Moose Lake Missing

Charlotte Nelson (1998-2014)

Although the grave has been dug quickly and quietly, it’s been completed expertly. The edges are military crisp. It is perfectly sized. The dirt flew into the darkness at the command of a shovel that has dug many holes such as this one, wielded by a man who has looked over many scenes exactly like this one.

The girl lays at the bottom. Moonlight drips through the canopy of trees to dapple her face. Tear tracks carve clean lines on her dirty cheeks. Duct tape covers her mouth and wraps around her tangled hair. Blood trickles from her scalp into her ear. Her hands are at her waist, taped together. She can’t move, not yet. But her terrified brown eyes follow his every action.

He works by the light of a full moon. A flashlight’s beam can be seen a long ways off, even in the deep woods. He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t speak to her. He concentrates on his shovel and his work. Chink into the pile of dirt. Swing over the hole. Dump the dirt onto the body. Chink. Swing. Dump. Chink. Swing. Dump. It’s a methodical job he can disappear into. He doesn’t have to think about the terrible thing he’s done. The terrible thing he is doing. Just Chink. Swing. Dump.

He’s glad he started at her feet. He can see the dirt moving, settling a little deeper as movement returns to her limbs. The sedative is wearing off. Her nostrils flare with panicked breathing. It’s loud out here, in the still dark. The chorus of night forest noises has retreated from their small bubble. He works faster, covering her chest quickly. Chink. Swing. Dump. Chink. Swing. Dump.

By the time she’s covered in dirt to her neck, she’s struggling, her head thrashing back and forth. But between the drug still in her system and the weight of the rich, loamy dirt, she can’t wiggle her way out. He’s disappointed she’s conscious. That wasn’t part of his plan. Anxiously, his eyes shift to the red light on the other side of the grave.

Oh well.

The girl is sobbing, struggling to breathe. He crouches, leaning on the shovel for balance. From her perspective he’s little more than a darker shadow against the dark. He watches her struggle, listens to her pleas, muffled by the tape. But it’s too late now. He’s come too far. Surely, she knows that.

He pulls a lighter from his pocket, uses it to show her his face. It’s a kindly face. It’s one of the reasons she made the mistake of trusting him earlier.

“Shhh.” He puts a dirty finger to his lips. “It’s okay. Just calm down. Take some deep breaths, okay? In… Come on, you can do it. Breathe in…” He breathes in. She breathes in. “Out…” He exhales. She exhales. “Good. Again.” He helps her slow her breathing, cooing to her like a baby.

“Good girl. Good.” He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “Now, listen. You weren’t supposed to be awake for this part, and I’m sorry that didn’t work out. So, you’ll have to make a choice. It ain’t fair of me to make it for you at this point. And really think about it, because this’ll affect how the last few minutes of your life go.”

She begins crying again, great heaping sobs. He watches her realize that living isn’t one of her options. There is no rescue. There is no changing his mind. She won’t get out of this alive.

“Shh, shh. Alright, now. Calm down. I need you to focus and look at me, alright? Look at me!” His tone is both terrifying and commanding, so different from the gentleness of just a moment ago. She turns back to him because she must. He is inevitable.

“Option one,” he says, “you close your eyes. Then I throw the rest of the dirt over you. You might get some up your nose, but at least you won’t get it in your eyes.” She renews her struggles, but he continues. “Option two, you leave your eyes open. Then I knock you over the head with this shovel. Enough to knock you out, or maybe even kill you. Then it won’t matter if you have dirt in your nose. What do you think?”

She shakes her head back and forth. She screams through the duct tape, a muffled mewl into the void. He waits for her to exhaust herself. He walks her through deep breathing again – and she obeys because she must; he is inevitable – until he’s sure she’s focused.

“Remember,” he says, knowing full well she doesn’t need the reminder. “Close your eyes and I start shoveling. Leave ‘em open, and…” He lifts the shovel.

She nods, almost imperceptibly. And then she closes her eyes for the last time.

He’s relieved; he isn’t sure his stomach could tolerate the sound of her skull crushing in like an overripe watermelon.

He lifts his shovel again. Chink into the dirt. Swing over the hole. Dump it over her face. Chink. Swing. Dump. Chink. Swing. Dump. He hears her muffled scream, just barely, only once. He pats the dirt down with his boots and his shovel until he’s satisfied. Then he moves dead leaves and sticks over the disturbed dirt, picks up his shovel and backpack. He whistles something sweet and melancholy to the night creatures as he stalks off into the dark woods.

April 2023

I roll over with a grimace. My spine is on fire. There’s no comfortable position on the hard bench, especially after six hours. But then jail cells aren’t supposed to be comfortable.

“Make some more noise over there,” snaps the prostitute on the opposite bench. Shadows hide the purple bruises under her smeared makeup.

I shoot her a withering stare with my bloodshot hazel eyes. The prostitute glances at my compact, lean five feet and snorts, “Please,” with a dismissive wave. It stings.

“Thorton?” The guard approaches, keys jangling in his hands. “Today’s your lucky day,” he says jovially, as if I hadn’t called him a fucking ogre during an overzealous personal search a few hours ago. “You’re free to go.”

“What?” He must be joking; that’s my only thought, even as the door slides open. “Wait, really?”

“Loud and stupid,” the prostitute mutters, arms crossed. “Didn’t your momma teach you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” I bite back an impolite retort about what she puts in her own mouth.

“Charges were dropped,” the guard says as I cross the barrier from criminal to freedom. He hands over a large envelope with my phone and keys inside.

I pocket my belongings, half expecting the guard to snatch them back and start laughing. Instead, he nods toward the exit, answering my unasked question. My cheeks burn.

Detective Keith Draber, one of New York City’s finest, stands in the doorway. He looks all Disappointed Dad, like he’s caught me sneaking in drunk after curfew. He stands, hands on his hips, lips pressed together in quiet disapproval. I haven’t seen him in a while, haven’t exactly been welcome around the precinct lately. He’s as disheveled as always – mussed thinning brown hair, wrinkled dress shirt, loosened tie. It’s his unofficial uniform.

Draber turns without waiting to see if I follow. I slink after him like a guilty dog.

We walk to Draber’s office in silence. It’s a tiny windowless corner hit by a tornado of paperwork. It smells of stale coffee and old pizza. Draber closes the door and sits heavily in his ergonomic leather chair. I move a stack of files from the only visitor’s chair and sit, knowing he keeps the pile there so others don’t. He folds his hands on his desk and stares at me. There are dark circles under his green eyes and a coffee stain on his shirt pocket. I wonder how long he’s been here, whether he’d gone home to hear the bad news or if Lisa, or even Lexie, had called him. Thinking of his wife and daughter, who’ve never been anything but kind, makes my stomach hurt. There was a time when I’d considered them friends.

“At least you have the decency to look ashamed,” Draber says flatly.

“Keith, I’m sorry.” My voice is stilted, insincere. “I don’t know what else to say.” I suck at apologies.

“You can start with thank you,” he snaps. “And be glad Lisa still has a soft spot for you. I was going to let you hang.”

I slump, grateful for Draber’s endlessly forgiving wife. “Thank you… I’ll call Lisa to apologize. Lexie too.”

“Don’t you dare.” He sighs and pulls his hand down his face before laying his heavy gaze on me again. “Shit, Kit. I don’t know what to do with you, I really don’t. I know things have been tough. Sam was my friend too. You think I don’t miss him? That I don’t want his murder solved as much as anyone else in this precinct?”

“Maybe that’s the problem.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Keith, to his credit, doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I believe these are yours.” He sets a soft leather case on the desk between us, S.O. engraved on the latch. Sam’s lockpicks. Sam always said my lockpicking was shit. I wish I hadn’t proved him right using his own kit. Keith really shouldn’t be returning them to me, especially under the circumstances. I take the case wordlessly and slip it inside my jacket.

Keith slaps a large file folder on his desk, and I jump. “I don’t know why you can’t let this go, or why you’re so convinced that the department – that I – am keeping secrets from you.” He sighs. I feel the hurt there. “Or why if we were, you think that entitles you to them. But I’ve stuck my neck out for you for the last time, Kit. I can’t keep watching you destroy your reputation – destroy yourself – like this. Sam would be—” He swallows the words, but it’s too late. That one strikes home, and I turn away.

“That’s everything I can give you related to Sam’s murder,” Keith continues as I slip the file into my lap and leaf through it. “Made the copies myself. I don’t know what it is you think you’ll find in there, but I hope to God it’s peace.” He jabs a finger at me. “For your sake, not mine. Because the next time you screw up, Kit? There won’t be anyone there to save you.”

He’s playing father figure right now, and I know it’s genuine. But I want Keith to know I’m serious too, that I’m not satisfied to let Sam Oliver’s murder become just another cold case. Keith doesn’t understand the stakes. How could he?

“Thank you, Keith.” I stand, holding the file against my chest like armor. “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me. And I know I’ve been a royal pain in the ass, but I won’t let Sam’s murder go. I can’t. And maybe you’re right. Maybe he would be disappointed in me—”

“Kit—”

“But at least I didn’t give up on him.” I slam the door on the way out. I can’t listen to Keith tell me all over again how it’s just not that simple. Yeah, I’m a real asshole right now. But at least I know it. And maybe I’ll make things right with Keith someday. But I can’t think about someday – Sam Oliver has no more somedays left. It’s a fact that threatens to overtake me, and I stumble through the precinct’s front doors just as the world begins to spin.

Outside the police station it smells of exhaust and week-old restaurant trash, but it’s enough to get me out of my own head. I hail a cab. I need to get my truck, which has been parked a few blocks down from the Draber residence for the last eight hours. If I’m lucky, it won’t have been towed. Or stripped.

A chime from my pocket reminds me to check my phone. I have several missed calls and a shrill voicemail from my sister:

“Cora! Breaking into a detective’s house! Have you lost your mind? I cannot believe you would rather spend a night in jail than call me. You’re lucky Detective Draber is so forgiving. He suggested you get out of town for a while, take a break. So, you’re coming to visit. Don’t bother arguing; I’ve already booked your train ticket. It isn’t as if you have anywhere else to go. Sleeping in the office, Cora, really? I cannot believe you thought you were going to keep losing your apartment to yourself. A car will meet you at the train station. Be here in time for dinner. The tail between your legs is optional.”

I can’t believe I ever made Caitlyn my emergency contact. Checking my email, I see the train ticket in my inbox. I have three hours to get my things together and make it to Penn Station. And I probably could make it if I hustle…but I’m not going to. I’ll skip the train and make the drive. I barely have enough money to cover the gas for Sam’s old Ford Bronco, but it’ll take longer. Caitlyn’s scolding can wait.

My phone chimes again, but this time it’s a text message. I smile.

PiMan: Say the word and Draber’s career is over.

Kit: Tempting…

PiMan: You okay?

Kit: I have a backache.

PiMan: Sorry it didn’t work out.

Kit: Wasn’t a total failure… I’ve got the file.

PiMan: HOW??

Kit: Later.

PiMan: #BADASS… What’s next?

Kit: Forced “vacation” in the burbs with my sister. Kill me.

PiMan: Who doesn’t find a family of six relaxing? Anything I can do to help?

Kit: I’m sending you the file – the heavily redacted, completely disorganized file. See what you can do with it. Give me an hour.

PiMan: I got you, Boo. 😉

Kit: I owe you.

PiMan: I’ll add it to your tab.

*                                       *                                  *

Fortunately, the Bronco hasn’t been towed or stripped. It probably isn’t worth the trouble, old as it is, but I long ago sold my own car to pay the rent and I need this wreck. I’m lucky it even runs, but Sam took good care of it. I drive it back to the office, a little two room rental in an old warehouse district. The building, formerly a textile factory, was converted to offices in the eighties, but after several owner turnovers and a recession, it’s barely holding together. I’ve been struggling to hold onto the lease since Sam died. I even let my own apartment go rather than say goodbye to the only place we’d ever existed together. And now I really do have to let it go. I don’t have even a quarter of the rent that’s due next week and the landlord has already given me as much slack as he’s going to.

Even dragging my feet, it only takes an hour to gather up my life. Some clothes, a few knickknacks and some books, a photo of Sam and me after I solved my first case. It all fits neatly into a few boxes and trash bags. A worn leather couch, Sam’s old desk, a shitty piece of metal, and my own, a leftover from an office that vacated a higher floor, are all that’s left in the dusty space. I toss the key onto my desk, turn out the lights, and head down to the Bronco.

As I climb in there’s a loud yowl and a hiss from the passenger seat. I start the engine and turn to Philip Marlowe, Sam’s ornery orange tabby cat, tucked inside his crate with his ass facing out. “Me too, Phil. Me too.”

I pull up outside my sister’s mini-mansion in Augusta around eight that evening. The all white, marble monstrosity may sit only twelve feet from its neighbor, but it’s beautiful, and has both a pool and a tennis court out back. I visit a few times a year to play the good aunt and sometimes watch the girls – Daisy, Delaney, Dawn, and Debra – when Mr. and Mrs. Doctor Chip Phillips are out of town. But every time I arrive, no matter how nice Caitlyn is, or how happy my nieces are to see me, every time I lay eyes on this house, I’m filled with poorly veiled resentment.

At twenty-six, Caitlyn is three years younger than me. Yet at last count, she’s ahead of me in marriage (“six glorious years”), children (four girls between the ages of three months and five years), and status – she’s married to a successful family doctor who also happens to be kind, charming, and charitable. Caitlyn also runs her own mommy health blog, raking in almost as much money as her husband. Oh, and she’s a terrific stay-at-home mom. Everything in her life has gone perfectly according to her vision-board.

I, on the other hand, barely survived high school or college. Aimless after graduating, I joined a temp agency before being placed in Sam Oliver’s office. The private eye had been looking for someone to help him with paperwork and appointments – and a female voice to answer his phone and ward off any women who hadn’t gotten the one-night stand message. What he found in me was not just a secretary, but a friend and confidant, a woman adept at helping him track down people and information, and who didn’t mind that he sometimes needed the kind of minding after a wife might do. Falling in love with a man of questionable morals who was twice my age, and my boss, had not been part of my plan any more than finding him murdered in the street two years ago had been. Or letting my life and career circle the drain afterward.

Caitlyn appears on the porch, baby Debra drooling on her hip. My sister’s sharp features, so like our mother’s, are only made more severe in the shadow of the porch. She lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me.

Phil growls in his carrier.

“Don’t you start, Phil.” I sigh and cut the ignition.

*                                       *                                  *

Caitlyn waits three days to get down to it. I’d begun to hope it wouldn’t happen, that she’d just stay out of my business. I just want to be Auntie Cora and spoil the girls with attention, surrendering to their tea parties and living room theater. I want it to feel like a vacation, even if we both know it’s one I had little choice in, the kind meant to keep me from being arrested by the detective whose house I’d burgled, intent on stealing unreleased police files related to the unsolved murder of my boss.

I should have known better.

The day is warm. When the girls wake up from their naps, all high-pitched squeals and pure energy, Caitlyn and I take them to the park to climb on the jungle gym and chase each other around. We make small talk while the girls play, artfully avoiding any conversation landmines. Afterward, we get ice cream. Chip leaves his practice early to meet us. Chip and Caitlyn both go for dairy free, sugar free, tasteless sherbet. The girls and I choose sundaes with extra chocolate sauce. Once all of us are properly stuffed, Chip corrals the girls into his SUV for the ride home, and I hop into the passenger side of Caitlyn’s otherwise empty, infuriatingly clean minivan, completely unaware she’s carefully orchestrated this moment.

“So,” Caitlyn says, eyes on the road. “This is how it’s going to be?”

“What?” Full of ice cream and stretching like a warm cat in the sun, I miss Caitlyn’s tone.

“This is what you want for your life?” Caitlyn presses, this time the sarcasm unmistakable. “Failed private detective, now one with a record?”

“The charges were dropped!”

Caitlyn continues as if I haven’t spoken, “Jobless, penniless, and living out of a piece-of-shit truck with someone else’s cat?”

“Um, ouch?” I sit up straighter, suddenly very interested in the tightness and position of my seatbelt.

“Seriously, Cora, what are you doing with your life? You’re about to be thirty years old. You have no career, no social life… For Pete’s sake, you’re in love with a dead man and your best friend is a criminal you know only as PiMan, whom you have never actually met—”

“He’s an information consultant!” That’s what I always say, but Caitlyn’s right. PiMan is a master of the dark web and finding information that no one should have access to. He’s a private eye’s best resource, but also, a total criminal. Naturally, we’ve never met in person. But in communicating daily, first for Sam’s cases, and then my own, our client relationship evolved into an important friendship. The anonymity takes the pressure off and PiMan is very easy to talk to.

