Angel paced around the dilapidated barn in circles. Where was Chester? A noise. She stopped. Turned around. Saw nothing. Who was following her? Not Hank. She lost him a while back. He was beginning to annoy her. He seemed to have gotten the idea he was in control. Another noise. “Who’s there?”
Light winds blew through loose boards. Stray pieces of old straw moved lazily in the air before settling back on the floor. The smell of old hay and manure residue wafted on the breezes that found entry through rotting boards, gapped by harsh winters. Angel shivered, not from cold, but from the unease of this isolated place. The closest building was another barn, or perhaps rustic unused cabin, was at least a mile away, maybe more. Something creaked in the loft above. She raised a rifle toward the sound, squealed when a raccoon appeared in the open hatch in the ceiling.
Chester crept up behind her and grabbed the rifle from her. “A little nervous are we?”
She whirled and looked at him, making a grab for the rifle, missed. He was dressed casual, not the way she was used to seeing him. He wore no stylish hat, no debonair bow tie, no fashionable boots. Why was he looking at her...