As he walked around the tight space, he got a feel for the lady that was his mother. There wasn’t much in there. She was living curiously simply, almost like he was, out in the woods.

It seemed like no one had been in the cabin in a long while. Though he wanted to poke around more, he decided to take a chance on showering. He was filthy and freezing, and it wouldn’t take more than ten minutes.

Marty stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. He comforted himself with the thought that if she were to come home in the next ten minutes, he’d have to be one of the unluckiest guys alive.

Chapter Eight

Thank goodness for Margie. Claire felt ten times better. In the moments before Margie reeled her in, Claire felt like she was going to lose her mind.

Margie was right, as morbid as it was. If Becca’s son wanted to harm her, he could’ve done it already. He knew where she lived, but instead of harming her, he tried to set up a meeting. In public. He just wanted to talk.

Probably.

Perhaps tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, she could give the FBI agents a call and clear things up. She’d show them the letter, and the picture, and then they’d all have a laugh about the misunderstanding.

She opened the door to her cabin and flopped onto the couch. Enough worrying for the day; what she really needed to do was focus on the papers that Chip had given her. He’d put a lot of time into organizing those numbers for her, and she desperately wanted to understand them.

There was a chance she’d run into him that evening at the hotel, so she’d look over the figures before she left for the night.

Claire picked up the pile of papers and focused her eyes on the first page. She was lost in thought when she heard a noise.

That was odd. It sounded like it was nearby. Claire paused, lowering the papers slowly.

She sat still, listening. It sounded like it was coming from the bathroom.

Claire let out a sigh. There was a small hole near the bathroom window. She’d been warned about it before she moved in, but she didn’t think much of. It seemed too small for anything bigger than a bee to get through, yet somehow a chipmunk had gotten in last week.

It had been quite a scene. The poor little creature had run around, squeaking in terror, and Claire ran after it, in a similar panic. She’d had to open the door and chase it with a broom until it found its way out.