Unmasking The Shadow Man. Debbie Herbert

      Inside, Harper strolled to the kitchen table and picked up the exterminators’ phone numbers. There were four new emails in her inbox. She supposed she’d better check them in case of pressing business in Atlanta. Sitting down, Harper opened her email, and her eyes were immediately drawn to one subject line that blared at her in all caps:

      GET OUT OF THE HOUSE

      With trembling fingers, she opened the email. No message in the body of the email, only the ominous warning from a sender: loser@life.

      HARPER WALKED BY the front door of the Baysville Police Department three times before resolutely squaring her shoulders and marching in. Behind the charming brick facade of the station, the interior was utilitarian and stark. The designer in her was aghast at the yellowed linoleum floors, cheap metal chairs and institutional-green walls of the lobby, but taxpayers were paying for a service, not a pleasing office aesthetic.

      At the counter, a bored woman handed her a clipboard. “Write down your name and reason for coming.”

      Dutifully, Harper printed her name, then paused. Reason for coming? They were going to laugh her out of the station if she wrote “disturbing email.” This had been a terrible idea. Growing up, other kids had merely looked at her strangely if she mentioned the thing she’d seen that night. Worse, she hated that look of pity as they scooted away from her. As though she was a sort of magnet for disaster. It had been high school before her friendships had returned to normal, and that was due in large part to making the cheerleading squad and becoming friends with the popular Kimber Collins. Harper had learned to fit in with her peer group, keep her mouth shut and act as if all was well in her world.

      “Never mind,” she told the city employee, handing back the clipboard.

      She blinked at her behind thick glasses. Before the woman could ask questions, Harper flashed a fake smile and turned away.

      “Excuse me, miss, are you sure about this?” the woman called out.

      The few others slouched in the lobby waiting area looked up from their cell phones. Harper ignored them, too, as she waved a hand, the phony smile still in place. She looked and felt like an utter fool. All she wanted was a quick exit and…

      Oomph. She crashed into a solid object and began tumbling backward. Hands gripped her forearm.

      “Whoa, there. You okay?”

      Dark, amused eyes flashed before her face. Bryce Fairfax.

      Harper’s face and neck heated. “Fine,” she mumbled. Maybe if she hurried, he wouldn’t recognize her. She tried to pull away, but he held fast.

      “Harper Catlett, Presley’s little sister,” he said, flashing his infamous grin that had had all the girls swooning in high school, including Presley. Truth be told, Harper had secretly crushed on him, too, although he was a good nine years older than her.

      His smile faded. “Sorry to hear about your mom. I imagine you’ve been busy with her estate and settling loose ends.”

      “Yes, thanks.”

      His grip loosened but still remained. “What brings you to my station? Is there anything I can help you with?”

      “Well, no. It’s not important.”

      Bryce tugged at her arm and guided her back into the station. She fell into step beside him, wishing like hell that she’d never come.

      “I’d do any favor for Presley’s little sister. Did you know that in high school, she used to tutor me in algebra? If it wasn’t for her, I might have failed that class. As it was, I managed to slip by with a D-minus.”

      His self-deprecating laugh eased some of her tension. Bryce was as charming as ever. He had a knack for drawing people to him, especially women. He’d kept his athletic physique, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and forehead only made him look more interesting.

      “Yes, I knew about the tutoring. Presley was so smart. Wish she’d been around when I struggled with math classes.”

      Bryce shot her a sympathetic nod. “Such a tragic accident.”

      “If it was an accident…” Harper clamped her mouth shut. No sense reminding anyone about her so-called mystery monster.

      His brows rose, but he didn’t respond as they passed through the lobby and into the bowels of the station. From here, the slamming of iron doors and loud voices emanated from the county jail connected to the back of the building. It was disquieting. Any moment, she expected an escaped convict to pop out of nowhere, looking for a hostage.

      At the end of a narrow hallway, she followed Bryce into his private office. She’d expected more from the police chief’s office, although she shouldn’t have been surprised, given the rest of the station’s decor.

      Bryce slid behind a massive desk constructed of dark-stained plywood. A simple nameplate on his desk displayed his name and title. “About what you said back there—” he clasped his hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly, all business “—are you saying that you believe Presley’s death wasn’t accidental?”

      “Not at all. I mean, I was only a child when it happened. What do I know?”

      His dark eyes pierced her, as if trying to read her mind. “I remember the rumors. You claimed to have seen something—or someone—by Presley’s body right after she fell.”

      She swallowed hard. “Like I said, I was a kid. One with a vivid imagination and who had awakened from a bad dream. A bad combination.”

      “Describe what you saw, again.”

      Harper shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the request. “It sounds so silly now. I thought I saw a stick-thin person wearing filthy rags and staring at me with huge eyes.”

      They were like the alien eyes that people drew after supposed encounters with UFO creatures, unnaturally large and black. But she didn’t elaborate on the details. Even now, the memory unnerved her. Harper rubbed the goose bumps on her arms.

      Another cop entered the room and shoved a piece of paper across the desk to Bryce. The man was tall and exuded authority in the firm set of his shoulders. He shot her a curious glance, his gray eyes quickly assessing her. She had the feeling he’d overheard some of the conversation. Probably pegged her as a wacko. A nuisance taking up the boss’s time.

      Bryce nodded at the cop. “I’ll call him back in a few minutes. Stay a moment while I finish up here. I have some questions for you on this matter. Harper, this is Officer Andrews.”

      “Hello,” she said politely.

      “Harper Catlett was born and raised here in Baysville,” Bryce told Andrews.

      The chief turned his gaze back to her. “I can assure you the case was thoroughly investigated by this office and the fire department. No signs of forced entry, no evidence of foul play.”

      Great. Now she’d insulted him. “I’m certain everyone here did an excellent job,” Harper hastened to agree. “I’ll never forget your father was the first firefighter to respond at the scene.”

      “Must have been tough on you and your mom. And now she’s passed away, too. Lots of bad memories here for you in Baysville. I imagine you’re itching to sell the old house and get back to Atlanta.”

      “You know I live in Atlanta now?”

      Bryce gave an easy chuckle. “You forget how news travels in a small town. Kimber mentioned it after your mom’s funeral.”

      “Oh. Of course.” She and Kimber had kept in close touch over the years.

      “Sorry I missed the funeral—I had to testify in a case south of here. I did make it late to visitation one night, though. Fifty-two years old. That’s way too young to die.”