The Girl in the Mist
A Misted Pines Novel
Kristen Ashley
Contents
Prologue
1. Considering
2. No Trouble
3. Foundation
4. Alice
5. Letter to the Editor
6. Nightmare
7. Doomed
8. The Toy Aisles at Target
9. Terrifying
10. Pistachio Green
11. Whadaya Know?
12. The First
13. Viking
14. Silent Treatment
15. Double D
16. Elephant
17. Dark
18. A Fan
19. Nervous
20. Fugly
21. Aromacobana
22. Jack-o’-Lanterns
23. Bigfoot
24. As I Think We’ll Be
25. Somethin’ for Nothin’
26. Just Starting Out
27. They Got More Signatures
28. Warm and Fuzzy
29. Maybe Fourteen
30. The Second Shoe
31. Black Hole Sun
32. Invisible
33. Bedlam
34. A Wife
35. Sweet and Cute and Wonderful
36. Pleasantville
37. You Pay Attention
38. Catastrophic
39. Abundance of Caution
40. Romance Novelist’s Heart
41. Hubris
42. Shine out of the Dark
43. Perfect
44. Confucius
45. Heart to Hearts
46. Like the Wind
47. Queen
48. Awake
49. Don’t Ever
50. Both My Girls
51. Red Poof
52. He Agreed with Me
53. It’s Over
54. Profile
55. Balls
56. The Picture
57. The Story
58. The Hunt
59. Not from Where I’m Standing
60. Scorecard
Epilogue
Discussion/Reflection Questions
Try More Kristen Ashley Suspense
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About the Author
Also by Kristen Ashley
The Girl in the Mist
By Kristen Ashley
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright ©2022 by Kristen Ashley
All rights reserved. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Cover Art and Interior Graphics: Pixel Mischief Design
Prologue
The Lake House
There wasn’t time to do the renovations, outside the security system (obviously), but there was a list of vetted contractors who would take care of things.
This wasn’t an issue.
I could make do.
I had a plan.
Several of them.
Comprehensive.
Down to what was in my car right then.
Stuff that I myself had been carrying into the house while the movers took care of the boxes and furniture.
No, there were other issues with that lake house.
Many of them.
Starting with why I’d had to buy it.
Yes, had to.
Okay, not had to. I could have rented something, like the others did.
But still, I had to be there instead of home.
On expert advice, which sounded a good deal like orders, we all had to take significant precautions.
We’d had years of this kind of thing, specifically me. So many years, and so much of it, we’d all become inured to it.
But when the situation required the attention of the FBI and they had been fully apprised, they were even less happy about what was going on…
Well.
Cue me leaving LA and being…
Here.
In this house.
Which brought me to the next issue.
This house.
And no, it wasn’t that the closet was a mess and needed a custom one built, because yes, I was a diva. I’d earned that distinction and was proud of it. As I was proud that I’d worked hard and put up with a lot to earn my money.
I’d come up with nothing, from nothing.
Now I had nice things.
Quite a number of them.
And I did not apologize for that.
As such, I needed a nice closet in which to put my nice things.
I digress, which happened a lot when I thought about the state of my current closet.
Back on track…
Nor was the issue with the house that the kitchen was kind of a disaster (and it was, but for the time being I could work with it).
The bathrooms weren’t great either (really not great, and I’d be seeing to those…after the closet).
It was that the last owner died there.
Yes, he was old-ish, and what took him (I was told) was natural causes.
But he’d died there.
And I was discovering that put a stamp on the place.
Still, the view.
The quiet.
The peacefulness.
The fact that the lake was huge and there were only four houses at my end of it, and two of them were seasonal rentals.
Not only did that add to the serenity of the place, it also meant the road outside my house, which dead-ended at the rental home about half a mile from me, would hold little traffic. And the traffic it held would need for me or the residents of the house down below to buzz them in the rather daunting gate, or they’d need the gate code, or they’d need the sensor attached to their windshield (like I now had).
In other words, in the current situation, all of that that was a big bonus for the house.
There was also the wooden path down to the lake that led to an expansive dock, on which I intended to put an outdoor rug and Adirondack chairs and attractive outdoor lights on the poles.
