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simply be a one-time experience, but there’s no way I can
ignore feelings this strong. I’m involved in something whether I like it or
not.
    It’s terrifying, yes. But what’s more terrifying is that I
find the danger exciting as hell.
    I give in to a sudden urge to click the Refresh button on
the browser. The page reloads with something new, a blank white page with six
words centered across the top:
    You just broke ground. Keep digging.
    Three loud raps on the thick front door take my breath away.
I nearly drop the tablet onto the floor. I think about the gun again but first
decide to crouch and dart across the huge living room toward the large window
overlooking our palatial front yard. I glance at the clock on the TV and notice
it’s just after nine—not as late as I thought. The surprise visitor rings the
doorbell, and I take a moment to peek through the lower corner of the drawn
plantation blind
    Lewis Wilde stands on the long, white, well-lighted wooden
porch that spans the length of the front of the house, Lewis wearing stylish
dark jeans and a long-sleeve black V-neck tee, his wavy black hair looking
salon fresh. My heart rate spikes at the sight of him. There’s something about
him that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in a guy. I suppose “perfection” is
the word. What worries me most is that he seems like the type of guy I might
make regrettable decisions over. Good Lord, Mom would lecture me something
awful if she knew I was having thoughts like this over a guy. As for Dad … well,
I can’t even imagine.
    I’m just crouching here, gawking at Lewis’s improbable
beauty, when he looks my way with surprising speed and waves to me. All I can
do is roll my eyes and stand, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels when I
open the door and stand face-to-face with Mr. Supermodel.
    “Hi, Lewis,” I say, finding it easy to get lost in his
aqua-green eyes.
    “Hey, Alix.” His minty breath blends with the late-summer
smells of leaves, pine trees, and freshly mown grass. “I told myself I wouldn’t
come over here, but here I am. I would’ve texted, but I don’t have your
number.” He pauses. “Is everything okay? I mean, one second you’re listening to
me explain my research topic, and then, boom , you’re freaking out over
some stupid rumor about how Mr. Watkins died.”
    “I owe you another apology,” I say, forcing myself to look
away from him as I step onto the porch. There’s a surprising chill to the air.
I wrap my arms around my shoulders as I scan the street for any sign of
somebody watching. Satisfied, I turn and lean on the porch railing, saying to
Lewis, “I overreact sometimes. I’m sorry. It’s been a lifelong problem I’ve
never quite gotten under control. Drives my dad crazy.” I shrug and raise my
eyebrows. “I know what happened, by the way.”
    “Everybody knows now,” he says. “I can’t believe somebody
shot Mr. Watkins seven times at close range. The news said he was killed
execution style. And how they found him in one of those abandoned buildings in
Oval City …” He makes a disgusted face.
    “I’m not talking about Mr. Watkins,” I say, although I find
the new details interesting, especially the mention of Oval City. “I’m talking
about this house.” I nod toward the front door behind him. “No wonder my dad
got such a good price.”
    “You know about William, then?”
    I nod and say, “I don’t see why you didn’t just tell me.”
    He steps toward me, barely three feet separating us now. I
notice hints of muscularity beneath his tight long-sleeves that were impossible
to detect under the black Beaconsfield hoodie earlier.
    Lewis says, “I didn’t think today was the best day to tell
you somebody was murdered in your bedroom two years ago.”
    “William’s death was ruled a suicide,” I say.
    “Do you really believe that, Alix? I hope not, because it’s
a bullshit story, and deep down everybody around here knows it. The police
buried it and