“And,” Caitlyn continues, “you’ve spent the last two years running yourself ragged, ruining your own reputation, trying to solve the murder of a man whom himself was a criminal.”

Caitlyn’s words slice deep. My limbs go cold. “You didn’t know him,” I say quietly. Sam may have broken a few laws, but he was one of the good guys.

“I know enough,” Caitlyn snaps. “He was twice your age and your boss, Cora. He took advantage of you.”

“Don’t mom me, Caitlyn,” I snap back. “You always do this! I’m a fucking adult!”

“Are you?”

We’re parked in the driveway now. Chip is in the front yard watching the girls spin off the sugar high with a beer in his hand. Two glasses of wine are waiting for us on the porch railing.

Softly, in a tone of pity I can’t stand, Caitlyn says, “Look, hard times require hard truths, Cora. As much as you loved Sam, you know as well as I do that it’s the life he chose, and the people he did business with, that got him killed. And thank God, it hasn’t gotten you killed too… But this life you’re living right now? The way you’re treating yourself?” She shakes her head sadly, exactly like Mom used to do, then pierces me with her astute brown eyes. “What would your Sam think about that?”

I stare out the window so Caitlyn can’t see my tears. “And what exactly do you suggest?” I wipe my face with a sleeve before turning back to her. “You obviously have a plan.”

“Look, I’m not trying to be a bitch,” Caitlyn insists. “And despite what you think, I don’t have all the answers. Just some of them.” She smiles, shrugs. “I don’t know what you should do with your life, Cora, but I know it isn’t this. I think it would be good for you to stay out of the city a bit, and as much as the girls would love for you to move in here, we’d murder each other.”

“So?”

“So… I think you should go stay with Dad for a while.”

“Dad?” My insides fill with ice.

“Yes. Go home. Try to find yourself. And while you’re at it, take care of him. I know neither of you are willing to admit he needs help, but he does. He won’t ask, and you’re in the perfect position to offer it.”

“M-Moose Lake, Caitlyn?” My throat is so tight that I can barely get the words out. “I can’t.”

“Come on, Cora. Why not?”

“I can’t, Caitlyn. You know I can’t.”

“Give me one good reason, Cora. Just one.” It’s a challenge. She knows I won’t bite. “Let’s be honest. You were lost long before Sam died. You’ve been lost for ten years. Now you find yourself in a position with no real options. What else are you going to do? You can’t avoid Moose Lake forever. And anyway, it solves all of our problems.”

“Our problems?”

“Yes,” she replies primly. “Dad will have someone to look after him and take him to his treatment appointments. You’ll have somewhere to stay while you figure out what’s next for you. And…” Caitlyn reaches into her Louis Vuitton limited edition something or other and pulls out a check. “You’ll have some money to get you to the other side of this.” I balk so hard at the five thousand dollars she’s just handed me that I strain a muscle in my neck.

“You can’t pay me to take care of Dad!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Dad.”

“Fine, don’t think of it as payment. Think of it as…a gift. To get you through the summer.”

“A loan,” I correct. “I will pay you back.”

“Sure you will.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you too.”

*                                       *                                  *

The house is heavy with the kind of silence that only comes after midnight. I’m huddled under a blanket in a corner of Caitlyn’s plush basement, as far from everyone as I can get. My phone is pressed to my ear while I nurse one more glass of wine before sneaking to bed.

“Hello?”

“Why are you whispering?” PiMan asks, his voice disguised, as usual. Don’t think anonymous Dateline interviews, think Scream’s Ghostface.

“I don’t know,” I say, closer to normal volume. “Seems appropriate for the hour.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Obviously.” I’m not sure I would’ve had the courage to talk otherwise. We mostly converse via text, but tonight I need something more substantial than a cat meme.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, continuing the conversation we began over text before he called. “Doesn’t your sister understand what she’s asking you to do? Has she forgotten what happened to you?”

I stare across the basement to the stairwell. I’ve left the hall light on and all I see across the vast space is a rectangle of light. The image stirs my gut uncomfortably. “I never told her… I never told anyone.”

“Wait…no one? But…” He’s fitting the pieces together, realizing he’s the only one who knows about that night ten years ago. He’s long enough replying that I worry we disconnected. “Shit, Kit. Why does everyone else think you’ve stayed away so long?”

I shrug in the darkness. “We just don’t talk about it. I mean, sure, everyone asked. They asked a lot. But I just… I couldn’t. Eventually they stopped asking.”

He sighs. “This is a bad idea, Kit. A real bad idea. I know this is your dad, but it’s also your trauma… I wish you could say no without being an asshole.”

I snort. “Me too.”

“What’s your plan? Time doesn’t heal all wounds, even if it’s been ten years.”

I take a big gulp of wine, stare at that rectangle of light. “I dealt with my fear a long time ago.” And that’s true – if ‘dealt with’ means ‘completely avoided.’

“It’s not your fear I’m worried about.”

“And what are you worried about?” Too playful. Too much wine.

“Just… promise me you’ll call if you need to talk.”

I think again about what Caitlyn said, about how I don’t really know PiMan. Maybe I don’t know what he looks like or where he lives. What I do know is that he cares, and he never makes me feel guilty. He doesn’t judge me or tell me what I should do. He just listens. Talking to him feels…safe.

“Kit?”

“I promise.”

May 2023

Moose Lake lies in northwest Maine, about an hour west of Mount Katahdin, and four hours north of Augusta, where I was raised. It’s home away from home, the place where my family spent the most time together, where all our good memories were made. The year-round population is tiny, but the titular lake (shaped like one sad antler, not a moose) and surrounding forest draw summer tourists, and its surrounding hills call to skiers in the winter. While beautiful, it’s a paltry offering when compared to the rest of Maine, prompting Mom’s literary agent to call it “charming” in a tone that implied the opposite.

My personal relationship with Moose Lake is complicated. I’ve never stopped loving it or the memories I have there. But I’ve created a lot of reasons to stay away, to avoid facing what happened that last summer. When I told PiMan that I’d handled my fear, that was a half-truth. What I’ve done besides completely avoid Moose Lake, is take steps to make sure I’m never again a victim: I go to the gym, I run, I take a self-defense refresher course every year, and I carry pepper spray and a switchblade.

But there is still fear, a fear I don’t know how to name or understand. For the moment it remains a nebulous blob at the back of my brain. As a distraction, I’ve picked a different anxiety to dwell on: Mom.

Leslie Knight was a creative, independent spirit. Fierce. She was also a crime novelist. She wasn’t a household name, but it was Mom’s earnings that made our family comfortable enough to afford the cabin at the lake. Mom grew up in Bangor, but she had vacationed in Moose Lake with her parents every summer as a girl. She loved the small-town feel, and even set several of her novels there. A lakeside cabin had been one of her dreams, so we spent every weekend, school vacation, and summer in Moose Lake. Mom would work on her writing in the morning and then take Caitlyn and me swimming or hiking or skiing in the afternoons. Dad joined us when he could, when his job as an FBI agent didn’t keep him away. Dad especially loved father-daughter trips when Mom was on book tours. He enjoyed the calm and peace he found in Moose Lake. He liked fishing in a canoe all day, reading by the fire in the evenings or having a beer at the tavern. He’d tried to interest his girls in fishing too, but I hadn’t the patience for it and Caitlyn hadn’t the stomach.

The time I spent in Moose Lake with my family is an anchor in my childhood. I have deep roots there. Things were good then, when Caitlyn and I were younger, and the memories there tie me to my mother in a way other memories don’t. Despite that, I was reminded early on that as different as things were in Moose Lake, they were also the same.

Like Mom, Caitlyn is a social butterfly. She commanded her own social clique wherever she went. The boys of Moose Lake constantly dreamt of her return. But like Dad, I was a bit of a loner and had a hard time making friends. As we got older, and the differences between Caitlyn and I became more pronounced, I was lonely, especially in Moose Lake. Mom and Caitlyn would spend hours together, talking about boys and nonsense or getting their nails done, sunbathing. I would spend my time alone, reading a book or watching TV, unless Dad was there. The two of us could sit in companionable silence while reading, sometimes talking. No topic was off limits when I talked with Dad, and that would be enough for me to feel seen. But he was also a busy man and spent most of his time working, even when he was with us. But I eventually found my people, as they say.

Mom died of breast cancer five years ago. Robert, Bob to his friends, worked as an FBI agent until he aged out, and then became a profiler. When Mom got sick, he rolled back into a consulting position so he could be there for her, but it happened so fast. When she died, he officially retired, sold the house in Augusta, and moved full time to the cabin in Moose Lake. I know Dad enjoys the slower pace, but I also know it’s as much about being close to Mom as it is about anything else. Mom was happiest there, so where else would Dad be? But for me, it’s just another reason I’ve created to stay away.

I pull into a small gas station and market just over the town line in the late afternoon. Betty’s has been in this little forest clearing for ages, long enough that the original Betty is long gone. It’s changed ownership several times over the years, but the name is a staple in Moose Lake.

Phillip Marlowe senses the change in momentum. He looks at me with baleful green eyes through his carrier’s door and makes a baritone mew. I know what this means. I look to the half-open passenger window, which I was only able to lower with sheer force of will thanks to a broken lever.

“I swear, Phil, if I open this door and you bolt… The litter box is there.” I point to the passenger footwell, but Phil’s gaze doesn’t follow. I reach out and open the crate. Phil immediately plops down into the box of sand.

I hop out of the car to fill up the tank. The Bronco is a real gas guzzler and I’ve stopped a few times. Each time I pull out my debit card, I think of Caitlyn and wonder how I’ll ever pay her back. Because I have to pay her back.

I screw the gas cap back on and open the driver’s side door. I’m anxious to get to the house, which is just a few minutes away now. But just as I’m about to sit, I catch Phil’s white-tipped tail disappearing through the passenger window.

“Phil you asshole!” I run around the other side of the truck just in time to see Phil’s orange backside sneak into Betty’s on the heels of customer.

I race across the parking lot and stop just outside the shop’s door. I take a second to collect myself. The windows by the door are papered with local events and flyers, so I can’t see inside. God, I hope I don’t see anyone I know. I take a deep breath and open the door.

It’s warm and stuffy inside but smells pleasantly of freshly baked sweets. A long counter to my left stretches to the back of the store. The cash register, currently unmanned, sits on the end and a fan lazily stirs the air. The rest of the surface is taken up by a bait counter and a homemade ice cream display. Because nothing goes together like worms and frozen sugar.

My eyes dart to the floor but finding Phil right here licking his fur would be too easy. I slip to the right, heading down an aisle of auto supplies. I slink by the twelve packs and forties in the refrigerated cases at the back, eyes searching each aisle, all empty.

I emerge from the last aisle, facing racks of freshly made bread and pastries. Two employees stand in front of the racks, talking with the man who’d unwittingly let Phil inside. He’s currently raving about the shoofly pie.

“Well, you snuck up on us, didn’t you?” a plump woman says when she spots me. She’s got a few inches on me. She’s older, in her late sixties I’d guess, with curly bottle-blonde hair held back by a padded purple headband. She’s wearing a green apron with Betty’s embroidered across the front. A pin on the strap reads MARY, OWNER.

The men turn to me expectantly, but I’m frozen. When I don’t reply, Mary steps forward with a pitying look. “Can I help you, hun? Are you lost?”

“Um…” I cannot tell them I’m searching the store for my cat. It sounds ridiculous in my head, and it’ll be worse out loud. Before I can reply, I catch movement on the rack behind them. Phil is three shelves up, face buried in a banana cream pie.

Mary starts to follow my eyes. “NO! Um, no, sorry. I’m not lost. Just…passing through.”

“Wait…Kit Thorton? Is that you?”

It’s the other employee, also in a green apron. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome: just over six feet with shaggy dark brown hair and chestnut eyes hardly diminished by his wire-rimmed glasses. Even with the neatly trimmed beard, I don’t need to read his name tag; it’s pretty hard to forget the face of the guy you gave your virginity to and then ghosted for ten years.

“Um, yeah… Hey, Simon.” I’m trying to sound casual, but I am not casual. If anything, he’s more handsome than I remember, because of course. I take mental stock of my appearance. My long brown hair is in a messy bun, fly-aways all over the place. I haven’t bothered with makeup in a long time. I’m wearing a loose T-shirt with a sweaty back, and an unflattering pair of old jeans. I could kill Caitlyn right now.

“Thorton?” Mary asks, eyes lighting up. “Any relation to Bob Thorton?”

“Well sure,” the customer says. “She’s her father’s daughter, ain’t she? Looks just like him.”

“Oh! Here to visit your father then?” Mary twists a curl around her finger, her blue eyes lighting up. “You can’t just be passing though without stopping to see him?”

“Um, just passing through here, um Betty’s, you know, on my way to the house.” Trying to carry on this conversation while furtively eyeing Phil and thinking of a way out of this mess, and all in front of Simon, is mental torture.

“Going to be in town a while, then?” Simon’s tone is nonchalant, but I can feel his eyes boring into me.

“Yeah, a bit.” I look in Simon’s general direction but refuse to make eye contact, afraid that if I do my legs will turn to jelly.

“Well, surely you can’t be going over there empty handed!” Mary turns toward the bakery racks. “Everyone is just raving about my fresh shoofly pie—”

I lurch forward and grab her arm to stop her, but it’s too late. Mary sees Phil, perched on another shelf, nibbling his way through an apple pie, and screams.

“What is that animal doing in here?”

Phil turns toward the noise, licking his chops. With a slow blink he returns to the pie.

Mary reaches behind the counter, pulling out a small pellet gun. “Out! Out you scoundrel!” She aims it at clueless Phil, but before she can pull the trigger, I knock the gun out of her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t shoot my cat!”

“Your cat? Well, your cat is eating my pies!”

We struggle, Mary trying to retrieve the gun, me trying to stop her. The scuffle spooks Phil. He lowers his ears with a hiss and hops down, knocking another pie onto the floor. It lands upside down. The customer lurches for Phil, but slips on the pie and ends up grabbing his tail. Phil rears back and bites him. The man wails and lets go. Phil takes off, Simon running after him. Eventually I manage to kick the gun under some shelves, and we finally stop struggling, but the angry yelling continues.

Before it’s over, I’m cursing Caitlyn for ever convincing me to return to Moose Lake. In town ten minutes and it’s already a disaster.

Eventually I return to the Bronco with a satisfied Phil, three ruined pies, and a lighter wallet. When I pull into the driveway, Dad is lounging in a hammock on the wraparound porch with a book. Bluesy jazz drifts through the open windows. Lily, his fluffy white cat, pours herself out of his lap as he stands.

Dad tosses his book into the hammock and meets me at the door. I climb the steps with Phil’s crate in one hand and the ruined pies in the other. Lily winds her way around Dad’s legs, leaving long white hairs behind.

“Kitten!” he says with a bright smile nearly hidden by his neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard. “And without Kaboodle?”

Dad has called me Kitten since I was a toddler. It was one of the first words I learned to say. I liked to say it a lot apparently, and everyone began calling me Kitten. Over time it was shortened to Kit. When Caitlyn came along, Dad took to calling us Kit and Kaboodle because, like all dads, he thinks he’s hilarious. But Caitlyn never took to the nickname. In fact, she detests it, so now it’s like a little joke between us.

“Ooh, I see you’ve been by Betty’s.” Dad reaches for the pies, but noticing their ruination he leans down to look at Phil. “Well, it appears you’ve had your way with these already.”

“Yep, making friends already.”

“Missing any hair? Mary doesn’t let animals into the shop, not even dogs.”

“Fortunately, we avoided that, but not without a struggle.”

Dad raises an eyebrow, but I say nothing. He pulls me close, pies and all, wrapping me in a tight hug and I tuck my head under his chin.

“Missed you.”

“Well, I missed you too.” Dad’s voice vibrates against my ear, deep and melodic. This is the voice that read to me at bedtime. It’s soothing in a way nothing else can match, and I let the stress from Betty’s melt away.

“Heyo!” A man appears from the copse of trees dividing our yard from the neighbor’s. He’s five or six years older than me, average height. His gray-sprinkled light brown hair hangs to his shoulders, and even though I haven’t seen him in ten years, he’s easy to recognize. The last time I saw Ethan Harrington, he’d been on leave from the army before heading back to the Middle East. He was always clean shaven and bright eyed back then, an obvious patriot. The Ethan that approaches now is a grizzled version of the handsome and idealistic young man I remember. He’s a few days late shaving, and I’d guess a few years from his last buzzcut. He walks with a slight limp, and although he’s not what I would call military fit anymore, there’s still strength there.

