knew almost as well as her own. When her tongue touched his, the heat of
him shocked her.
    She pulled away and placed her
hand against his forehead. “Sean—you are so hot!”
    He took her hand and tugged her
back to him, eyes teasing. “Then where are you going?”
    She sprang to her feet, held her
hand down to him, and hauled him up. “We need to douse you in Three Fools
Creek.”
    He blew a hot frustrated breath in
her face . . . then he turned his back and bolted.
    “Wait!” she called, chasing after him through the
graveyard, laughing. “Wait for me!”
    I n the stingy bit of sunshine the tree canopy
allowed to pass, the surface of Three Fools Creek shimmered. “It’s too pretty,” Hazel decided.
    Nodding, Sean poked at a mound of
wet leaves with a stick. “Foolish to fall for it.”
    For beneath its sparkle, the creek
raged. Three miners had drowned trying to cross the creek at high water after a
wet spring like this. But unlike Hawkin Rhone, the miners had been buried
proper in Matherston Cemetery.
    Hazel stepped back to study the
boulders that jutted up along the bank like crooked tombstones. When she looked
at Sean again he was staring at Hawkin Rhone’s cabin across the creek. In
complete collapse now, the old prospector’s shack was barely visible beneath a
patient blackberry bush.
    “Why did we go over there?” she
asked.
    He shook his head. “Seemed like a
good idea at the time.”
    “Wish he’d stop haunting us.”
    “Don’t worry.” He reached for her
hand. “Curse is on my head, not yours.”
    She pulled away, wagging her
finger at him in a mock scold. “That’s right, Adair—it’s up to you to keep
Hawkin Rhone in his grave.”
    He blinked at her. Then he gave
her a long, puzzled look before saying, “You’re right.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m going over there,” he said,
his face marked by distress now.
    His expression made her extremely
uneasy. “We agreed we’d never go back.”
    “I have to. I have to make sure.”
    “Make sure what?”
    “That he’s still buried.”
    She spun him by the shoulder to
face her. “I was only kidding. What’s wrong with you?”
    He stepped closer to the turbulent
water. “I’m going over.”
    “You’re out of your mind. This is not funny. Let’s go.”
    “Hold on. I’ll make it quick.” He
took off his tennis shoes and moved down the muddy bank.
    She shot a glance at the crumbled
cabin, knowing that her dad and Dr. Foster had buried Hawkin Rhone not far from
the porch. Reaching for Sean, she said, “Okay, ha-ha, joke’s over—”
    An explosive splitting sound from behind
them caused both to whirl and face the woods.
    After listening for a silent
moment, Hazel asked, “Rifle shot?”
    Sean scrambled into his shoes, the
violent sound evidently bringing him back to his senses. “Sounded more like a
tree snapping.”
    Another sharp crack issued, this
time from the place up the creek where the water ran black—closer now to
where they stood straining to hear and see into the dark woods.
    Her heart pounding, Hazel grabbed
Sean and whispered, “Bigfoot.”
    “Like hell,” he said too loud.
    “I’m telling