The Girl in the Mist (Misted Pines 1)

“There’s a path. It’s—”

“I’ll find it, lovely. Go.”

She went.

I ran upstairs to put on some shoes.

Ten

Pistachio Green

The path was direct from a spot between two trees at the edge of the clearing of my yard (as it was, there was no grass, just dirt, pine needles and cones), to a spot in the clearing at the back of the Bohannan compound.

And a compound it was.

There was the green metal-roofed house that was much larger than mine (it had at least a thousand extra square feet, maybe two). There was an even bigger pole barn. Another, smaller house was tucked up into the woods on the hill beyond the main house.

They had a pier as well, and again it was bigger than mine and extended so far out into the lake, it was a trick of nature, their swell of the water going inward, that I couldn’t see it from my place. And a boathouse that housed an actual boat. A sleek speed one.

Around the space there were vehicles parked haphazardly everywhere. A new blue Shelby Mustang, two Ram trucks—they seemed matching, though one was black, and one was silver— both of those parked up by the smaller house. There was also a black GMC Yukon. And there were two muddy ATVs sitting outside the pole barn. Last, but not least in this vehicular collection, a restored, old-model, light-blue, soft top Ford Bronco.

I took all of this in at a glance, jogging across their pine needles to their back deck (also bigger than mine) to their back door.

I stood at it nary a second before it slid open.

Gratitude shone almost as brightly as the dismay and worry on Celeste’s face.

I stepped in.

They had a great room too. Though instead of the doors leading to the living room area closer to the lake, which fed into the kitchen and dining that was closer to the front door, it was all spread out so no matter where you were doing the things you did in the natural course of your day, you had a view to the lake. The living room was to the left, kitchen to the right.

However, this was not the house of three men and a teenage girl.

This was a veritable showplace.

Large chef’s kitchen.

Shag rug with such a rich, deep pile, it looked like fur and had to be a bitch to vacuum.

This sat over the gleaming wood floors and under the pistachio green velvet couch with steel nail details.

High-backed leather armchairs.

Enormous brushed-steel circular coffee table.

It looked like someone had told a designer, “Make it pretty, but not so the men will be uncomfortable.”

I could not wrap my head around the idea of Cade Bohannan resting his faded jeans-clad ass on pistachio velvet.

Nor could I imagine his sons doing it, but there they were, identical to each other, and the image of him, one watching me intently, one scowling at me magnificently.

Bohannan himself was in the kitchen, leaned into both hands splayed wide on his bar, his sunglasses gone.

He had close-set, hooded eyes, and they were not the deep blue of his sons’ and daughter’s.

They were clear gray.

He was also staring at me.

“Who the fuck is this?”

I turned my head back to the couch and the belligerent twin was clearly the one who spoke.

Okay, since I’d done what my mother’s intuition had told me to do, without thinking, and I was here—now what did I do?

But I knew.

I did what any mother would do in an uncertain, but intense situation.

I waded in…

And winged it.

“I’m Delphine,” I told who I knew was Jesse. “Your new neighbor. And you’re coming to dinner.” I turned to Bohannan. “Six o’clock. Sharp.”

He didn’t hesitate a beat.

He said, “We’ll be there.”

Eleven

Whadaya Know?

I had a dilemma.

Because, by the time I’d raced back up to my house, dashed off a grocery list for dinner and got ready to roll out, I had to stop.

Because I had been to the grocery store in Misted Pine (once), so I knew where that was.

But I also had an FBI agent looking out for me when I did.

And I was supposed to have locals taking my back when I did it again.

But they were currently busy.

I called Delgado’s team.

Elvira answered.

“I need to go to the grocery store,” I told her.

“I bet you do,” she murmured.

Her reply made one thing crystal clear: nothing got by that team.

Further indication, not that I needed it, that I’d chosen well.

“Give us ten,” she said. “We’ll call Moran.”

Then she hung up.

But I made note there was someone I could trust within the local police, and that was hard-faced Moran.

I got a text in less than ten minutes that it was all clear to roll out.

So I did.

And when I did, it was 3:45.

This was not conducive to wowing anybody with my culinary artistry, of which I had a lot, by 6:00.