“Afternoon, Bob.” Ethan nods toward Dad and then turns his weary brown eyes on me. His face breaks into a grin, dim when compared to the smile from my memory. “Kit Thorton, I thought that was you. Been a long time.”

I smile back, remembering my childhood crush. “Hi, Ethan.” My voice is an octave higher than it should be. I blush furiously. “How’ve you been?”

I feel the weight of Ethan’s sigh. His eyes, briefly brightened by his smile, darken. “Well, not so great. I was actually hoping to speak with The Agent.” He turns to Dad with an awkward grimace, as if he’s stepping over some invisible boundary.

The Agent. It makes me smirk, the idea that Dad is still seen as the FBI agent, as the profiler, even though he’s retired. He’s Bob most of the time, but when someone comes calling for help – and they always do – he’s The Agent.

“The Agent, huh?” Even though I can read the trouble in his face, his body language, it’s hard to take Ethan seriously. What on earth could he need Dad’s advice about? But Dad just nods, unsurprised. “Let’s go inside.” He takes Philip Marlow’s carrier from me and leads the way.

The front door opens onto the clean space of the main floor. The kitchen and dining area are at the back, and the living area stretches along the front. Mom filled the first floor with plush sofas, chairs, and area rugs. The walls and side tables are decorated with lake-themed antiques. Mom loved holding book launch parties here, and for a moment my memory surges with the sounds of clinking glasses, murmuring voices, and soft music. Caitlyn and I used to sit out on the porch, peering through one of the large picture windows. We’d pretend we were looking in on a hotel lobby and make up stories about the guests for our own amusement.

Dad points Ethan to the left, where a recliner, couch, and loveseat sit in the front corner. They’re arranged around the television and a heavy wooden chest used as a coffee table. Ethan chooses the couch and places a folder I hadn’t noticed before next to him.

I follow Dad into the kitchen and put the ruined pies in the fridge. Dad opens Phil’s carrier. Phil immediately chases Lily, who’d been following at Dad’s heels, up the spiral staircase in the back corner.

“What’s Ethan Harrington want with you?” I whisper.

“I imagine he’s here to talk about his sister,” Dad replies, keeping his voice low as he takes three beers from the fridge.

“His sister?” I search my memory and come up with a little girl, six or seven, climbing the trees between our yards. Curly, white-blonde hair, denim blue eyes behind thick glasses. She was all arms and legs then, tall for her age. “Oh, um, what was her name? Danielle?”

“Donna,” he corrects, pulling three mugs from the freezer.

“Donna, right. She’s what, sixteen or seventeen now?”

“Something like that,” he replies, giving nothing away as he pours the beers into frosty mugs.

“Well? What about her?”

“Well,” Dad says, handing me a mug and taking the other two, “For starters, she’s probably dead.”

*                                       *                                  *

Dad and I sit on the loveseat across from Ethan. Dad leans back, relaxed. He stretches an arm behind me, his beer mug balanced on his knee with his other hand. I’m leaning forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. I try to emote polite concern, something Sam taught me. People naturally want to tell you more when you look sympathetic, something that isn’t natural for me.

Now that Ethan’s inside he seems hesitant. He’s obviously distraught. He’d taken the beer gratefully and nearly drained it in one gulp. Wiping foam from his lips with a shirt sleeve, he sets the empty mug on a coaster before meeting our gazes. “I guess you wouldn’t know, Kit, but my sister’s been missing for six months.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Working with Sam taught me a lot about what a family goes through when a loved one is missing. The uncertainty alone is enough to drive you mad. And when a case drags on, and the months stretch out, and the investigation stalls… The world moves on. But the family doesn’t. Without answers, they can’t. How familiar.

Ethan shifts to Dad. “I’ve been hesitant to ask for your help, Bob. I know you’re retired, but I’m frustrated as hell. There’s been no new information and Sheriff Tatum’s made it clear he believes Donna took off.” He looks away, pressing his lips together. He’s holding back. The Tatums are a local dynasty around Moose Lake. Someone in their line has been sheriff for seventy years, but that doesn’t mean they’re particularly effective. Or smart. Most of the crime around Moose Lake is benign: bored teenagers knocking over mailboxes or shoplifting, occasionally a search and rescue for a lost boater or skier. Their record for solving cases of missing teens is…well, less than stellar.

“You don’t?” I ask when Dad doesn’t respond. I eye him in my peripheral, trying to understand his silence.

“Fuck no!” Ethan balks at his own language. “Sorry, sir.” Dad shrugs. He’s heard it all before. “No, I don’t think she ran away. I mean, it’s no secret she wanted out of Moose Lake, I won’t deny that. She has big dreams, wants to be a singer, country music if you can believe that.” As Ethan leans forward, I take note that he’s using the present tense as he talks about his sister. “But she has a whole plan laid out. Been working on it since she was little.” He reaches for the folder and pulls a worn spiral notebook from it and slides it across the coffee table. Dad glances at it with a raised eyebrow without reaching for it, so I pick it up. The front cover is soft from wear. It’s been decorated with Sharpie doodles of microphones and music notes and reads “Donna’s plan for getting the fuck outta dodge!” I hold it so we can both look it over as I flip the pages.

The handwriting inside is the bubbly cursive only teenaged girls use, with little hearts dotting the i’s. It is indeed a very organized plan, detailing how Donna planned to reach her goal: money saving plans with a shocking amount of real math, how to make connections through social media, the cost of voice and guitar lessons, skills she needed to work on, notes on other country music stars who’ve made it big and what they have in common. She even listed the pros and cons of using her saved money for college first or heading straight for Nashville. Donna would make Caitlyn an excellent protégé. This doesn’t strike me as the plan of a frivolous, spontaneous teenaged girl, but…

“This is a solid plan, but we’re talking about a teenager here, Ethan,” I say, trying to sound diplomatic rather than disbelieving. “Teenagers, by nature, are notoriously fickle. How can you be sure she didn’t run away?”

Ethan eyes me, like he’s not sure why I’m weighing in while The Agent remains silent. “You don’t know her. Donna is mature for her age, always has been.” He looks away, eyes tearing up. He takes a deep breath to compose himself. “She knows what she wants, and she’s determined to get it. She has, like you said, a solid plan. And I’ve watched her actually follow it, make smart decisions despite…everything.” There’s something hidden there, and I file that away for later. “And look, I’m not dumb enough to think she’d never take off and leave me in the dust. We live in the same house, but we aren’t close. The age gap, and after I left the service, well… Anyway. I work twelve-hour shifts at the paper mill and between her friends, her boyfriend, and her job at the movie theater, we hardly see each other. I just don’t think she’d leave like this.”

Dad finally breaks his silence. “I assume someone looked into Donna leaving town on her own?”

Ethan nods. “Her car’s still in the driveway. She bought it and took care of it with her own money. It doesn’t make sense that she’d leave it behind, and there’s nothing to show she got a ticket – plane, bus, or train. No surveillance showing her buying a ticket with cash. And it’s not like she caught an Uber, not around here. There was some money missing from her bank account.”

“How much?” Dad and I ask in unison. He gives me a subtle wink.

“Couple thousand,” Ethan says and points to the folder. “I’ve got copies of her bank records in here.”

“Did the Sheriff look the car over?” Dad asks.

“Briefly.” Ethan sneers. “He didn’t see anything suspicious.”

“But you do.”

“Hell yes! No one’s found her keys or her purse, for one. And her phone’s missing,” he replies. “But there’s other stuff she would’ve taken with her if she weren’t coming back – including that notebook. And her sunglasses; they weren’t only expensive and prescription, but she wore them everywhere. Thought they made her look the part, or whatever. They’re still in the car. Her makeup kit’s in there too. That girl doesn’t leave her room without her face on. All her clothes are still here, near as I can tell… I just don’t see that she’d have run off unprepared like that. Not Donna.”

The room falls quiet. I’m intrigued. I wonder why Dad’s acting like he isn’t, like he thinks Donna did run away. I already know she didn’t, and I think he does too. Ethan shifts uncomfortably, briefly glancing at his mug, no doubt wishing there was still beer in it.

“All I’m asking, sir, is for you to take a look at my file here.” Ethan looks back to the folder like he’s disappointed it’s so thin. “Maybe nothing strikes you, but then again, maybe something does. And I can pay you for your time. Not much, but—”

Dad holds up his hand, “I’m not going to take your money, Ethan.” Ethan visibly deflates just before Dad swerves. “Did I ever tell you Kit is a private detective?”

“No…” Ethan glances at me and then back to Dad. My cheeks flush. Ethan came to get help from The Agent, and instead he’s being pawned off on someone with less rank than a traffic cop. I take a long pull on my own mug.

“Why not have her take a look at it for you?” Dad suggests.

Ethan doesn’t respond right away. I can’t tell whether he’s seriously considering hiring me or trying to figure out how to politely say no.

“I’m sick, Ethan,” Dad says nonchalantly, and I freeze. Dad and I are close, and we talk all the time, but neither of us talks about his recent diagnosis. If we don’t talk about it, then we don’t have to mutually acknowledge his mortality.

Ethan sighs deeply. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. The big C?”

Dad nods. “I start treatment next week and I’m afraid I’m not going to be at my best. I may be well enough to help you, but I also may not be. I’d hate to make a promise I can’t keep. Let Kit take a look at it for you, and I’ll of course offer help when I’m able.”

Ethan’s silent long enough that I’m expecting a gracious thanks but no thanks. So I’m surprised when he looks at me and says, “Well, that would be fine with me if…?”

I hope I’m not still blushing. “I’d be happy to do it, Ethan.” I put a bright smile on, as if we aren’t talking about his probably dead sister. “Give us a few days and we’ll see what we can do.” Then I pick up my mug and drain it. “Another beer?”

“Dad!”

“Kitten!” His smile is smug and annoying. I still love it.

“What’s wrong with you?” I sink onto the couch Ethan just vacated. “I’m small potatoes! You’re a thirty-year veteran of the FBI! I have nothing to offer Ethan.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he replies from his preferred recliner. “You’re my daughter, after all. You like a good mystery as much as I do, and you just love pulling that string, don’t you?” I nod begrudgingly. “You have good intuition, Kit. You know how to dig for information. You’re observant. You just need better experience.” Like Caitlyn, Dad was never a fan of Sam. While he encouraged me to explore investigative work, he always wished I’d gone a more traditional route, perhaps joined a respected agency, rather than work for a ladies’ man twice my age who liked to skirt the law.

“It’s about more than experience, Dad. I know Ethan. The stakes here… And I’ve been completely floundering since…since…” I can’t finish the sentence, so I plow right over it. “Compared with the things you know, the things you’ve seen… How can I be any help to Ethan?”

“You won’t know until you try, Kit. Besides, it’ll be good for you to have something to focus on.”

“Oh, right, because it isn’t as if I have anything else to do.” His gaze slides coolly away before I can grab it with my own.

“Yes, your sister called ahead to make it clear your help is non-negotiable.”

Non-negotiable. It’s such a Caitlyn thing to say. “I prefer to think of it as a chauffeuring gig,” I say lightly, like it’s no big deal. “I’ll make sure you get to your appointments on time and don’t have to worry about driving home.” There’s more to it than that, much more. We both know it. Neither of us mentions it.

“Fine.” Dad looks through the window at the old Bronco. “But you’re not getting me into that thing. We’ll use the Volvo.”

“Agreed.” It’ll be nice to drive something with a little get up and go to it anyway.

“Alright, that’s settled. Now.” He punctuates his sentence by flipping his legs up in the recliner. “What are you making us for dinner?”

*                                       *                                  *

Despite being retired, Dad’s held onto his early to bed, early to rise schedule. By nine PM, lasagna has been made, eaten, and leftovers put away. Dad’s in bed, either reading or already asleep; I am not tucking him in, Caitlyn.

Dad’s bedroom is at the back of the house. Just below his large picture window, sliding glass doors lead from the kitchen onto the back porch. I’ve bypassed the four rocking chairs under the awning for a clearing several yards away. I’m sitting in an Adirondack chair, one of four arranged around a cold fire pit. The house, finished with cedar shingles all around, blends into the trees. My North Star is a bright porchlight at the sliding doors. Sitting with my back to the house, I can just see the edge of the lake and our private dock between the trees. I can’t see them, but there will be a canoe tied to one side and a skiff with a motor on the other.

A content Philip Marlowe sits in my lap, listening to the sounds of the gathering night. His bulk keeps me warm against the evening chill, and from the memory trying to claw its way out from under the rock I buried it under. The cicadas are loud tonight, like they were that night ten years ago. But Phil’s purr is louder, somehow absorbing my thumping heart. I need a distraction.

Ethan’s folder sits on the stump-turned-table next to me. Beside it is a tumbler with two fingerfuls of whiskey in it. I’d taken one small sip and set it aside. I don’t love whiskey, but it’s not really about drinking it. It helps me conjure Sam as I analyze the information Ethan gave me and ponder my first move. I ask myself, what would Sam do? When Sam started a new case, we would usually sit down together and establish the known facts. He always insisted on a whiskey; said it helped him think.

Before I can assess any facts, I need to look over what Ethan gave me. In addition to Donna’s notebook, Ethan’s file contains the initial missing person’s report he filed two days after she was last seen, copies of interviews conducted by both the police and Ethan during the investigation, copies of her cell phone and banking records going back a year, and a summary by Sheriff Tatum indicating he believed Donna had run off. It’s, unsurprisingly, some of the laziest investigating I’ve seen. Ethan was busy doing the job of the police and worried brother. After looking everything over, I know the following:

·       Donna, a fun-loving but driven teenager, disappeared suddenly six months ago. She owned her own car, but she didn’t take it with her. Nor did she take public transportation, and it’s highly unlikely she would have hitchhiked, an opinion shared by her friends who were interviewed. She was too cautious.

·       Her last bank transaction was a two-thousand-dollar withdrawal the day she disappeared. That’s not enough to disappear somewhere and start a new life. It’s hardly enough for a month’s rent anywhere. And she’d had plenty more to take with her if she’d really run away, thousands more. Girl knew how to save – or she had another source of income I need to check out. Nothing’s been touched since that last withdrawal.

·       Copies of her cell phone records show it hasn’t been used since she disappeared, and she hasn’t updated any of her social media accounts. Interviews with her friends confirm she was glued to her phone and maintained several social media accounts with religious regularity.

·       Donna was last seen at a party where she had a loud argument with her boyfriend, Christian Lewis. The argument is detailed in several witness statements. Although some details vary, the gist is that the couple broke up (again). Donna, possibly drunk depending on the interviewee, got in her car and drove off. Her car being in the driveway next door points to her making it home before her disappearance. Either someone picked her up after she got home…or someone else put her car in her driveway. Ethan reported her missing two days later, after a call from her boss at the theater.

·       Donna had a plan to achieve her dreams. She had been following this plan since age nine, according to her notebook. And although Donna had calculated three different dates for leaving town based on circumstances, the earliest date was after she graduated. A high school diploma was essential to her plan. She’d need one to get into college if she went that route, or it would help her find a job in Nashville to pay the bills until she could find steady work as a singer. Her adherence to her plan was also documented in the interviews. Deviating from her plan suggests a sudden and unexpected event.

All these facts just confirm what Dad first told me: Donna is probably dead. She’s deviating from a plan, an obsession really, years in the making. She hasn’t accessed any of her savings since she was last seen. She hasn’t updated social media or reached out to friends. Ominous signs, all. But how can I use this information to help Ethan? I make some notes on pad of paper:

·       Talk to that hick Sheriff Tatum. Play nice because you’ll probably need him later. Unlikely, but see if he knows something that isn’t in the files that makes him so sure Donna ran away.

·       A girl like Donna has a diary—find it.

·       Track down Christian Lewis – He and Donna had been dating on and off for a year when she disappeared. Why didn’t Ethan mention him? Why wasn’t he interviewed?

·       Martha Morgan’s interview is starred, and Ethan has made additional notes, indicating he’s spoken to her several times. Is Martha Donna’s best friend? Follow up with her—intuition says she didn’t tell her best friend’s big brother everything.

·       Thanks to Donna’s notebook, I have usernames and passwords for her social media accounts. I need to get a look at her posts near her disappearance, and get an idea what her history is like, what her state of mind was – PiMan?

·       I have zero confidence that the Sheriff’s department actually did a good sweep for surveillance around the time Donna disappeared. Definitely get in touch with PiMan.