And then there was the boathouse, which was delightfully large. As such, it was also where I was going to store a beverage fridge and (way down the list) add a small kitchenette, a wee living area, a three-quarter bath, a bedroom, all of this for guests to have privacy.
Though, it must be said, it was for ease for me when I was spending time down there, and I didn’t want to walk all the way up to the house to grab a snack or a drink or use the bathroom.
Not to mention, there was the 2700 square-foot house that I’d started referring to as my Goldilocks house.
It wasn’t too small, wasn’t too big, but did have lots of character, great bones and was already pretty danged cool, even if it needed work.
I liked this house, this space so much, even when the situation was resolved, which would hopefully be soon—soon enough I didn’t need to get into massive renovations—but I couldn’t stop myself because I had this feeling, deep down, this was going to be my place.
Not like my cottage in Cornwall that I bought on a whim, because Cornwall was so gorgeous I had to have a nest there but rarely had time to get to it.
Not like my flat in
Paris, which my daughters and their friends used far more than me.
Not like my cabin in the mountains of Montana that I was certain would be the perfect sanctuary to inspire creativity, but I’d used it only once before I realized I wasn’t going to get there often enough to make it worthwhile, so I’d sold it.
No, this wasn’t like any of that.
I had the feeling I was going to die in this lake house, like the man who owned it before me.
And my feelings about almost anything were rarely ever wrong.
I just hoped when that happened, it would be like him in more than one way.
In other words, after I’d lived out my life and it was time to make room in this world for others.
The last issue about the lake house was a new issue.
It was the issue I discovered less than a second ago, after the movers had put together my bed. After I’d hauled up the pillows and linens and comforter and blankets I’d carefully packed in my car so I could make the bed in order for it to be ready to fall into it later.
This was, obviously, after I unpacked my suitcases that I’d also brought in my car. Suitcases that held exactly enough clothes, underwear and pajamas for five days (my estimate as per my comprehensive unpacking plans of when I’d be settled into the house, which gave me time to tackle the “closet”—in quotes because it did have some shelves and rails and you could walk into it, but it was still dire).
It was also after I put away the not-limited toiletries I felt I’d need at hand because there’d be FBI presence for the next few days, and I was, definitely, me.
Because I was, I had to put the face on it.
Of course, I could choose not to, but my mask was my armor, and I’d learned long ago life was a daily battle.
You didn’t face it unprepared.
The cable people were coming, and the computer people too, and the contractors would be interviewed so I could decide which one from the list I wanted to work with, and all of this needed more than my oversight, the FBI would be watching.
They’d back off when I was settled (not entirely, but they had other things to do and other people to keep safe, and if anyone knew this was going on—and as a government agency, that might eventually happen—it wouldn’t look good for them that some famous woman was getting that kind of attention when I could afford to make myself safe).
In the end, that was what would happen.
Ongoing, it would be me taking care of things.
Or at least paying for it.
To that end, I’d contracted with Joe Callahan (approved by the FBI), and he’d set up the security system for the house, with permission from the owners of the property down below, patching into the impressive (Callahan’s estimation) system that was already there.
And for continuing security, he’d recommended an outfit led by a man named Hawk Delgado (who was very approved by the FBI).
I knew Callahan was the best of the best, everyone who was anyone did.
Delgado had that same reputation, albeit not as widespread, because not everyone needed his particular skillset.
I’d met him, and as it always went for me, I’d read him.
What I read was that he was beyond impressive.
Part of that was that he listened. He understood my need for privacy, how deep that went, not only as a part of my character, but also my business.
I couldn’t have a bodyguard breathing down my neck.
He got that too and improvised.
In other words, on that score, I was good.
But I digress.
The new issue I’d noted was after I’d walked down the stairs from dealing with my bedroom.
I looked left, through the jumble of furniture and boxes, through the rear wall of windows and beyond, to the large deck at the back of the house.
And there she was.
Drifting through the late afternoon mist like the heroine from a David Lynch movie—dark-haired, willow-limbed, ethereal.
