25
NINE
The cabin in the forest had come to my attention last year after the Wicked Witch of Baldwin’s Shore catnapped Pickle. If ever there was a candidate for ketamine, it was her, but I’d have to pay an after-hours visit to the veterinarian and pick up a cow-sized dose first.
But Pickle was safely back at the craft store now, and the cabin had been abandoned once again. Rumour said the place was haunted, a rumour that I’d never admit to starting, but I had to get my kicks somehow, didn’t I?
The cabin was perfect for our purposes—completely off-grid and miles from civilisation, but the rutted driveway that led there from the main road was still passable. The cops had even pruned back some of the trees to get their own vehicles through during a recent murder investigation. Behold, our