Phil interrupts my thoughts with a mew and a twitch of his tail, tired of nature’s nighttime offerings. He hops down and does a deep full body stretch that belies his age. Stretching out my sore back, I look up to the sky and marvel at how many stars you can see out here. I shiver; it’s nearly midnight, and without Phil’s warm weight the chill raises goosebumps. The sunset sounds of crickets and cicadas are long gone. The night is silent, save for the quiet lapping of the water at the shore. It’s after I notice the sheer silence that the uneasy feeling rises in my gut. That I suddenly feel very, very alone.

Phil’s hiss makes my skin prickle. He’s staring into the trees, body at full attention. When the hiss stops, I hear a growl deep in his belly. I’m sure it’s nothing, an animal or something, but that doesn’t slow my heartbeat. It doesn’t stop the familiar sweetly clean smell from leaving my imagination and filling my nostrils, making my throat constrict.

I don’t need encouragement to head inside. I snap up the file and my notes in one hand and lift Phil, stiff and heavy as a lead weight, under my other arm.

“God, Phil. We’ve got to get you on a diet.” I latch onto the feel of him, the coarseness of his fur, the stiffness of his back. Anything to keep me focused on the light at the back door and not the sense of someone slipping up behind me, ready to muffle my scream with a calloused hand.

It’s only after I’m on the porch that I remember the whiskey in Dad’s nice glass. I shouldn’t leave it outside.

Phil growls again, still staring into the woods. There’s rustling in the trees, the snap of a twig. I can’t be sure, but it sounds pretty damn close to where I’d been sitting, and it’s damn well larger than a ground animal. The glass will have to wait.

The smell hits me first. A contradictory harshness combined with something sickly sweet. Dangerous yet pleasant. It doesn’t match the loamy summer forest on either side of me.

Behind me, the road disappears into an abyss. Ahead, I walk my bike into the cone of light created by the flashlight tied to my handlebars. The night’s stillness swallows my footsteps.  

I pause to check the time. It’s late. Much too late to be out. To be alone.

A breath caresses my hair. I startle, swinging around—but nothing’s there. Just the dirt road disappearing into the dark. I start walking again, faster this time. I’m almost home. Almost.

A twig snaps in the woods to my right. I barely stifle a scream. An animal surely. Surely.

Suddenly there are footsteps behind me, moving too fast. An arm snakes around my waist like a vise. A hand clamps over my mouth as a cloying chemical smell overwhelms me. I instinctively bite down, teeth catching damp cloth instead of flesh. A voice in my ear, hardly a whisper.

“Shhh, now. Shh. It’ll be over soon.”

Too quickly, my limbs are all pins and needles. A cold darkness envelops me.

I jolt awake in an unfamiliar bed. There’s a moment of panic before I remember where I am.

The bedroom Caitlyn and I shared at the lake house comes into focus. This room, now used by Caitlyn’s daughters, is across from Dad’s bedroom and next to a guest room. Two twin beds with plaid comforters sit opposite the door, nightstands below a small window in between, and two small closets across from the end of each bed. The doors are smaller than normal. Caitlyn and I used to call them troll doors, which was all fun and games during the day but scared the shit out of us in the dark. Two large picture windows at the far end of the narrow room overlook the driveway. Below them is the only real difference from when I was a kid: a pull-out couch to accommodate Caitlyn’s large brood.

Pale sunlight filters down from the skylight at the center of the room. It’s after dawn, but probably not by much. Philip Marlowe is curled up on Caitlyn’s bed. He blinks slowly at me before going back to sleep. I’d do the same, but the scent of coffee draws me from the lingering sweaty fear of my nightmare.

Dad is up and dressed. He sits at the kitchen table in a short-sleeved button-up shirt and jeans, reading The New York Times, a copy of The Washington Examiner awaiting its turn beside his oatmeal bowl and a glass of iced tea.

“Who’s the coffee for?” I ask, heading directly for it.

“Well, it certainly isn’t for me.” Dad has never been a coffee drinker, but Mom was. I swear her blood was half dark roast. I wonder if he brews it to remind him of her, like me and Sam’s glass of whiskey – which I just remember I left outside. I’m about to retrieve it when I see it in the sink.

“Sorry about the glass,” I murmur, pouring a cup of coffee and flavoring it liberally with cream and sugar.

Dad sets the paper down to focus on his oatmeal. Lily pops her head up in his lap and gives the oatmeal a look that says it has offended her before plopping down to eat her own breakfast. “I just don’t see why you’d bring it all the way back to the house and then leave it outside the door.”

“What? I didn’t—” The nightmare makes last night feel like days ago, but I clearly remember leaving the glass by the firepit, and the pang of guilt when I was too afraid to go back for it because I’d heard something— some one?— in the woods.

“Didn’t what?” Dad’s giving me a penetrating look. It’s the same look he’d give us as kids, looking for our lies. What is he looking for now? The fear from that night ten years ago? The fear I’d never shared with my family, not even The Agent? Especially not The Agent.

“Nevermind,” I mutter. “My hands were full with Phil and Ethan’s file.” I nod to the file on the kitchen table. Clearly, Dad’s been into it. “So, what do you think?” I take a big gulp of hot coffee and hope Dad takes the hint.

He smirks. “You tell me.”

I summarize my notes from last night, even though I know he’s already read them.

“So, what’s your first order of business then?” he asks when I’ve finished.

“Well, I’ll reach out to PiMan today. I want to get started on Donna’s social media. If she really uses it as much as Ethan said, then there’ll be clues there that I’m sure the Sheriff didn’t bother to consider. PiMan can get the information together a lot faster than I can.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dad says, revealing nothing, but I know his opinion of PiMan isn’t much higher than that of Sam. Dad’s an FBI man, and like Caitlyn said, PiMan is a criminal. But Dad also knows PiMan is sometimes a necessary evil, and my friend, so he keeps these thoughts to himself.

“And then I guess I’ll have to head over and see Sherrif Tatum, let him know I’m poking around and hope he’ll talk to me.” I groan and put my head on the table.

Dad snorts. “Oh, I bet it won’t be so bad.” When I look up, he’s wearing a suspicious smile I can’t read. Before I can ask what it’s about, he asks, “So, when will you be ready?”

I take a large gulp to finish off my coffee, scalding my throat and making my eyes water. “Ready for what?”

Dad sighs, still smirking. He slides a giant white binder across the table to me. The binder was given to him by the hospital. It’s broken down into different sections for his treatment. It’s full of definitions of procedures and risk assessments and side effects and forms, forms, forms. It also includes a list of all his upcoming appointments, and of hospital contacts and doctors. He’d shown it to me at dinner last night and explained that he had to have it with him for all his appointments, and since Caitlyn named me his caregiver, I’m in charge of the binder. I was also supposed to look through it last night, but I got carried away with Ethan’s file and completely forgot about it.

“Um…”

“I gather you didn’t look at it then,” Dad says as he gets up. “We have an appointment today, and we need to be on the road in fifteen minutes.”

“Today?!” I thought your treatment started next week!”

“It does,” he says, “but today is bloodwork and the central line, ah, installation. And you have training.”

“Training?!”

“I guess I’m driving,” Dad says, putting his bowl in the sink, “since you’ll be reading.” Then he heads to his recliner with his newspapers. “Better get ready!”

Whining like a child, I get up and rinse my coffee mug in the sink. I put it in the dishwasher with dad’s bowl, the whiskey glass, and…another coffee mug. With a ring of lipstick on the edge.

*                                       *                                  *

“Of course Dad has a girlfriend, Cora.” I can hear Caitlyn’s eyes rolling through the phone.

“What do you mean of course?” I’m shouting. “How long have they been dating?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Cora.”

My eyes narrow, as if I can pierce her with them from here. She’s holding back. “You know. You totally know!”

“Fine,” she huffs. “About six months.”

“Six months! Wasn’t anyone going to tell me?”

“Frankly, Cora, we weren’t sure you could handle it.”

“What? Why? I can handle it. Totally. I can handle it.”

“Is this you handling it?”

“Well, is it serious? Are they in love? Oh my god, are they having sex?”

“Gross, Cora.”

“Oh my god, they are!”

“Enough.” Caitlyn switches topics with finality. “How did Dad’s appointment go? And your training?”

Dad and I spent three hours at the hospital. It would have been less had I not passed out at the sight of Dad’s very, very red blood flowing from the thin tube in his chest. I spent the next twenty minutes with my head between my knees, sipping ginger ale through a straw. Obviously, Caitlyn doesn’t need to know that.

“Fine,” I say, grumpy. “They did bloodwork. Dad had the central line put in for his treatment. I sat with a nurse who showed me how to give Dad his medication and keep it clean and all that junk. Then his doctor came in and went over a bunch of stuff.”

“Junk? A bunch of stuff?”

“Well, yeah. It was a lot, okay? I can’t remember it all. Don’t worry – I took notes.” And I did – a lot of notes. Cancer treatment is a detailed business.

“Well what stuff did Doctor K go over?” She doesn’t try to pronounce the doctor’s name, which I can appreciate. It’s like 20 letters long and 18 of them are consonants.

“I don’t know, Caitlyn. You know, you could be the one here doing this.”

“Don’t get testy, Cora. Just send me your notes.”

“Fine.” Caitlyn has access to the hospital patient portal, and she can look up the doctor’s notes on Dad’s appointment just as easily as she can see Dad’s bloodwork results, but she won’t stop until she has all available information, so I don’t argue. To be honest, it takes some of the pressure off me because I know she’ll go over everything with a fine-tooth comb, and then make Chip do the same. But she doesn’t have to be such a pain in the ass about it.

Suddenly there’s screaming in the background. Caitlyn sighs. “I have to go. Try not to pass out at the next appointment,” she says before hanging up.

I can’t believe Dad already told her. Traitor.

Caitlyn hangs up on me just as I’m pulling into the parking lot for Moose Lake Police Station. I’d left Dad to take a nap while I dealt with Sherrif Tatum, but now I wish I’d brought him along.

Tatum is a disgusting, sexist pig. He has a remarkable ability to show up anywhere girls might be in their bathing suits or otherwise scantily clad. He makes lewd comments about any woman he sees, both flattering and not-so-flattering, and loudly. Rumors say during the school year he sits in his cruiser watching the girls during outdoor P.E. He also likes to patrol the local make-out spots, yanking horny teens from their cars and asking them embarrassing questions, to see how long it takes for them to blush or cry. So I hear, anyway. I didn’t spend a lot of time making out, but ever popular and not always so strait-laced Caitlyn told me stories. Picturing myself trying to talk to Tatum about a missing person’s case that he’s written off as a runaway, and having him take me seriously not only as a woman, but a young one at that, and a PI? I don’t see it going particularly well. If Dad were with me, Tatum would at least pretend to respect me.

But I’m a big girl now, Caitlyn. I’ll put my big girl panties on.

I hop out of the truck and head up the steps of the low brick building. Inside the lobby a receptionist sits behind bullet proof glass. On either side of him are two locked doors with small, reinforced windows near the top. One leads to a couple of jail cells, the other to cubicles and offices. A sad row of broken, cracked chairs sits along one wall, next to an equally sad magazine rack full of outdated, crumpled Family Circles and Newsweeks.

“May I help you?” A tinny, flat voice emits from the speaker in the glass. “Oh. Hi. Cora ‘Kit’ Thorton.”

I’m surprised the receptionist knows me by name. When I approach, I realize why. Jake Jacobsen would have been my classmate if I had gone to school in Moose Lake. I remember him as a string-bean of a kid, with ebony skin and vacant brown eyes. He’s autistic, and crazy intelligent with savant-like skills, but he struggled with social cues and interactions. I remember several times as a kid, watching others bully him or take advantage of him. More than once, Caitlyn or I took up for him. It wasn’t until Jake took a position at the police station when he turned fifteen that it finally ended; well, it ended the bullying from kids. There were a few policemen who didn’t treat Jake much better than his classmates had, including Sheriff Tatum. People mocked Jake because they could, because he didn’t always know when he was being made fun of or taken advantage of. I’m not surprised that he remembers me even though it’s been ten years; he remembers everything.

“Hi, Jake,” I say brightly as he mimics my smile.

“How may I be of assistance?” His voice is a deeper monotone than I remember, but the tone of boredom, or perhaps annoyance, is pure Jake.

“I’d like to speak with Sheriff Tatum,” I explain, remembering that Jake works best with directness. “Is he available?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t. I was just hoping to have a few minutes of his time.”

Jake sighs heavily. “The sheriff isn’t going to like that. He doesn’t like interruptions. I will call him and see if he is willing to modify his schedule. May I tell him what this is in reference to?”

“Donna Harrington.”

Jake sighs again, reaching for the phone. “Gee, he really isn’t going to like that.”

I take a seat in one of the busted-up chairs along the wall, contemplating Jake’s comment. I had a strange feeling when I’d seen how thin Ethan’s file was, and the look on his face when he talked about the investigation. Jake’s comment is almost confirmation of what I’ve been thinking: the sheriff’s office is hiding something. But what? And why?

“He says he will be right out,” Jake says a moment later. “But he is lying. He isn’t here.”

“Oh? Where is he?”

“Would you like the real answer, or the one he likes me to tell people?”

“How about both?” Sometimes people think of Jake as a machine or a talking parrot, capable of only rote repetition and therefore stupid. But he’s smarter than some are willing to give him credit for. For example, he follows his own set of rules, but he’ll break them if he likes you. I guess he still likes me.

“He wants me to tell you he’s on an important phone call,” Jake responds, eyes aimed in my general direction. “But he’s really at Moose Lake Inn with a special friend.” There’s an emphasis on ‘special friend’ that I’m sure he’s heard the local gossips use. “Based on how long he’s usually with his special friend, I estimate you’ll be waiting forty-two minutes.”

“Thanks, Jake. I’ll wait.” I’d rather get this meeting over with, even if I have to wait all day.

He sighs again. “Okay.”

I check my phone; no messages from Dad or Caitlyn, so I use the time I’m waiting to bring PiMan up to speed. I feel less guilty asking for his help since some of Caitlyn’s check went toward my tab.

More than an hour later, the door to the cubicles opens and a man with black hair, eyebrows like fat, bushy caterpillars, and a thick moustache calls my name. He makes a show of looking around the small lobby, even though I’m the only one here.

“That’s me.” I stand and shake his hand, hiding my disappointment at being pawned off on some subordinate.

Anderson, his nametag informs me, has a firm handshake and rough, calloused hands. He’s maybe ten years older than me and up close I see gray sneaking into his hair. He looks vaguely familiar, which I assume means he’s been working for the police department for more than ten years.

“Sean Anderson,” he says, holding the door open for me. “Thanks, JJ,” he calls over his shoulder.

“It’s Jake Jacobsen, sir,” he calls back as the door shuts, but Anderson isn’t listening. He leads me into a small interview room at the back of the cubicle farm. He closes the door behind us as I take a seat at the metal table.

“I know you were expecting Sheriff Tatum,” Anderson begins in a warm tone of apology as he sits across from me, “but I’m afraid he’s stuck on an important call. I’m happy to speak to you and relay your concerns to him. What brings you in today?”

“Thank you so much.” Tatum is obviously using Anderson to give me the brush off. At least I don’t have to deal with the sexist pig himself, and I can say I did my due diligence. “I’m actually here for a client.”

“Client?”

I push a business card across the table. “I’m a private investigator.”

Anderson’s eyes slide over my card. He doesn’t pick it up. “You’re a long way from home, Miss Thorton.” I can tell by the way he says my name that he knows exactly whose daughter I am.

“Please, call me Kit. I kinda grew up around here. I’m in town helping Dad out for a while.” Anderson regards me with his cool blue eyes. “I was asked to look into the Donna Harrington case by her brother, Ethan – we’re neighbors.”

“I see.” Anderson’s voice is suddenly icy, devoid of the false cheer I felt in his greeting. Something shifts behind his eyes. I don’t like the way he looks at me now, sizing me up for…what?

“I understand you’ve already concluded the investigation and believe Donna ran away, but as I’m sure you know, Ethan doesn’t support that conclusion. I came down as a courtesy since I’ll be following up on your investigation to try to give Ethan a resolution.” I choose my words carefully, trying to strike a balance between polite and you-know-how-families-are, but also letting him know I’m serious, a professional, not just some kid playing at detective.

“Following up?” Anderson arches a fat eyebrow.

“Can you tell me why the investigation concluded Donna ran off?” I try to keep my tone friendly.

Anderson isn’t impressed. “I’m sure, since you’re a private detective, you know I can’t speak about an ongoing investigation.”

“Ongoing?” I raise my eyebrows, feigning surprise. We both know there’s nothing ongoing about it, and that he’s sitting here trying to gaslight me proves it.