It was not because I had two grown daughters that my chest tightened, and my body listed toward the back doors with an urge to rush out and gather her to me, draw her into the house, and then spend however long it took for me to feel she was safe outside my care, hissing and spitting at anyone who came near her.
I was transfixed.
She seemed caught up in the vision of the mist rolling across the lake, mist that was encompassing her.
But then she suddenly turned, her eyes coming directly to me.
My chest burned.
She lifted a hand so slowly toward her throat that the effort seemed to pain me.
She didn’t touch her throat. Her hand kept going and turning, palm my way, at the side of her neck.
It was a peculiar wave.
I then jumped at the abrupt movement when she dropped her arm then sprung through the trees, disappearing on her way down to the house below.
The only one on the lake that was like mine now was.
Inhabited.
Awake.
And alive.
One
Considering
I stood in the upstairs room that would be my office.
It had a view to the lake.
It needed shelves.
New paint.
The desk I’d bought didn’t work. I’d need to donate it. Find something else.
This was an issue.
Three days, and my careful plan was out the window.
This was not usual for me.
I planned.
I assessed the plan.
I streamlined the plan.
I carried out the plan.
I did not, under any circumstances, deviate from the plan.
The lake house had other ideas.
A kind of fog had overtaken me, like the mist that was so often on the water (and as such, one did not have to reflect too long about why the local town was called Misted Pines).
In the zone with all of the activity, I’d managed to get much of the kitchen unpacked while the movers were there, continuing to work after they were gone.
And it must be said, since it had become a marker for my week, after the girl was there…
And then she was gone.
But meetings with four contractors (none of whom I liked), hooking up my internet, sorting my computers and televisions, Hawk Delgado and two men on his team, Mo Morrison and Axl Pantera, coming personally to do another walk-through of the place and have a “sit-down” with the FBI and their local guys who would be the first responders, and my wandering mind had led me to being off schedule.
Significantly.
The kitchen was unpacked.
And yesterday’s rejig of the schedule to fit my frame of mind (meaning I didn’t concentrate on one area until it was complete as I had planned—instead I did a rotation of unpack two boxes, move to next area, unpack two boxes, move to next area) only found me distracted. Wandering from the projects at hand to sit with my laptop on my lap, going through websites and making lists of things I wanted for the cabin.
New lighting.
Tile.
Appliances.
Deck furniture.
Bathtubs.
Or alternately, simply staring out the back windows to where the girl had been.
The less people involved, the better. In fact, I’d been taken off site while the internet and AV people were doing their work, so they wouldn’t see who lived in that house.
The contractors had signed lengthy NDAs (a wasted process, I would not be using any of them).
This wasn’t the only reason I was unpacking myself even if I could afford someone else to do it.
I’d always been that person, even after Camille begged me not to be.
When they were growing up, we had a house cleaning service that came in and did the heavy lifting once every two weeks.
Other than that…it was just us.
My girls, Fenn and Camille, made their beds (as did I), and I did our grocery shopping.
And
cooking.
And tidying (until the girls were old enough to do it).
It was just who I was.
I didn’t want to lose touch with that person. I didn’t want my daughters to be other than that person.
Unless they were very foolish, my money would mean they’d never need for anything, and they would want for very little, until the day not only they, but their children, and perhaps their children’s children, died.
I set about making them not foolish.
I had two ex-husbands, or in current vernacular, two baby daddies, who thought I was mad. It was part them being fathers, part them being men, and part them being successful men, they’d wanted to spoil our girls.
However, we had one daughter who was an air force pilot and another who was finishing a master’s in social work.
Therefore, as you could see, I was not mad.
But I couldn’t exactly be that person.
Not anymore.
Not (entirely) by my own design, I had not been hidden, low-profile, in thirty years.
I needed to be that now.
The FBI had, as they’d told me they would, backed off. Delgado and his cameras and his team and his local contacts, “Who are tight, Ms. Larue, that’s a guarantee,” were on the case.
But I had been in that house, almost constantly, for four days straight. I was for all intents and purposes shut in, if not snowed in, and I could already feel a Shining coming on.
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