Match Made In Paradise by Barbara Dunlop (black female authors TXT) 📕

her hand around her purse. It wasn’t much, but she could at least throw it at him, maybe distract him for a second, then jump out and make a run for it.

“Why did you do that?” He looked more baffled than angry now. He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, just waited for an answer.

“I’m not going in there,” she said, voice shaking as she stared at the spooky-looking house.

“Raven’s place? Why not?”

Raven’s place? Mia swallowed against a paper-dry throat. Had he just said this was Raven’s house?

“Are you afraid of mice?” Silas asked. “I think she got rid of them all last year.”

Mice? Mia fought back a bubble of hysterical laughter.

“Raven didn’t tell me you were nuts,” Silas said.

She straightened up to a proper sitting position. “I’m not.”

He stared at her as if he was trying to figure her out. Then he seemed to give up. He turned off the engine, pulled the key. “Then quit acting like you are.” He left the truck.

Mia all but quaked with relief. They’d stopped at Raven’s place, not at some secret deserted lair where Silas the serial killer brought his victims. It was her cousin’s . . . cabin?

Curious, Mia unlatched the door and stepped out of the truck. Raven lived here? Worse, Mia was going to stay here?

Like she was approaching a train wreck, she moved in for closer look.

The cabin was small, that was for sure; small and old. The wood siding was weathered to gray. The stone chimney going up a side wall didn’t look all that secure. The roof didn’t look particularly weatherproof and—Mia glanced around—it was completely isolated in the middle of a forest.

She didn’t know what kinds of animals were out here, but her imagination ran wild as she stopped to listen. Something rustled in the thick underbrush. Anything could be hiding there.

She had a choice of risking whatever had made that noise, hopping back into the truck or getting inside the cabin. The cabin was closer. Plus, Silas was in there—possible protection, all things considered. She was curious to see where Raven lived, so she made a quick dash for the cabin.

The door hinges squeaked predictably as she pushed it open. Silas turned from where he’d set down her suitcases next to a faded red brocade sofa in a tiny living room alcove with two armchairs arranged around a battered coffee table and a black woodstove.

Along a windowed wall beside her was a raw wooden countertop and a single stainless steel sink with a drain rack holding two plates and two glasses. Tea towels hung from hooks on the wall next to open shelves that held dishes and dry goods.

“You change your mind?” he asked. He didn’t look so scary anymore; a little intimidating still, but she realized she’d let her imagination run very far away. To be fair, it had been egged on by the setting. It would be easy to stage a murder mystery in a place like this.

“I need to use the restroom,” she told him.

“On your left.”

She looked to find a small white door against the entry wall. It opened to an airline-sized bathroom—coach, not first-class. There was a cracked pedestal sink beside the door, an odd-looking toilet next to the sink and across from a white tin shower stall with a plastic curtain.

She had to shimmy around the door to close it.

She sat gingerly down on the toilet then needed to hunt for toilet paper, finding it up above her on a window ledge. The roll felt slightly damp from condensation but did the job.

Then she stood and looked to flush.

There was no handle.

She looked around the back then on the wall, closing the lid, then opening it again.

She finally gave up.

On an overall humiliating day, this was the worst.

She moved to the door. “Silas?”

Nothing.

“Silas!” she called louder.

His footsteps sounded approaching the bathroom door. “You okay?”

There was nothing to do but come right out and ask. “How do you flush?”

“Foot pedal,” he said. “Down front. It’s black.”

She looked. “I see it.”

“Scoop some water from the bucket. It’s under the sink.”

She looked and found the metal bucket. Half full of water, it had a dipper hanging out the side.

“Seriously?” she muttered to herself. “Seriously?”

But it worked. She scooped some water into the bowl and stepped on the pedal; the hatch opened and all was well. At least, all was well until she tried to wash her hands.

The taps on the sink turned out to be decorative. So, she used the scoop again along with a sliver of soap on the edge of the sink. Then she dried off on a white and pink floral towel that hung above.

She came out of the bathroom feeling somewhat shell-shocked and gazed around the cabin again, wondering if she was being pranked. Did the citizens of Paradise bring all their visitors here as a joke and pretend it was where they’d be staying?

Cast iron pans dangled from hooks attached to the bare rafters. Another three metal buckets were stacked beneath the open sink. A row of white porcelain canisters lined the back of the counter, decreasing in size, and labeled flour, sugar, oatmeal and coffee.

Maybe this was a museum.

Silas came her way, and the place got smaller still. “You ready?”

She waited a moment, hoping he’d laugh and let her in on the joke.

He didn’t.

“Yes,” she said, glancing past him in lingering disbelief.

“Good. Let’s go see Raven.”

Chapter Three

Mia followed Silas past the yawning Galina loading dock, feeling dwarfed by a silent semi truck and trailer parked there. They crossed into a noisy warehouse and gave a forklift a wide berth as they wound their way among stacks of wood pallets to parallel a concrete wall.

She gazed around at the cavernous space, taking in crates and pallets, shelves and equipment. Another forklift whizzed past, startling her at how close it came. Then she flinched at a loud metallic clang in the distance, followed by some shouted instructions.

Raven appeared around the corner of a