“Until Donna Harrington is located, it’s still an open case.”

“Is it?” I slide Ethan’s folder from my bag and take out the written statement from Sherrif Tatum. “It says right here… Let’s see…” I pretend to be searching for the right place in the statement, but I’ve already memorized it. “Yes, right here. It says Sheriff Tatum ‘believes we have exhausted all leads in this case’ and that there is a ‘total lack of evidence to support a crime took place.’ It is ‘well-known’ that Miss Harrington planned to leave Moose Lake, and ‘it seems clear Miss Harrington modified her plans and decided to leave Moose Lake earlier than her initial intent.’ And ‘in light of the above, we are suspending the investigation into Miss Harrington’s disappearance until such time as evidence of a crime is brought forth.’” I look up, mock confusion on my face. “Does that sound like an open investigation to you, Deputy Anderson?”

“Undersheriff,” Anderson corrects. “May I ask how you came by this statement, Miss Thorton?”

“It’s Kit. And Ethan gave it to me, along with the other investigative paperwork on the case.” I lift the file and drop it on the table, to show Anderson how thin it is, that I know – and I do – they didn’t give Ethan everything. Then I soften my tone, trying to find a balance between I’m-serious and but-not-a-jerk. “Ethan obviously has a lot of problems with the investigation. I want to assure you that I’m not here to create problems for Sherriff Tatum. I’m just helping a friend find closure.”

“Right, well, I appreciate you coming down as a courtesy, Miss Thorton,” Anderson says, standing and leaving my card on the table. “If you’ve got our reports, then I’m afraid you have all the information that’s available to you.” He opens the door to the little room, stands beside it with a smarmy smile. “I’ll be sure to tell Sheriff Tatum you stopped by.”

I don’t get up right away, trying to decide whether to push him or not, but Anderson seems immovable, and he wasn’t who I really wanted to talk to anyway. “Thanks, deputy – sorry, undersheriff.” I slide past him and head back to the lobby. I feel Anderson watching me go. I remember how Jake said Sheriff Tatum wouldn’t be happy to discuss Donna’s case, and now his right-hand man is uncooperative to say the least. I need to figure out what they’re hiding. And why.

*                                       *                                  *

Jake stares intently at his computer screen as I swing through the door. He speaks without looking up. “Did you enjoy your conversation with Undersheriff Anderson, Kit Thorton?”

I lean on the counter in front of Jake’s window. “You know Jake, not really.” I think about how good his memory is and how long he’s worked here. “Hey Jake, can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” he sighs. “But proceed.”

“Why doesn’t anyone want to talk about Donna Harrington?”

“Can you please be more specific?”

“Why doesn’t the sheriff or his undersheriff want to talk about Donna Harrington’s case?”

“Undersheriff Anderson doesn’t talk about Donna Harrington’s case because Sheriff Tatum told him not to discuss it with anyone,” Jake says in his monotone, looking at my ear instead of my face. “He also told me not to talk about it.”

“And why would he do that?” An unofficial gag order is nothing unusual. If too many details about an investigation come out, it could tip off a suspect or cause unwanted publicity. But this feels like something else.

“Only Sheriff Tatum can answer that.”

“If you had to guess?”

Jake clucks his tongue. “I don’t make guesses.”

“Come on, Jake. Call it an educated guess.”

“Fine,” Jake sighs, “but I make this educated guess under duress.”

“So noted.” I lean as close to the glass as I can without leaving a greasy forehead print. Although I don’t know why; Jake only has one volume – loud.

“Sheriff Tatum and Donna Harrington had what some have referred to as a suspicious relationship.”

“Suspicious how?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Jake replies. “Mother says it’s none of my business. Just like his special friend.”

“Did you know Donna?”

“Yes. She came by sometimes to see Sheriff Tatum.”

“Was Donna one of the sheriff’s special friends?”

Jake giggles and blushes. “No! He’s too old for her!” Jake’s innocence is both refreshing and heartbreaking.

“Any idea why Donna came to visit him?”

“No.”

“Jake, can you do me a favor?”

“I can. But I don’t know if I will.”

“Keep your ears and your eyes open for me.”

“My ears and eyes are always open.” Suddenly I’m remembering how much energy a conversation with Jake can take.

“Just… If you hear anything about Donna or the investigation, would you mind letting me know?” I slip my business card through the slot at the bottom of the window. “My number is on the card.”

“I’m neither blind nor deaf,” Jake replies, “so of course I will see and hear. I will tell you if I hear or see anything that fits your description.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

“You’re welcome, Cora ‘Kit’ Thorton.”

I’m just stepping off the curb outside when the sheriff’s jeep peels into the parking lot. It lurches to a stop in the reserved spot just in front of the steps, the bumper almost cracking my kneecaps. When the sheriff climbs out, I’m dumbstruck. This is not the sexist old man I expected. Instead, I realize with horror, the sheriff is Tristan Tatum – the former sheriff’s son. And now Dad’s smirk this morning makes so much sense.

Tristan Tatum wears a crisp Sheriff’s uniform, a direct contradiction to his baggy, wrinkled, full of holes style from way back when. The shaggy blond mop of his youth is replaced by a short buzz cut. He’s just over six feet tall and is, especially in the uniform, model gorgeous – one thing that hasn’t changed. He’s the kind of gorgeous that everyone falls for: men, women, children. Even Caitlyn once upon a time, despite him being six years older than her. It’s unfortunate that he’s also a horse’s ass.

Tristan was the typical rebel child, throwing parties, chasing after girls, acting the big man all the time. Like he was somebody in this tiny little town. And I guess he was. But whenever dear ol’ dad, Sheriff Boone Tatum, showed up, he turned into a whiny little tantrum-thrower. More than once, I saw the sheriff hold up a fist and Tristan shrink back, from the fist and his father’s mocking laughter. I always figured that had a lot to do with why he partied so hard and why he was such a dick. But Tristian never got in trouble, not officially. No drunk tank for the sheriff’s son. A lot of kids thought that was awesome, thought Tristan could get away with whatever he wanted. But I wasn’t fooled. Unofficial punishments were worse than the official ones when it came to Boone Tatum; it wasn’t unusual to see Tristan sporting bruises or cigarette burns. And it hadn’t helped that Tristan was, more or less, stupid, with no real path to leaving Moose Lake, or his dad, behind.

Tristan sets his aviator sunglasses on his head, revealing grey eyes that I once thought were so beautiful – well, I guess I still do. He throws me a twinkling smile that would melt anyone else, but not me. I still remember the wolfish look he once gave Caitlyn, like she was prey, and he was starving. Like father, like son, I guess.

“Well look at you,” he says, approaching. And he does look at me, eyes moving up and down, but not like he wants to eat me. More like I’m some kind of oddity, a relic outside of its museum. He leans back against the hood of the jeep, the picture of calm and relaxed, as if he hasn’t spent the last two hours shirking his duties with his special friend. “Kit Thorton, all grown up.”

“And look at you,” I reply, arms crossed. “All cleaned up. Apparently.”

“One day in town and already kicking up trouble.” He crosses his arms, mimicking me, and showing off his gym-sculpted biceps, watching for my admiring glance. I’d never give him the satisfaction. “First you cause a ruckus at Betty’s with, of all things, a cat, and now you’re down here wasting the police force’s precious time.”

“Who, me? I’m just asking a few questions for an old friend who’s worried about his sister.”

“An old friend.” He says it slowly, like he’s tasting it, deciding if it’s true or false.

“Sure. You know Ethan Harrington, don’t you?”

A flash of anger in those handsome eyes, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. Tristan always had a temper that lit like a match but then smoldered, like a coal, until something came along and put it out. Like someone else’s fist. And now I remember he once picked a fight with Ethan, right after he returned from boot camp. There was a drunken brawl in the woods, all us stupid kids standing around and chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” I don’t remember what it was about, but I do remember Ethan kicked Tristan’s ass. I wonder if that long ago fight matters now. If their disagreement somehow followed them all these years later. If that has a role to play in brushing off Donna’s disappearance or Ethan’s problems with the investigation. Or if there’s something more, something worthy of all this petty small-town bullshit.

Tristan straightens, grinds his teeth. “You’ve been gone a long time, Kit.”

“I have.”

“Coming back here, stirring up old shit,” he says pushing off the jeep and invading my space with his delicious, musky scent, “isn’t a good idea.”

I step back, refusing to give in to whatever spell he’s trying to cast over me. “So far, the only people who seem to have a problem with it are you and your lapdog in there. Why is that?”

“You don’t know anything about what’s been going on around here.” He tries hard to keep the smile on his face, but it’s tight, lips sticking to his teeth. “Why don’t you just leave this one to the big boys.” There’s the condescension I’d been expecting from Boone.

“All I’m trying to do is help Ethan get some closure.”

“Closure,” Tristan snaps, eyes rolling. “He’s got all the closure he’s going to get. If he’s still pissed off, then he ought to just take it up with that little—”

“That little what, Tristan?”

“Donna ran away with her shit boyfriend,” he snaps, pushing past me. “And it’s time Ethan just accepted it and moved on like the rest of us.”

His dismissal of me, his unsaid insult about Donna, pisses me off. I take a step after him before I can stop myself. “Is it so easy for you to dismiss them, Tristan?”

“Dismiss who?” he barks over his shoulder.

“All those missing girls.” Tristan turns around with a look so cold I almost shiver, but I won’t be intimidated. “You know the ones I mean. All those runaways from when we were kids. When your dad still ran this little fiefdom of his. Tell me, how many more have there been since I’ve been gone? How many runaways before Donna?”

Tristan looms over me. “A small thing like you ought to be more careful what she says around here, Kit. She might find herself getting… hurt.” His expression…there’s a knowing in it. A knowing that makes my blood run cold, that slithers under my skin and gets my hackles up. That fills my nostrils with a sweetness that isn’t in the air.

“That’s rich coming from Daddy’s little boy,” I clap back, biting down the fear suddenly trying to claw its way out. “All grown up, but still under his thumb. Still just a little boy playing with Daddy’s toys.” I jut my chin at his badge.

Tristan’s whole body flinches, like he’s going to slap me with one of his beefy hands. I barely have time to register it before his eyes snap to something behind me. He takes a step back, plastering a smile over his anger. “Pleasure talking to you, Kit. I’ll be seeing you.” He stares at me a moment longer, just long enough to turn my insides to ice. Then he turns and heads into the building.

I stare after Tristan, wondering what just happened, what he’s hiding. But beneath all that is a more dangerous question. How could he know?

I’m too unnerved to go straight home. I need to think. I take a drive, heading north on Main Street, which runs along the east side of the lake, past the public beaches. Just after Moose Lake Tavern, the only bar in town, the road splits. Main Street becomes Moose Lake Circle, carrying you around the other side of the lake and reconnecting with Main Street on the south end, while the other fork heads out of town toward the mountains.

Leafy green trees line both sides of Moose Lake Circle. In some places the road hugs the shore, in others the trees block it out completely. I pass the first boat ramp at the northeast fork of the three “antlers” that make up the lake. The road meanders up and down hills and around lazy curves. I pass the entrance for Moose Lake Inn, nearly hidden by overgrowth and actually a good distance from the shore. I pass by the middle antler of the lake that reaches the furthest north before my heart starts thudding uncomfortably. I’m getting close. Why did I think this was a good idea?

I pass by the little “antler-ette” branching off the west side of the middle antler. The Tatums’ place is nearby, and I wonder if Tristan still lives with Boone. When I get to the second boat ramp at the northwest antler, I turn into the parking lot. I can’t go any further. I’m sweating and hyperventilating. Just past here is where it happened. Just past here is where the paved road turns to dirt. Where someone leapt out of the woods in the middle of the night. Where someone grabbed me. Where someone drugged me. And then—

Stop it.

I think about Donna. I wonder how many other girls have gone missing in the last ten years. I wonder if the “runaways” are connected. I wonder why I didn’t just tell someone what happened. Why I just ran away.

Stop it, Kit!

My hands tremble. I grab the steering wheel and squeeze hard, until my knuckles ache.

It’s a beautiful May afternoon. The boat ramp is busy, and I watch boaters come and go for a while, trying to focus on the little details as a distraction. Signs for the upcoming Memorial Day festivities stand out in bright orange against the office’s pale green paint. Guys in swim trunks load up a speed boat after a day on the water. Girls in too tiny bikinis on the boardwalk. Fishermen with their poles and tackle boxes headed for the pier. Sunlight glints off one of their bald heads. A pontoon boat drifts by with too many teenagers on board, singing far too loudly to be sober. A baby blue pickup truck idles at the far end of the lot. An out of place Corvette revs its engine, stereo blaring. More teenagers run by, barefoot and carefree, laughing. How long has it been since I ran around like that? Carefree. Careless. Clueless. Happy.

Ten years, I’d guess.

I don’t know how long I sit there. An hour? Two? When my blood pressure has finally slowed and my hands stop shaking, I heave a sigh and start the Bronco’s engine. When I get to the road, I could turn left and take the shortest route to the house, at the southernmost end of the lake. It’s just a few miles. A few miles of isolated dirt road, already dark with the sun behind the trees. A few miles that will take me to the exact spot where it happened. Maybe someday I’ll be able to turn left. But not today.

I turn right and take the long route back around the lake.

*                                       *                                  *

He watches the Bronco pull out of the parking lot through his windshield. He grips the steering wheel, fighting the urge to keep following her. He bites back the emotions vying for his attention. Anger. Confusion. Shame. But also: anticipation. It’s there. Under his skin, behind his breastbone, a remembered taste on his tongue.

He almost ran off the road when he first saw her yesterday as he passed Betty’s. Disheveled though she was, wrangling a large orange cat and holding a stack of pies, he recognized her. Her dark hair. Her angry hazel eyes. Her stubborn posture. None of these things have changed. He has seen her in his dreams. His nightmares. Every night for ten years. The one that got away. Of course he recognizes her.

But she won’t get away. Not a second time. He always knew this day would come. She couldn’t stay away forever, not with her father still here. Their next – and final – encounter has always been inevitable. But it’s not meant to be today. Today he has someone else at the forefront of his mind.

He forces his eyes away from where the Bronco’s taillights disappeared. He looks at the cluster of teenagers gathered around the cherry red Corvette. He finds her dark glossy hair easily. She throws her head back and laughs, her lips the perfect shade of red to match the car. She touches the arm of one of the boys with her manicured nails, also red. She’s bold. Flirtatious. Gorgeous.

Next.

*                                       *                                  *

When I pull up to the house, there’s an older white Nissan parked next to Dad’s Volvo. I wonder with a stab of panic if I’m about to meet his girlfriend. And if I am, what will I say? Has Caitlyn met her? The girls? Do they like her? Am I supposed to like her? Or hate her? I’m so annoyed with Caitlyn for giving me nothing to go on.

The front door opens just as I’m approaching the steps. Dad emerges with a woman in nurse’s scrubs, a stethoscope hanging from her neck. She has dark wavy chin-length hair. Gold hoop earrings swing just below her earlobes. She has the same brown eyes as Jake, but where her son exudes indifference, she radiates warmth.

“Hello, Mrs. Jacobsen,” I say, greeting her with a smile.

“Oh, quit it with that, Kit,” she says in a honeyed voice, wrapping me in a hug and her light floral perfume. “We’re all adults here. It’s Anita.”

“Anita.” I blush. Calling this woman that I’ve known since I was little by her first name feels wrong. “I was just chatting with Jake a little bit ago.”

“Your daddy mentioned you were down at the station.” She says it like she knows exactly what I walked into. “I sure hope you’re able to find something the police didn’t. That poor girl’s brother deserves answers, and lord knows that sheriff can’t get his head outta his ass, just like that daddy of his. Sometimes I worry about Jake still working down there, surrounded by those small-minded idiots. But he’s used to it and, well, he doesn’t like change.”

I’m not sure if agreeing with her is the right thing to do, so I change the subject. “What brings you our way?”

“I was dropping off your daddy’s medications and supplies,” she explains. “Since I live so close to you, I offered to be your home health nurse. I’ll stop over once a week to check on Bob and deliver the supplies you need. I’ve already given him his medication and taken care of his line for today, so you’ll want to give the next dose first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, Anita.”

“Oh hush,” She swats away my thank you like a gnat. “I’m happy to do it.”

“It’s always good to see you, Anita.” Dad smiles and waves as she descends the steps. “Give my best to Jake.”

“Will do, Bob. You take care of him, Kit. Don’t you let him overdo it.” She waves as she settles into the driver’s seat.

There’s a silence as Dad and I stare after Anita Jacobsen that neither one of us is in a hurry to break. A chorus of crickets and cicadas rises up around us.

