The Complete Colony Series. Lisa Jackson

      God, this was horrible. Never in a million years would Becca have thought that she would be at Renee’s funeral at so early an age. But then, there were lots of things she wouldn’t have imagined. She caught a glimpse from Scott Pascal, who sat, hands clasped between his knees, his brown suit jacket pulling at the seams. He looked away and then Becca felt someone staring at her. Hard. Like a knife between her shoulder blades.

      She stiffened, half looked behind her, but at that moment the preacher asked them all to pray and Becca bent her head.

      But she was being watched. She felt those eyes digging into her. Whoever was staring so intently at her wasn’t a friend. Just before the end of the prayer she hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder and saw only a sea of bent heads before she caught McNally’s unguarded stare. He’d asked her and Hudson a ton of questions about Renee’s accident but they’d had no answers for him. Now his eyes were trained on hers and she looked quickly away, whispering a quick “amen” as the preacher closed the service.

      Becca couldn’t wait to get outside, away from the coffin, away from the heavy onus of death. But there was a gathering afterward at the grave site, and though there were fewer people in attendance, all of their friends made the trek to the hillside cemetery on the outskirts of Laurelton.

      Flanked by old-growth timber dripping in moss and knifing into the low-hanging clouds, the manicured acres of grass dotted by headstones appeared bleak and somber. More prayers were said, more condolences whispered as high heels sank into the rain-sodden loam and Tim tossed a rose onto the coffin before it was lowered into the neatly cut earth. A hundred yards away, a man sat smoking on a big yellow piece of earth-moving equipment. As soon as the crowd disbursed he would make short work of filling the hole where Renee’s coffin was resting.

      It wasn’t just close family friends at the grave site. Seated in his car, parked with a view of the graveside ceremony, Detective Sam McNally, their group’s nemesis, was just far enough away not to be part of the service, close enough to observe. Now, gazing at them through his windshield, he seemed to be talking on his cell phone. He just never gave up. Not for twenty damned years. “Obsessed,” The Third had once called him. It wasn’t far from the truth.

      And now he was here at Renee’s burial two decades later.

      The entire ceremony was disturbing.

      As the crowd dispersed, Hudson spoke to old friends of his family while Becca huddled with Tamara and The Third, both usually flamboyant and now quiet and reserved.

      “This is Jessie’s doing,” Mitch said as he approached. He was lighting one cigarette off the butt of another.

      “This is not the time, man,” The Third said.

      Mitch blew out a stream of smoke. “You all know it, you just won’t admit it.”

      “Don’t talk crazy.” Tamara shook her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

      “It’s not the end, you know. More of us are gonna get it,” Mitch predicted, glancing at the dark trees surrounding the graveyard. “How well do you know your friends?” he yelled to the group as a whole. “Somebody’s a killer!”

      “Shut up!” Tamara fished in her purse for her keys and Becca noticed that the detective had gotten out of his car and was approaching Hudson. “God, Mitch. What’s wrong with you?”

      “I know too much,” he muttered. “And none of you do.”

      Tamara retrieved the jingling keys and snapped her purse shut.

      “Tamara’s right, man, pull your shit together,” The Third said as Hudson, hair blowing in the wind, spoke to the policeman.

      “You should all watch out,” Mitch said.

      “Look, I’ve gotta run.” The Third was having none of it as he made his way to his BMW and slid inside.

      “You could be next,” Mitch called after him. “You got one of those notes, too!” The BMW roared away.

      “That’s what this is all about? Those damned nursery rhymes?” Tamara demanded. “You look like hell, Mitch. Really. Get some sleep.”

      “It’s more than that,” Mitch said. “The cop’s still hanging out, isn’t he? Mac? And he’s talking to Hudson.”

      “He’s investigating,” she said tightly. “That’s what he does.”

      He glanced over his shoulder to an area where a solitary tree stood next to the firs in the surrounding woods, then took another long drag, as if the smoke were life-giving rather than stealing. “Oh, hell, just forget it.” He left them as he headed for his Tahoe, shoulders tight.

      Tamara whispered to Becca, “I think he’s using again—mixing his prescription drugs. He had a little problem before.” She pulled her coat closer around her slim body as her eyes watched his Tahoe disappear. “He’s losing it.”

      We all are, Becca thought. Some of us just hide it better than others. She stared into the forest, her gaze following the same path that Mitch’s had only a few minutes before. The trees were shrouded in fog, ferns, and faulty shadows. For a second Becca thought she saw someone hiding in the dark, misty depths, but as the wind shifted, the mist lifting a bit, there was no one standing beside the gnarly old oak tree.

      She, like Mitch, was imagining things.

      And yet…

      Hudson walked toward them. “Ready?” he said to Becca.

      “Sure.” She managed a small smile that she didn’t feel.

      “You need a ride?” he asked Tamara, but she shook her head.

      “Got my car.” With a wave, she picked her way through the wet grass to the spot where she’d parked her Mazda.

      Becca watched her drive away from the passenger seat of Hudson’s truck. He put the pickup into gear and said, “Zeke told me McNally wants to talk to him at the station. What do you think that’s about?”

      Becca stared out the side window. “He never got a note.”

      “Must be something more,” he said wearily as he slid his truck into the slow file of vehicles driving toward town. “I’m getting to the point that I don’t even want to know.”

      Becca felt that same stabbing sensation of being watched. She glanced back toward the trees, watching their limbs flail in the stiff breeze. “I don’t, either,” she said firmly.

      The scent of betrayal, of unholy lust is in the air, teasing at my nostrils, reminding me that I must not s, reminding me that I must not fail.

      She looks my way.

      Through the haze I see the worry in her eyes; so like Jezebel’s.

      You can’t see me, Demon Bitch. I’m invisible to you, but you feel me, don’t you?

      You know I’m coming for you.

      I sense your fear.

      God will make you pay for your pact with Satan, Rebecca. I am His messenger.

      And I’m coming for you…

      “Have a seat,” Detective McNally told Zeke, indicating a chair on the opposite side of his desk.

      Zeke did as he was told, his body as taut as a bowstring. He cupped his jaw in one hand, his arms tucked in tight, a position of defense.

      Mac gave him a moment to relax and drew a long breath himself. He’d spent half the week in Tillamook County, learning all he could about the accident that had taken Renee Trudeau’s life, and half the week in Laurelton dealing with a double homicide where the only man left standing—thirty-one-year-old junkie Harold Washington—claimed the deceased man and woman with the fatal gunshot wounds had fired at him first. They were all meth users—a lovely bunch of Johnny Ray’s clientele—and it was hard to say just what had happened at the rented three-bedroom