Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery by R.M. Wild (top 100 novels of all time .TXT) 📕

staying shut up in this cabin all day is not a long-term plan. If I’m ever going to get out of this mess, I have to find enough evidence to clear my name and put Caesar on the other side of the bars.”

Kendall smiled, then went to the bathroom, and came back with another towel. “I will see what else I can find out about Caesar.”

“Thank you, but it’s not just about Caesar.”

“Then what?”

“Chrissy.”

Kendall smiled again and twirled the towel into a long strip, as if he was about to whip someone’s butt in the locker room. “Fine. I will take you back to Dark Haven in the morning.”

“You will?”

He laid the towel at the base of the French doors. “Yes. Whatever you want. However stupid,” he said. He left the towels where they were and headed for the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“To take a nap. I was up all night. Trying to help. But if you’re going to throw it all away—”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being like anything. I’m disappointed, that’s all.”

“Kyle, please—I’m very grateful.”

He put his hands up. “It’s fine. It is. Really. I’ll take you back to the inn on my way to the office tomorrow morning. Good?”

“Good,” I said quietly.

And with that, his head disappeared past the ceiling. Somewhere overhead, a door slammed.

The rain refused to let up. It pummeled the roof and whipped against the siding, hard enough that every time I finally got some respite and had a chance to explore my grief and try to make peace with what had happened to Mettle, another gale came and splashed the windows and jarred me back to reality.

After a few hours, I pictured the cabin floating off its foundation and drifting away on the lake like a storm-tossed ark. The towels couldn’t hold back the flood and the puddle spread toward the living room rug. Feeling weirded out and not wanting to share the same floor as Kendall, I sat on the couch, but had to keep my feet up on the coffee table to keep my socks from getting soaked.

With no Internet and not enough battery left to read, I grabbed the remote control to see what was on the television. Strangely enough, I couldn’t remember the last time I had watched a show. When I was young, my mother didn’t have a television. Robert’s wife watched her soaps all day long and never let me watch anything. Once I was in high school, I had too much homework to watch TV. And later, during the five years I lived in New York, I couldn’t afford to pay for cable. Finally, even though it might have been a selling point for my guests, I never called the cable company after inheriting the inn, figuring that in this day and age, my guests would just watch Netflix or YouTube on their phones.

Besides, I much preferred reading.

But I couldn’t risk my phone dying. I pressed the power button, but nothing happened. I shook out the batteries and pressed it again. The TV finally came to life and flooded the dark room with blue light.

Up in the corner of the screen, it said: No Signal. Connect Input.

I turned off the television, tossed the remote on the couch, and went up to my room.

Tired and depressed, I climbed into bed.

But the rain on the roof, on the window, on the walls, was relentless. I pulled the covers over my head, but could find no escape; the rain was as loud as if I were outside in a tent.

The never-ending torrent reminded me of my first night at the inn. With the tide lapping at the shore hour after hour, sleep had proven impossible. But at least in Dark Haven, there was a certain pattern to the tide. Once I had gotten used to the ebb, the slapping waves had become background noise. In fact, I had even gotten so used to them that I couldn’t sleep without them.

Even the traffic in New York was the same; after a few nights, it had become a soothing pattern in the background. But this torrential rain was different. It was as unpredictable as a noisy furnace that switched itself on and off at random intervals.

I stayed under the covers, but the longer I couldn’t sleep, the more frustration kept me awake. My head swirled with images of Mettle doing pushups—then catching fire. Of Mettle drinking his protein shake, a white mustache on his upper lip—then catching fire. Of Mettle pulling me over for speeding, lowering a pair of aviator shades—then catching fire. Of Mettle leaning into kiss me—then catching fire…

After a while, the fire spread to my hair.

I tossed and turned, tormented by the torturous torrent. I had no idea what time it was—probably early morning, for the window was still black and streaking, when I heard footsteps in the hall.

They paused outside my door.

I lowered the sheets. “Kyle?”

Then there was loud banging, loud enough to make the whole cabin shudder, loud enough to echo inside my head and rattle my brains.

It took me a full minute to figure out what was happening.

Someone was swinging a hammer at my door.

35

I sat up. “Kyle, seriously. Is that you?”

In between the banging, I caught every other word: “Closed. Dawn. Back. Rosie.”

I recognized Kendall’s voice. He sounded like one of the human characters on Sesame Street: always patronizing.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Maintenance. Go back to sleep.”

That was impossible; the banging was louder than the rain. I went to the door and tried to open it. The knob turned, but the door wouldn’t budge.

Kendall kept banging, each blow right in front of my face.

I tried the knob harder. Nothing.

“My door is stuck!”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s only temporary.”

“What?”

“Go back to sleep.”

I put all my weight into trying to push the door open, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Are you barricading me in here?”

“It’s for your own good,” he said.

I banged on the door, my fists in competition with the hammer. “Let