Dad walks over to the hammock and lies back. He pats the space next to him and I snuggle in. It’s a tight fit, but our bodies still remember how to fold into each other.

“Well?” Dad says eventually.

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me Tristan is sheriff.”

He laughs. “It doesn’t matter much which idiot Tatum is sheriff. They’re all Tatums, after all.”

I wonder if he’d feel the same way knowing the things I know about Tristian. If he’d seen how this Tatum looked at his daughters once upon a time. If he’d seen Tristan twitch in the parking lot today. “Well, how long has this Tatum idiot been sheriff?”

“Oh, five or six years now. Boone had a bad accident some years back,” Dad explains. “He didn’t die, but he didn’t really recover either. And once Tristan got his act together, he managed to get elected. Anway, how were your inquiries received?”

“It was an utter waste of time, but at least it’s out of the way.”

“You didn’t learn anything new?”

“Just one thing.”

“Which is…?”

“Christian Lewis.”

“The boyfriend.”

“Turns out the reason there’s no interview with him is that he’s missing too.” Tristan hadn’t said that explicitly, but he certainly implied they disappeared together.

“So maybe they really did run away together.” Dad doesn’t sound like he believes it any more than I do.

“One can only hope.” 

After dinner, Dad and I get in a game of Chinese checkers before he falls asleep in his recliner, Lily in his lap and Phil warming his feet. The TV shows some BBC comedy, but I muted it once Dad started snoring. I’m laying back on the couch, one of Mom’s older novels open in my lap, but I’m not really reading it. I’m thinking about all the missing pieces of Donna’s puzzle. My mind really snags on that two-thousand dollars. One thing I learned working with Sam is that money always matters. It might not be a motive, but it’s an important detail. I’m sure if I can figure out what that money was for, the pieces of the puzzle will start fitting together.

A car door slams outside. I check the clock. It’s just after ten. Is that too late for a house call? I decide to chance it and see if Ethan is in the mood for some questions.

Phil makes a pathetic mewl as I pass by the recliner, as if I’ve interrupted his slumber simply by disturbing the air of the room. “Turncoat,” I mutter as I slip quietly onto the front porch.

The night air is cool. The sky isn’t quite midnight dark yet, the last rays of sun still fading away, but the space between my porch and Ethan’s front door is a pool of black. Before I give myself a chance to conjure monsters in the dark, I hop off the porch and jog to Ethan’s door. Just as I’m convincing myself there’s a shadowy figure on my tail, I leap into the circle of the porch light and jab the doorbell.

Ethan opens the door holding a half empty fifth of Jim Beam. His brown eyes, watery and bloodshot, blink slowly. “Well, hello, Kit.” Warm liquor breath hits me in the face.

“Hey…” Perhaps I should have given this more thought. “Is this a bad time?”

Ethan shrugs and turns away from the open door. He falls back onto an ugly brown couch that has obviously been in this living room twice as long as I’ve been gone. He props his muddy boots on a cluttered coffee table. “Have a seat if you want,” he mumbles, indicating an easy chair near the couch.

I step inside, letting the screen door slam behind me, but I leave the door open for the fresh air. The house smells damp and musty. The living room is dark and close, lit only by a weak lamp in a corner. The kitchen behind the living room is dark, as is a hall leading to the back of the house. The carpet is stained in several places, the walls dingy with dust and dirt. Old mail and other junk covers most surfaces. I have to move a stack of Ammo magazines before I can sit in the chair Ethan pointed to.

“Drink?” Ethan asks, holding up the liquor bottle.

While I had once fantasized about hanging out with Ethan Harrington, drinking with this Ethan sounds like a terrible idea. This isn’t the Ethan I remember, the charismatic neighbor boy I crushed on. I can still see the sadness inside him from yesterday, but there’s something else there too. Something I don’t like, slithering under his skin with the alcohol.

“I’m good, thanks.” I reconsider the noises I heard last night, and the empty whiskey glass. Could it have been Ethan stumbling around in the dark in his muddy boots, in search of more booze?

“So, what brings you by my humble abode?” he asks with all the sarcasm in the world. “Mind the mess. The maid took the decade off.”

“Is it okay if I ask you some questions? It might be painful, but it could really help us.”

“Shoot,” Ethan says, as if I want to ask him about the weather.

I take my phone out of my pocket and set it on my knee so it can record our conversation. Ethan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“What was your relationship with Donna like before she disappeared? Did you spend much time together when you weren’t working?”

“Nah,” Ethan shakes his head and leans forward. “We both kept pretty busy. We used to spend a lot of time together when I was home on leave. When I was still in the service.” There’s a bitter turn to his voice and I remember seeing him limp yesterday. He takes a swig of liquor.

“Yeah?”

He nods. “If I was around, I was in charge of her. Dad was always busy working or drinking, and Mom took off almost as soon as Donna was born.”

I don’t know why Ethan’s mom left, but I remember sometimes catching Mom at an open window, listening to the shouting and slamming doors, shaking her head. It doesn’t take a genius to do that math.

“Did your mom stay in touch? Is it possible Donna went to find her?” Could the money have been for a private investigator? For travel to wherever Donna and Ethan’s mom ended up?

“If Donna ever heard from her, she never told me. I certainly never heard from her. Not even on my birthday.”

I make a mental note to look into their mom’s whereabouts. I have a desperate hope that I’ll track Donna down there, but I think it’s unlikely. “Did Donna ask about her mom? Ever want to find her?”

Ethan shrugs, takes two big gulps from his bottle.

I need to get back into safer territory. “What was Donna like as a kid?”

Ethan smiles for the first time. “She was a great kid, she really was. Sweet. Curious. A real talker. She’d ask me questions about everything. It was kinda fun seeing the world through her eyes back then… She struggled a little when she started school, though. She has terrible eyesight and had to wear these big, thick glasses. She hated them and she got made fun of at school, but I always thought they made those blue eyes of hers pop. She begged Dad to get her contacts, but he couldn’t be bothered. I was the one who finally took her to get them. It really changed things for her, getting rid of those glasses.” Ethan grows quiet, as if he’s wondering what would have happened if he’d never got Donna contacts, if she’d kept her pretty face hidden behind thick frames.

“So, you were close when she was little. Why not anymore?”

Ethan’s eyes go far away and it’s a while before he replies. “I was different when I came back. She was different. She did all this growing up while I was gone, and I got hurt and… I can’t say that we really drifted apart. I don’t think it happened over time. I think things changed as soon as I left for my first tour.”

“What about after your dad passed?” Dad told me Don Harrington gave up the ghost six or eight years back. I didn’t know him well, but I remember the sound of his booming voice when he and Ethan argued, which was a lot. Thinking about it now, it’s a wonder Ethan and Tristan didn’t get along, because their home lives weren’t especially different.

Ethan shrugs again. “Donna didn’t have anyone to take her anger out on anymore. She and Dad would go back and forth just like he and Mom used to. She always did have a mouth on her, and Donna never backed down from a fight. Once Dad was gone, she just transferred all of that to me, I think. Suddenly nothing I said mattered. It was like talking to a brick wall. I couldn’t set a curfew, couldn’t control where she went or with who. Hell, she had her own job, her own money, she made her own decisions. It wasn’t like we sat around the dinner table talking about our day. We barely even saw each other.”

“How did you know she was missing?” I remember Ethan filed the missing person’s report two days after Donna was last seen at a party. “When did you know something was wrong?”

“The car.” Ethan drains the rest of the bottle. “I got home late the night she went missing, after three, I think? I’d been hanging out at the tavern. They kicked me out at closing time, but they kept my keys. I had to walk back. Anyway, her car was in the driveway when I got home.”

“Did you see Donna? Talk to her?”

“Nah, I was trashed. And I leave for work before she gets up for school. I didn’t think anything was weird, but to be honest, I was hungover as shit. But when I got home the next day, I saw the car was still here. I knew she had work, so at first, I thought maybe she caught a ride with a friend or that asshole she dated. But even then… She loved that car, loved the freedom of driving around. She always wanted to be the one driving, chauffeuring her friends around town. So, I called her a few times to check, but she didn’t answer. I figured she was busy at work or maybe just didn’t want to talk to me. The next day, her boss called me, said she’d missed two shifts in a row.”

“Was it unusual for her to skip work?”

“Hell, yeah!” It’s the most enthusiastic response I’ve gotten yet. “Her paycheck was important to her. Always saving, saving, saving for her plan.” He sounds resentful, like he wishes he’d thought to save up and skip town when he was younger. “She never missed work, not even when she was sick. She was always the one taking extra shifts, working holidays, or covering for someone else.”

“Who did you call first? Christian?” The murderous look that comes over Ethan’s face gives me chills.

“No.” His tone is dangerously quiet.

Awkwardly, I press on. “You didn’t approve of him I take it?”

“No.” He doesn’t elaborate. “I called Martha Morgan, Donna’s best friend. Or she was.”

“They weren’t still friends?”

“You know how girls are,” Ethan waves a hand. “Donna was always falling out with her girlfriends over something stupid. Usually, they made up before the week was out so they could fight about something else the next. But Martha told me she and Donna hadn’t been speaking for a while. Told me she’d seen Donna at the party, that she’d argued with Christian. And when she left, she was alone.”

“You talked to Martha several times. Did you think she was hiding something?”

Ethan looks down and away from me, so that when he speaks, I know he’s leaving something out. “I thought maybe she knew something. Something she didn’t know she knew… I was grasping at straws. Even if they hadn’t spoken in a while, no one knows Donna as well as Martha. She’s the friend that stuck around the longest. I just kept hoping she’d remember something.”

“Did you ever try to talk to Christian?”

“I went looking for him, sure. At first, I was convinced I’d find Donna over at his place… Never found him though.” He looks away from me again, and his voice isn’t as angry as it was a minute ago. Did he actually find Christian? Could Ethan be the reason the sheriff couldn’t find him? Is it possible that Ethan found a permanent way to end their relationship? I never would have considered the Ethan I knew as a murderer. But the man who sits before me now is a far cry from the one I used to know.

“The sheriff told me Donna and Christian ran off together. Why don’t you agree if both of them are missing?”

“Because it’s horseshit! She and Christan were temporary.” Ethan sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than saying something he believes.

“What was your problem with Christian and Donna’s relationship? What makes you so sure they’re not together?”

Ethan speaks through clenched teeth. “He’s ten years older than her, and a convict. He’s going nowhere. Donna—” He stops himself, trying to find the right words through the drunk haze he’s in. “Donna is going somewhere. She’s making something of herself, through her own hard work. And that parasite was just going to drag her down, and she knew it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time I saw her, the last time we talked, she told me she was through with these ‘small town idiots’ and with ‘asshole men.’ Who else could she have been talking about? Besides, the two of them broke up and made up twice a week. Sooner or later, it would have been for good.” Again, Ethan sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Or maybe, just lying to himself.

“I’m sorry, Ethan. I know this is difficult.” I fight the urge to put a hand on his knee or his shoulder. “Just one more question… Do you have any idea what that money was for? The two grand she withdrew the day she disappeared? Any idea at all?”

He shakes his head, meets my eyes. “None.” This time he’s telling the truth.

“One more thing and then I’ll be outta your hair,” I say with a small smile. “Would it be alright if I saw her room?”

“Down the hall.” Ethan lays back on the couch and closes his eyes, the bottle dangling from loose fingers.

Donna’s door, at the end of the dark hall, is shut. I turn the knob with a squeak and the door sticks. There’s a musty, unused smell to the room, and I have a feeling it’s been closed for about six months.

I flip on the ceiling light to reveal an offensive shade of pink covering every wall. A princess bed sits against a wall to the left, sheer pink curtains tied to the bed posts. The bed is neatly made, a soft brown teddy bear leaning against the pillows. Opposite the bed is a small desk, surprisingly bare aside from a couple of picture frames. No notebooks or laptop, no pencil cups or whimsical paper weights. It sits below a small window overlooking the driveway. An old-fashioned vanity sits along the last wall, complete with a mirror surrounded by bright yellow bulbs. It’s full of brushes, combs, and various makeup. The surface is stained with years of buildup, but everything is neatly organized and sorted. In fact, the whole room is neat and organized. It doesn’t surprise me that Donna was an organized person, but it does surprise me that no one turned this room upside down looking for clues. In my experience, distraught family members and police detectives don’t take the time to keep things neat or put things back – but I do.

I dig my hands between mattress and box spring. I look behind – and squeeze – every pillow. I open and rifle through every desk and vanity drawer. I slide open the closet door and peer between every dress and pressed shirt. I turn out every pocket, dump out every shoe. I use a bedpost for support and peer on top of the canopy, untie and shake out each curtain. I rattle the blinds in the window. I look in the attached bathroom and find nothing but extra toilet paper, a toothbrush, and an unopened box of contacts. Finally, in desperation, I move each piece of furniture away from the wall. I find the loose baseboard behind the desk. Grabbing a nail file from the vanity, I pry the board loose and it comes away more easily than I expected, revealing a small hidey-hole about six inches wide and half as high.

I use the flashlight on my phone to peer inside. Empty, but not a total disappointment. There’s a small rectangular shape in the dust. It’s smaller than the plan notebook Ethan gave me but could easily be the size and shape of a diary. Or perhaps a small box. So, Donna did have at least one secret. The problem is that she either took it with her – or someone else found it.

A chill rouses me, snaking along my skin and raising goosebumps. It comes to me with sudden clarity, the memory of footsteps, a hand over my mouth and then… nothing. This.

I’m lying on my side. Tape covers my mouth. My hands and ankles are tied with something like fishing line, tight and biting. I’m barefoot. My jacket is a ball under my ear, which is painfully asleep.

My heart thud thud thuds in my chest. I know it’s night. I know I am in bad trouble, but I do not move. Because I also know that I am not alone.

I gently, slowly – so, so slowly – lift my eyelids. My eyes are just two tiny slits. Two pinpricks in the dark.

The moon is faint tonight, just a sliver in the sky above the trees. I’m in a small clearing, and the tree canopy closes in above me…and him.

He’s facing away from me, breathing heavily from his labor. I realize, as my eyes adjust, that he’s standing in a hole. No, not a hole. A grave. My grave. The shovel lays on the ground between us as he uses a trowel to perfect the crisp edges. He pays me no mind, as if I’m not even here. As if he won’t turn around any moment and roll me into the blackest dark I’ll ever know.

“You know,” his voice splits the darkness, “if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”  

Is it his voice that startles me into action? Or the distinct feeling that he isn’t talking to me?

I inch my hands toward my waist. Slowly. Urgently. Soundlessly.

As long as we’ve been old enough to be trusted, Caitlyn and I have carried small pocketknives. I used to roll my eyes when my parents went on about personal safety and utility, Mom telling us to aim for the eyes while Dad reminded us it makes a handy screwdriver in a pinch. But I’m not rolling my eyes now as I dig my fingers into my front pocket. I stifle a burst of disbelieving laughter as I feel its slim outline in my pocket. I know I can wriggle it out, but I must move slowly. One rustle of the leaves I’ve been dumped on, and it’ll all be over.

He begins to whistle, something happy and familiar. His head dips into the grave. His whistle echoes, cold and ghostly. This time the goosebumps aren’t from the cold.

I take a chance to accelerate my movement. When he re-emerges, the knife is poised in my hands. I eye the shovel between us, and I see a plan, one where I don’t die in the next few minutes. Maybe.

He turns away from me again, reaching for a duffle bag and gently tucking the trowel inside, clinking against other tools. He slips off work gloves and puts them away too. He zips the bag, still whistling, still enjoying whatever this is to him. He places his palms on the dirt to lift himself out of my grave.

Snick.

The noise of the blade releasing cuts through the night. The whistling stops. I don’t.

I press the sharp blade into my binding. It snaps like trip wire and my hands are free. I’m performing the same move on my ankles before he’s hefted himself out of my grave. He’s much larger than I realized, but he’s fast. Before I can get to my feet, his bulk slams into me. We wrestle on the ground, his knees against my hips, blocking my frantic kicks. He reaches for my hands, managing to grab one – but it's not the one that matters. I raise my other arm and strike down as hard as I can, digging the small knife into his shoulder. I drag the blade down through skin and muscle. There’s a growl and a rush of warm blood on my fingers, my face. Then his weight is gone.

I don’t waste time. I scrabble for the shovel, grabbing it with shaking hands. He’s on his hands and knees, crawling for me. I can’t see his face, but I know where it is and that’s all that matters. I swing from the ground with all my might, letting loose a guttural roar. The shovel connects with his head. There’s a sickening crunch but I don’t care, and I don’t stop. Once he’s down, I take off.

