GENRE: YA horror
My main characters discover the detective they've suspected of being the murderer (or in league with the murderer) is not.
“Noah is the one who gave it away that you know something. You forget this is what I do for a living. I know when people are lying or holding something back . . . or when they’re fishing for information. So whatever this is, I get you think I’m somehow involved.”
“You’re not?” Noah asked. “How can we trust you?”
“I guess you can’t.” He held his hand out to Noah, what I assumed was his business card between his fingers. Noah took it and jostled his backpack to put it in the pouch. The medallion fell out, and he grabbed it before it hit the porch.
Tompkins nodded. “Well, call me when you’re ready to talk. But I’ll be watching you, make sure you stay out of trouble. You’re both involved somehow.”
I moved closer to Noah, more out of the need to assure myself he was still there than anything else. Tompkins turned and walked toward his car —— he’d parked halfway down the lane for some weird reason.
The second he came within ten feet of his car, the sound of hooves tattooed on the gravel, and the waves seemed to crash against the shore with more force. The wind whipped my hair into my face, but there was no missing the giant black horse that materialized out of the night and raced toward Tompkins. A dark shadow spurred the horse on, and I wasn’t sure who screamed louder: me, the horse, or the thing that rode it.
Noah swore and pulled me along with him. We got fifteen yards past the portico when I finally planted my feet and refused to take another step. My screeching blocked my own ears, and Tompkins drew his gun.
“No!” Noah yelled. “Run!”