Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) by Stephie Smith Page A

aluminum screws to secure the plastic extensions to the downspouts, and scuttled back inside.
    I showered, picked up the house, and decided to treat myself to some reading for what was left of the night. It took me fifteen minutes to choose—so many good books and so little time—but I settled on Midnight by Dean Koontz.
    Once I started reading, I couldn’t stop. I was two-thirds of the way through a 450-page book when I noticed it was two a.m. Tomorrow was Saturday, and I had a 14-hour day of yard work hanging over my head, so I regretfully put the book aside and turned off the light.
    And then I heard it. A scratching coming from the dining room French doors.
    If I hadn’t been reading Dean Koontz, I might have shrugged it off, but not now, now that a strange, high-pitched, ululating call joined the scratching sound.
    I slid out of bed and crept to the doors. I just stood there, unable to breathe, too afraid to separate the curtains and look out for fear of coming face to face with some unknown terror. I finally got a grip on myself and inched the draperies over enough for a glimpse outside. The moon was obscured by a blanket of dark clouds; I couldn’t see a thing. I was about to drop the curtain and return to bed when a loud thump and scraping nails on the glass startled me into a scream.
    Once my heart slowed to a pace that allowed me to actually think, I recognized Little Boy. He was standing on his hind legs, pawing at the door in a hysterical manner, if cats could be called hysterical. Now that he’d seen me, he was screeching. I twisted the deadbolt and opened the door, and he shot inside. He scooted under the coffee table where he remained half-hidden, eyes dark and huge. Concerned, I flipped on the floodlights in my backyard and scanned my property as best I could. Something must have scared him.
    I finally saw it. A white van crawling along behind my property on the dirt road parallel to my fence. If the van hadn’t been white, I wouldn’t have seen it at all.
    Goose bumps rose up all over my body, always a bad sign. I didn’t get goose bumps often, so when I did, I paid attention. But what did the goose bumps mean?
    That road was used only by the county; no trespassing signs were posted along it. Come to think of it, the van looked like a county van, but why would a county worker be out there in the middle of the night? Behind the road lay thick woods more than a quarter mile wide. The county had recently carved out a narrow dirt road that ran through those woods to a secluded lake.
    It didn’t seem likely that the sound of the van’s motor had terrified the cat. It must have been something else, but I couldn’t imagine what. I continued to survey the area for a couple of minutes but after seeing nothing, I decided the mystery would have to wait.
    I hated to leave Little Boy in the house since he probably had fleas, but I didn’t have a choice. I put out bowls of dry food and water and threw some kitty litter, which I’d had the foresight to buy in case I was ever able to catch the cat, into a plastic tub. Then I fell into bed.
    *****
    I awoke to the sound of Niagara Falls. Confused, since I didn’t live anywhere near a falls, I rolled out of bed and staggered to the French doors, from where the sound seemed to emanate. Five seconds later I was wide awake.
    Forecasted rain had hit early and was falling in thick, white sheets that rippled every few seconds from the gusty winds. But that wasn’t the shock that woke me up.
    The green, plastic, accordion-like downspout extension wasn’t connected to the end of the downspout, carrying the water away from the patio, the way I’d left it. Instead, it was hanging directly from the gutter in place of the aluminum downspout, and it was only a few feet long because someone had cut it off. The force of the gushing rainwater whipped the flexible extension around like a fire hose gone amuck. Water shot out of the hanging extension in bursts and was flung first