Almost immediately I trip over my bike lying at the bottom of a tree. My ankle rolls over a soft patch of dirt, and I fall. As I spin onto my hands and knees, I realize it’s not just a soft patch of dirt. I can see its faint outline in the moonlight, a rigid rectangle mostly clear of debris. Another grave. Not empty.

Behind me is movement, a chaotic rushing through the dead leaves carpeting the forest floor.

I get up. I run. I don’t fall again. I don’t look back.

I jolt awake. I can’t breathe. I begin to panic but then I hear Phil’s complaint and his tail tickles my face.

“Oof, Phil.” I push him off of my chest. “Seriously, we have got to put you on a diet.” Phil hisses and shows me his butthole, making sure his disagreement is noted before hopping down with a thump and leaving the room.

The sun’s not yet up. Checking the clock, I see it’s only four AM. I have two hours before Dad and I need to hit the road for today’s appointment, and I need a distraction from my memory nightmare.

I grab my laptop and decide to look through Donna’s social media accounts. I know PiMan will scour them for anything important, but I’m still thinking about that missing money. If she’d mentioned what it was for, certainly the police would have found it no matter how little effort they put into the investigation. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any clues there.

I spend an hour going through Donna’s posts on Instagram and TikTok and it’s like falling down a rabbit hole into someone else’s life. She had what my grandparents would’ve called pluck. Her excitement and resolve are contagious. I find myself rooting for her. Her voice is beautiful, haunting even, like Adele and Billy Eilish had a child who loves country music. It’s hard to believe that such beauty and feeling can come out of someone so young. Donna wrote her own songs, and though she’s far too young to sing about anything with much knowledge, she writes like an old soul. I think she really could have done the impossible, could have made it big.

I also find several pictures and videos of Donna with the boyfriend, Christian Lewis. I can see what she saw in him because he’s more attractive than anyone has a right to be. He’s at least six feet tall I’d guess. In most pictures he’s wearing tight white t-shirts, showing off his sculpted torso and heavily tattooed arms, and ripped jeans with stains, grease maybe? His short dirty blonde hair has bleached tips, and in most pictures, he has a carefully cultivated five o’clock shadow. Diamond stud earrings and a small gold chain complete the bad boy cliché. I remember Ethan calling him a convict and make a note to check his rap sheet. Could he be a violent offender? Is he capable of murdering the girlfriend who planned to leave him behind?

And Donna had it bad for Christian. From the various pictures and videos, though, it’s also obvious that Christian had it bad for her too. I’m not sure how a grown man can fall in love with a teenager, but that’s exactly what I’m looking at. Donna and Christian press their cheeks together, kiss, and even sing together. In a few videos Christian strums guitar while Donna sings, but his playing, like his voice, is nothing special. Just some guy noodling around and hoping to look cool (and he does).

Donna’s posts also show the up and down nature of their relationship. I can count five break-ups-and-makeups in the year they were together before she disappeared, all referenced as songs and cryptic captions by Donna. I wonder if Donna was in love with Christian, or just in lust. Clearly their relationship was physical. More than one selfie of the couple shows them beneath the sheets. I wonder if Ethan ever saw these pictures. Or if he ever tried to file statutory rape charges against Christian in an attempt to end the relationship. I’ll have to look into that too. If he did, did Ethan and Donna fight about it? Could Ethan have committed the ultimate crime during one of those arguments? Could Christian, after the last break up? Was it really for good, as Ethan thought? I think I finally might have some motives to investigate, and that’s enough to motivate me into the shower.

*                                       *                                  *

By nine, Dad and I are ensconced in a windowless hospital room. He’s been thoroughly poked and prodded. We’re just waiting for his bloodwork to come back. He’s sweet talked the nurse into bringing him the massaging leg cuffs that prevent blood clots. He’s not in danger of blood clots; he just likes the free massage. He’s lying back on the bed under the thin blue blanket, finger periodically flicking across his phone screen each time he turns a page of his e-book, the picture of slightly inconvenienced comfort. Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting in a rigid visitor’s chair in the corner for an hour and a half. I’d brought the novel I was flipping through last night, but I can’t concentrate. With a sigh, I close the book. I stand to stretch my legs and then perch on the more comfortable hospital mattress at Dad’s feet. One last flick of the screen and then Dad sets his phone down. He looks at me expectantly.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What’s on your mind?” He’s smirking, one eyebrow slightly raised. Sometimes I forget he used to be a profiler, that he can read my body language like one of his books.

“You worked on missing persons cases, didn’t you?” I finally ask.

“Sure. They’re not my favorite.”

“Why?”

“Well, for starters, they rarely have a happy ending.”

“Because the missing person is dead?”

He shakes his head. “Some of them. Mostly people who turn up missing choose to. They’re running away from strict parents, from abusive relationships, from the police, from society. And others go missing because of mental illness or drug addiction. Most people don’t want to be found, don’t want to be returned home or to a state facility. So, we find them, but we can’t reunite them with their loved ones. Instead, we have to explain that their loved one doesn’t want to come home, doesn’t want to see them. That’s a hard thing to tell someone.”

“I can’t imagine it’s harder than making a death notice.”

“No,” Dad concedes, “but it’s sad, nonetheless. And even if you’ve resolved the case, it doesn’t always feel good because it’s not the resolution the family was hoping for. There’s no sense of…justice.”

I smooth out some wrinkles in his blanket. “Have you ever investigated a missing person case in Moose Lake?”

“Not officially.”

“Did either Tatum ever ask you to look into them?”

He snorts. “No.”

“Do you think it’s possible…”

“That Donna’s case is connected to the other missing girls?” He’s wearing one of his trademark smirks again.

“What?”

His eyes twinkle. “I’ve got something to show you when we get home.”

Our conversation is interrupted by Doctor K, returning with Dad’s bloodwork (all good, full steam ahead). They then engage in an infuriatingly long episode of chit chat. Doctor K is a talker on a good day, but I swear he knew exactly what Dad was up to and played along. Once we’re finally discharged, Dad mentions there’s a Wendy’s on our way home, which is code for he would like a Frosty. He gives up nothing as we wait in the drive thru, and nothing on the longest ride home in history, no matter how many questions I ask. Only after we’ve watched the noon news and he finishes his Frosty with an exaggerated “Aaaah!” and smacking of his lips does he look at me and ask, “Want to go for a walk?”

Now, Dad and I stand by the fire pit, trees on all sides. The house is at our backs. To our left is a path through the trees to the dock, the water sparkling beyond on this cloudless afternoon. At our feet is another path, through a thicker copse of trees. Down the path and around a short bend is Mom’s writing shed. She wrote all of her later novels here, right on the water.

Dad puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. “Ready?”

Am I ready? I haven’t been inside for more than ten years. I remember being little, running around with Caitlyn in the woods while Mom and Dad worked on the shed. It was originally full of the previous owner’s rusted boating equipment. Together they gutted the interior and turned it into one hundred forty square feet of Mom’s perfect writing space. It was a soft, bright place. It was also a tribute to her success, where she kept her awards and posters of her best-selling novels, where she had her headshot taken for her book jackets. Inside the shed there will be more than reminders of who Leslie Knight was. There will be more than pictures and books and awards. Inside we will find the essence of Leslie Knight. I imagine Mom’s writing shed as a place stopped in time. A place that still smells of her perfume or the coffee she liked to hold in an oversized mug against her chin, like just the aroma of dark roast would inspire her. A place where she might return any moment, put pen to paper or hand to keyboard, and churn out something thousands of other people would see and read and love.

“Okay.” I let Dad propel me forward, keeping his arm around me all the way to the little light blue shed. It’s situated in a clearing, windows overlooking the water. Mom planted thorny rose bushes around the perimeter to keep both critters and prying little eyes away. Dad’s clearly been paying someone to take care of them and they are lovely. One stone step leads to a bright red door, a circular insert of stained glass at the top, a fish jumping out of water at sunrise.

Dad takes a step away from me and holds up a keyring with just one key. I take the key slowly. I know this isn’t the first time someone has been in Mom’s shed since she died. It isn’t a tomb. I’m not about to do something sacrilegious or forbidden, but it still feels like it. I can practically feel Caitlyn standing behind me, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for me to get it over with already. Fine.

With a deep breath I insert the key and turn the knob. The door swings open onto a warm room, full of sunlight bouncing off the water through the large picture window, and softer light floating down from skylights above. Mom’s desk sits below the window. It was a hand-me-down from her grandmother, a small, stained oak affair. Mom had a way of organizing her thoughts and notes, but it was a filing system only she understood. Her desk was usually papered with sticky notes and yellow legal pads. She’d pin her most recent and relevant ideas to a corkboard next to the window. To anyone but Mom, it looked like total chaos.

Today Mom’s desk is organized. There’s a stack of unused legal pads in one corner, Post-it notes in another. Mugs line the window ledge, one full of pencils and pens, others full of paper clips or tacks. Clutter has been thrown away or relegated to a drawer. A stained blotter pad sits perfectly at the center, a stack of papers at its center. I roll my eyes; the desk has Caitlyn all over it.

The back wall is floor to ceiling shelves and drawers that Dad built himself. The cabinets have glass doors framed in elegant wood. Copies of each of Mom’s novels in hardback fill one side. The other holds novels by authors Mom loved, dictionaries and thesauruses, her awards and some of her first galley copies. Nestled in a nook in the middle of the wall is a large, comfy chair where Mom would sit back and consider her work or read someone else’s.

The wall opposite Mom’s desk has a small wooden table with a hotpot, where Mom would sometimes brew coffee instead of breaking her stride to go into the house and get distracted by something else. Above the table used to be a spare bulletin board that she mostly didn’t use. However, it is not bare now. Nor is it covered in notes for Mom’s final novel ideas.

This bulletin board, and part of the wall around it, is taken up by what is clearly an attempt to link and solve the various missing persons cases in and around Moose Lake. A large map of Maine has the last known location of each person marked with a tack. A smaller United States map marks where the missing came from, whether they were locals or tourists. Each tack – color coded in way I don’t understand yet – has a tag tied to it with a name and a date. And pictures are everywhere, pictures of sixty or more missing girls.

“Dad…what the hell is this?”

He moves next to me to study the wall. “Oh, your mother got it into her head some years back that she might write true crime instead of fiction. She’d been following the stories of the missing girls for years, but in the last couple of years before she passed, she was nearly obsessed with it.”

Mom had an obsession that I had no idea about? I’m flabbergasted. She never said a thing to me. No one did. And why not? Why had they kept it from me? I can only think of one answer: Mom knew. Somehow, she knew. Does Caitlyn know? Does Dad? It’s too much. I shove the thought deep down inside, put it behind a locked door. I wish I could throw away the key.

“She was a little shy about it,” Dad adds.

“Mom?” I raise an eyebrow. “Shy?”

He smiles. “Just shy about this. She’d never written true crime, and to even use these cases, she’d have to make significant headway that law enforcement never did, come up with a list of suspects, maybe even solve them. She knew it was unlikely, and she felt, I guess, like an amateur.”

“She roped you in, didn’t she?”

“For a while,” Dad admits. “But I haven’t looked at it since she passed. Haven’t thought much about it at all.” There’s something in the tone of his voice that makes me wonder if he’d shoved Mom’s obsession with these cases down deep too, to keep the pain of her memory away. Or is there a different reason?

“Didn’t you think this might have been helpful to tell me after we talked to Ethan?”

“I was waiting for the right time, I guess.”

“Well? What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About what?” I mock. “About these missing girls! Do you think they’re connected? Do you think it’s possible that Donna’s case is connected to them?”

“At least some of the missing girls are connected, almost certainly.” He points at the board. “The red tacks are the cases your mother decided were connected. Yellow marks the ones she wasn’t sure about, and green are the cases she was certain did not connect.” He continues to study the board, eyes moving from one tack to the next.

“And?”

Dad finally turns to me. “And… I don’t know about Donna. It’s certainly an avenue we’ll have to consider.”

“We?”

“Well, sure.” Dad says, pulling out his phone and taking several photos of the maps and notes. When he’s done, he gives me a wink. “I’m going to lay down for a bit. Why don’t you spend some time with this and make some notes? We can talk about it over dinner.”

“Okay.”

He turns back when he reaches the door. “And we’ll have guests tonight.”

“What? Who? Why? Dad!” He doesn’t stick around to answer my questions. “I’m not cooking!”

*                                       *                                  *

I spend the rest of the afternoon studying Mom’s maps and making notes. What I end up with is a list of more than sixty girls who’ve gone missing since the mid-seventies, which doesn’t include anyone who may have gone missing since Mom died. Mom marked some of them with red tacks – connected cases – but it’ll take more work to figure out what those connections are. Maybe Dad helped her with that but knowing him, he won’t just come out and tell me. He’ll want me to try and figure it out myself first. Some girls were locals, some were tourists. There doesn’t appear to be any physical similarities – the missing have a variety of complexions (but most of them are white) and were anywhere between twelve and twentyish at the time they went missing. Some are obviously pretty and others downright plain. Nearly all of them appear to go missing during warmer months, May through September, with only a few outliers. Many of the girls were last seen at a party in the woods – just like Donna. Does that mean their kidnapper (or killer?) was at the party too? Or does he just like to prey on young girls on their way home in the middle of the night? My guts twist uncomfortably at the thought.

As dinner time nears, I’m looking for a reason not to go inside. I don’t know who Dad invited to dinner or why – and that makes me nervous. To procrastinate, I take several pictures of the maps, photos, and my notes. I email them to PiMan. Exactly thirty seconds after I hit send, my phone rings.

“Hi, Pi.” I take a seat at Mom’s desk, picking at the papers stacked in the middle, intentionally spoiling Caitlyn’s organizing.

“Kit,” he sounds dumbfounded, “what is all this?”

“Apparently my mother had been looking into missing persons cases around Moose Lake.”

“That’s putting it mildly. This is like something out of an episode of CSI.” He pauses, and I try to picture him at his computer, reading through my notes, but come up blank. I have no idea what he looks like.

“Pi?”

“Hmm?”

“How old are you?”

“What?”

“You know, your age?” I say sarcastically. “I was just wondering… I don’t know. We’ve worked together for so long and I just…”

“Have no idea who I am?” He’s amused.

“Well…yeah.” I start separating the papers on Mom’s desk, trying to ignore a sudden surge of anxiety.

PiMan laughs. I wonder what his laugh sounds like without a voice modifier. I wonder what his real voice sounds like. What color his hair is. Where he lives.

“Let’s say thirtyish.”

“That’s the best I’m going to get, huh?” I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but I’m absurdly relieved to hear he’s neither an old man nor some computer wizard teenager.

“That’s the best you’re going to get…for now.”

“I can live with that I guess.” Now I’m smiling.

“So, are you thinking these cases are connected to your missing neighbor? I see you’ve added a tag for her.”

“At least some of these cases have to be connected,” I reply. “There’s just too many here. Moose Lake isn’t exactly the epicenter, but it’s clearly involved.”

“Which means we’re talking about a possible serial killer if we assume they’re all dead.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You don’t think…”

“What?” I ask, but I know exactly what he’s thinking. Of course, he’s thinking it. So am I.

“I don’t know. Nevermind.” He sighs. “So, what do you want me to do with all this?”

I’m thankful he doesn’t finish his thought. “Let’s start with finding out if the missing girls ever turned up. Do you think you can work your magic and see if they resurfaced elsewhere? Were maybe runaways? Let’s focus on the red tacks first, the ones Mom thought were related.”

“Sounds good. It’s going to take some time. I’m still working on Donna’s social media.”

“That’s fine,” I say, still fiddling with Mom’s papers. “You can scale back the social media. I went down that rabbit hole this morning. Maybe just focus on her comments, see if there was anything threatening or anything that stands out to you. A stalker, maybe?”

“I’m on it. What are you going to do?”

“When I get a chance, I’ll sift through missing persons since Mom passed. I’ve got a friend at the police station who might help me with that,” I reply, thinking of Jake. “First, I’m going to track down Donna’s best friend Martha and see what I can find out from her. Maybe she has an idea of where the boyfriend’s hid—”

I stop mid-sentence. An envelope has fallen out of the stack of papers I’m playing with. I see my name. And a message. In my mother’s handwriting. It reads:

For Kit. When you’re ready, darling.

“Kit?” I barely hear PiMan as my phone slides away from my ear.

Fingering the envelope, there isn’t paper inside. It’s something small and bulky, three dimensional.

“Kit, what’s wrong?”

The envelope is sealed. Carefully, I slide my finger under the flap and rip it open.

“Kit! Talk to me!”

I turn the envelope upside down over my cupped hand. A small object lands in my palm. A red tack with a tag tied to it. It has a name, and it has a date.

Cora Thorton. July 15, 2013.

I lie to Pi Man for the first time. It takes all my control to moderate my voice, to say I just tripped and I’m fine. I mumble something about dinner guests and hang up before he can ask any questions. I have no doubt he knows I’m lying, but I can’t deal with that right now. Because Mom knew.

Mom knew what happened to me – or had an idea anyway. And if she knew, had she told Dad? Told Caitlyn? Is that why I didn’t know about her obsession? Or was this red tack a secret? Because she never solved the cases?

And how? How did she know? What did she know? When did she know it? And why…why didn’t she make me tell her? A smaller voice in my head asks Why didn’t I want to?

I pace the room, trying to calm down, fighting back the panicked scream threatening to claw its way out of my throat. Because I can’t handle this. I can’t. If what happened to me is connected to the other missing girls… How many of them went missing after me because I never told anyone? Because I was too scared to go to the police. How many girls went missing – how many died – because of me?

My panic attack is interrupted by a chirp from my phone. I’m expecting questions from PiMan, but it’s a text from Caitlyn.

Caitlyn: Stop staring at the murder board. Dad says you’ve been out there for hours.

Kit: Leave me alone. Don’t you have children to feed or something?

Caitlyn: Get ready for dinner. Try not to look like a total hag. You need to make a good impression.

Kit: What have you done you asshole??

Caitlyn: 30 minutes. Better get moving.

Kit: Fuck you, Kaboodle!

Caitlyn: Love you 😊

God, she makes me so angry. But this is good. It’s exactly the distraction I need even if it isn’t the one I want. So, I do what I’ve done for ten long years, what I’ve become so good at – I stuff all my feelings and memories deep, deep, deep inside me. I close a door, lock it, move a mental dresser in front of it. The red tack goes carefully back inside its envelope before I stuff it under my mattress.

Obviously, Dad’s girlfriend must be the mystery guest. I can’t imagine who else I’d need to make a good impression on. I don’t feel particularly inclined to make a good impression, but I don’t want to embarrass Dad either. So, twenty minutes after swearing to kill Caitlyn, I’ve pilfered everything I need for a good impression from things she’s left behind – a casual summer dress and sandals, a fancy scrunchie to put my sweaty, flat hair into a decent bun, and some makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes and smooth my complexion. A little dab of Caitlyn’s Sunflower perfume – which is strong enough to make me sneeze for a full minute – and I’m ready with a few minutes to spare.

I plod downstairs and find Dad in his chair, feet up with a cat on each leg and a book in his hands. Three sets of eyes look up as I approach, one appraising and two annoyed.

Dad smiles. “You look nice.”

“Thanks. So do you.” Dad’s put on a tropical patterned button up with a red background that I recognize. I swear he has ten of them in storage and just pulls a new one out when the old one fades. He’s swapped his washed-out jeans for a pair of nice dark ones, and I can smell a bit of cologne, which he only ever puts on for special occasions.

“You know, if I didn’t know better,” I say, sinking onto the couch, “I’d think you’re trying to impress someone.”

“Maybe,” he says, returning to his book, giving nothing away, as usual.

“What’s for dinner?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, eyes never leaving his book. “It’s arriving with our guests.”

“You made her cook?”

“She likes to cook.”

“Wait, wait,” I say, his words clicking. “Guests? Plural?”

Dad just keeps smiling. The sound of tires on gravel accelerates my pulse. I have a terrible suspicion I know exactly who else is coming to dinner. Ooh, Caitlyn. You are SO dead.

“Sounds like they’re here. Why don’t you get the door?”

I give him a hard stare before getting up, knowing he’ll take his time with the two cats to prevent them clawing up his jeans. He’s cooing to Lily and Phil already, trying to urge them off his lap.

I open the door before anyone knocks, prepared to help bring in, I don’t know, a tureen of soup or something.

Sitting in the driveway is a midnight blue 1979 Pontiac Firebird. I know nothing about cars, but I know this one. I spent a lot of time making out in this exact car more than ten years ago. And as the guy whose lips I’d kissed until I could hardly breathe steps out of the driver’s side, my breath catches.

Simon “Rush” Rushman, looking as good as ever. He wears a white polo shirt and khakis. I can see the hint of a tattoo peeking out of one of the sleeves and almost laugh; the Simon I knew was the last person I’d expect to get a tattoo. His shaggy dark brown hair is tamed and combed back, his beard neatly trimmed. His copper eyes sparkle behind his glasses even though he avoids my gaze. He rounds to the passenger side, where a woman is struggling to get out of the low seat.

Her curly bottle blonde hair exits the car first and my unease increases. As she stands, handing one casserole dish to Simon and holding another in her plump hands, I recognize her. Dread melts over me. It’s the woman from Betty’s, Mary. Because of course. She’s traded the padded headband for a couple of teal barrettes to match her teal and purple patterned blouse, which she wears over white linen pants and sandals. I wonder if she’s got her pellet gun in the ugly brown leather purse hanging from her shoulder.

Simon holds the dish in one hand and helps Mary from the car with the other as she laughs and says something about her knees. She turns toward the house with a smile and a wave at Dad, who’s now standing behind me.

“Right on time,” he calls, waving back.

 “The animal hater,” I hiss. “Really?”

“Only when they’re in the shop,” Dad replies and then moves forward to take the dish from Mary’s hands as she and Simon climb the porch steps. He kisses her on the cheek, and I stifle a gag. He sniffs the foil covered dish with a grin. “I smell something sweet.”

“Blueberry cobbler for dessert,” she replies. “Your favorite.”

“Excellent.” Dad turns back and waves a hand toward me. “Mary, Kit. Kit, Mary.”

“We’ve met, Dad,” I say in an icy tone I have no chance of hiding – it’s as much for him as it is for her, the dirty little secret keepers. But I slap a smile on my face and shake Mary’s proffered hand anyway. It’s clammy and covered in chunky turquoise rings. I squeeze a little harder than necessary, pleased when she winces. “Please, come in.” It sounds more like a threat than an invitation, but Mary only smiles and says “thank you” so brightly it hurts my ears.

Mary steps over the threshold. Both cats eye her from across the room. “Well, hello there little kitties,” she says, voice as sweet as maple syrup. Lily turns her tail and saunters to Dad’s recliner. Phil’s tail puffs up and he takes off up the stairs; he never forgets the face of trauma.

“I guess he remembers me,” Mary says with a laugh. She and Dad head for the kitchen. I stare after them, unhappy.

“Well, there’s a face I haven’t seen in a long time,” Simon says, still awkwardly standing on the top step. When I turn my glare on him, his smile falters. “You, um… you look nice, Kit.” He holds the casserole dish in front of him like a shield.

Looking at Simon, something inside me uncoils. Memories swirl. Days on the dock, splashing around in the lake. Racing across in dueling canoes. Laying on a blanket reading our library books. Voices making fun of Caitlyn and the other “cool” kids. Sly kisses in the shade of a tree. A different cabin on the water, with a long, dark driveway. Fast footsteps and an arm around my waist, over my mouth –

“Are you alright?” Simon’s voice breaks through the memory haze.

“Yeah, sorry.” I try to relax, uncrossing my arms. “I just… What are you doing here?”

His sigh is also a laugh, making the answer obvious. We reply together, “Caitlyn.”

“That fucking meddler.”

“Do you…want me to go?” His tone is light, but I can see the seriousness in his eyes, and I know he’ll leave right now if I tell him to. He’d rather leave than make me uncomfortable. Always the gentleman, even after what I did to him.

“No. Stay. It’s good to see you.” I’m a little surprised to feel that I mean it. His smile sends butterflies flitting through my stomach.

But the surprises aren’t over. Before Simon and I can head inside, the Firebird’s driver’s door pops open and the seat pushes forward. There’s rustling and a shout, “Wait, wait! I’m coming! God, Rush, this back seat is such a pain in my ass!”

I recognize the voice and my heart stops. It isn’t. It can’t be. But it is.

Malinda. 

I burst through the tree line, tripping and falling for the first time since my mad dash escape. Momentum sends me to my hands and knees, scraping both on dirt and rock. I spring back up, barely feeling the sting of my new wounds. My head whips back and forth, my ears straining to hear my pursuer.

But there’s nothing. Nothing but the sound of my own ragged breaths, of my own footfalls on the uneven path – no. A road. Darkness in both directions. Where is he? How long have I been running? How long since I last heard his crashing pursuit? Did I lose him? My feet turn me in circles. Where is he? Whereishewhereishewhereishe?

And then, a beacon in the night. On the side of the road, the object I tripped over: a homemade cross about two feet tall, worn white paint with fluttering chips, “drive safely” burned into the crosspiece. The remnants of a roadside memorial to deadly car accident from years ago. My parents point it out every time we pass by, a warning that their daughters had better be attentive, sober drivers or else. But that doesn’t matter, not right now. What does matter – the cross points the way home. I turn left and take off, new adrenaline pumping through my veins, because I know I’ll be home in a matter of minutes. I hope. I don’t know where he is. If he’s hiding in the shadows. A wraith in the woods. A wolf at my heels. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I keep running.

I run all the way to my driveway and then keep going. I see my porch, the light by the front door. And there, sitting on the steps, twirling her hair in the yellowy light, the picture of boredom – Malinda. Waiting for me.

Malinda hears me running, looks up with a smile and a wave. “Well?” She stage whispers, her grin telling me that she can’t truly see me yet. “You did it, didn’t you? You and Rushie? Finally! How was it?”

“Hey, where’s your bike?” I’m ten feet away before her smile fades, turns into a gasp of horror. “Kit, what the fuck—”

And then I’m in her arms, sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. I’m so scared and I’m so relieved and I’m so confused and I’m so tired. My legs turn to noodles. I slip to the grass, Malinda sinking with me.

“Kit, what happened? Jesus, you’re shaking.” Malinda grabs my shoulders and pushes me away from her to get a good look at me. “Oh my god! Is that blood?”

“It’s n-not mine,” I manage between sobs.

Fear replaces Malinda’s concern, her denim blue eyes widening. “Shit, Simon, is he—”

I shake my head. “Not Simon’s.”

“Well Jesus H., Kit, whose blood is it? What the hell happened after I left you two?” Malinda looks me up and down again, comes to a decision. “Alright, alright. Questions later. You’re freaking out. Let’s get you inside. I’ll get your mom, The Agent–”

“No! Don’t,” I whimper. “Please.”

“But—”

I grab her hand and squeeze until she winces. “No, Lindie. Please.”

Malinda doesn’t ask why. “Alright,” she says after a beat. “Alright. I’ve got you.” Gently, as if I’m made of fine glass, she helps me stand and leads me inside.

*                                       *                                  *

Malinda Roxanne Charlotte. Beautiful. Spontaneous. Boisterous and independent. The most loyal of best friends, and without a doubt, the reason I’m still alive. The reason I haven’t let depression and anxiety take me down – because she simply won’t allow it.

Watching Malinda trip out of the Firebird’s backseat, warm nostalgia washes over me. Popsicles on the lake, bright colors dripping down our chins. Squeezing hands at scary movies. Huddling under a blanket by the firepit, whispering secrets and desires and dirty jokes. And later, parties in the woods. Beers and joints under the bridge. Skinny dipping. Cruising the streets after dark in Simon’s Firebird. Every teenaged experience and lesson and trouble-making – it all comes back to Simon and Malinda. My people.

Seeing Malinda now, getting out of Simon’s car while he stands on my porch, it’s like stepping back in time.

Malinda slams the car door. She plants her flip-flopped feet wide, throws her arms in the air as her bangle bracelets slip to her elbows and shouts, “Ta da!” Her wavy auburn hair flows behind her, caught in a light breeze, and she runs to me. She gathers me in her arms, her feathery earrings tickling my cheek. She whispers “Darling!” in my ear as she squeezes me tightly. Before I know it, I’m crying. More than crying, sobbing. I needed her and I didn’t even know it.

That’s the thing about Malinda. When she’s not a leaf in the wind, she’s my anchor. Freelance journalist is the perfect job for her. She goes wherever she wants, whenever she wants, and that means she can show up where she’s needed when she’s needed, like right now. Like less than twenty-four hours after Sam’s murder, when she showed up at my apartment with vodka and tissues. Like ten years ago, when I found her waiting on my front porch in the middle of the night.

I can’t help myself. I pull away to look at her, as if to be sure she’s really here, and then pull her back to me, trying not to get snot all over her flowy blouse. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve come back to Moose Lake, darling! Where else would I be?” She laughs and adds, “But also, Kaboodle called.”

I laugh, momentarily grateful for my meddling sister.

“Lindie, I’m so glad you’re here.”

The other thing about Malinda is that she has many personalities, and she can often swing from one to the other without warning. Simon and I named each version when we were kids as a sort of code, to give each other a heads up about which version of Malinda was approaching. But Malinda isn’t stupid, and we weren’t especially discreet, so it wasn’t long before she caught on and even played into it. Lindie is her default mode, her fun, loving side, the conversationalist, the loud and sometimes trouble-making friend. Malinda is only used for the most formal or serious of circumstances, like work or traffic court. Mal for her black moods. Roxy, the partier who always makes trouble. And only her boyfriends get to call her Loving Lottie.

“Me too!” She disentangles herself from me, hands me a tissue from her cavernous purse. “Now let’s go inside and get you cleaned up before dinner.”

Simon’s been standing awkwardly to the side this whole time, politely holding the dish Mary had handed him. He looks uncomfortable. I wonder if he’d been hoping for a crying welcome hug too. He indicates the door with a nod and says, “Ladies first.”

“Why thank you, sir.” Malinda says with a curtsey and then steps over the threshold. “Mr. T!” she shouts. “Let’s do this thing!”

I dab at my tears and then stuff the tissue in a pocket. I turn to Simon and say quietly, “I know I didn’t act like it, but I’m glad you’re here too.” I give him a small smile. Simon simply nods and looks away, but I can see he’s smiling as a blush comes to his cheeks, my own face warming in response.

*                                       *                                  *

We’re gathered at the dining table in the back corner of the house. The large circle of oak could easily fit ten people around it and feels stupidly large for the five of us, like it belongs in an old castle instead of a cabin in the woods. Mom had it commissioned from a local carpenter who created natural-looking wood furniture. You can still see the gnarls and grain of the original tree beneath the varnish. The center of the table rotates like a lazy Susan so you can actually reach food arranged at the center. The chairs, made to match straight-backed affairs, are clunky, heavy, and honestly, uncomfortable. Simon, Malinda, and I have stolen cushions from the loveseat, just like we did when we were kids. Mom loved this luxury despite its impracticality because it was a conversation piece at her book parties, more art than furniture. She loved discussing its design and creator with new guests.

Dad and Mary sit in front of a picture window overlooking the back porch and the firepit beyond. Malinda sits with her back to a set of glass doors opening onto the side porch. I sit on her left, and Simon sits on my other side. We’ve scooted our chairs close to each other, reverting to old habits.

Chicken pot pie has been served from the warmed dish on the table along with a tossed salad Malinda and I threw together while Dad poured the drinks (beer for everyone but Mary, who nurses a red wine, blech). Dad and I have always loved chicken pot pie but picked out the traditional peas. Mary made hers without peas and I grudgingly admit it’s pretty good (which is a lie – it’s amazing, dammit) and compliment her cooking. I try to sound sincere, remembering I’m supposed to be making a good impression. I’m not sure I’m successful – Simon laughs, discreetly turning it into a cough. I can practically hear Caitlyn tsking in my head.

Conversation starts off strong as we all dig in, Malinda carrying it as she often does, but I spend most of my time chewing and observing rather than talking. Although I can’t see it, I can tell Mary’s hand strays to Dad’s knee under the table. As Dad listens to Malinda detail a recent assignment in Beirut, he lays an arm around the back of Mary’s chair, relaxed as can be, sucking beer out of his moustache. I don’t know how I feel about all this touching between them. It’s not that I begrudge Dad romantic happiness. I’m an adult; I know he has a right to move on, and Mom would want him to. And it’s not like it’s too soon – Mom’s been gone five years. But why her? And what exactly is my issue with her anyway? Would I be so annoyed if Mary hadn’t tried to shoot my cat? Would I be fine with all this if it hadn’t been kept a secret? And she’s been so nice this whole evening, trying to make a good impression on me too, but even so, something about her just rings…false. Which is preposterous because no one can pull one over on The Agent…can they? You would know, a small voice in my head chimes in.

There’s a sudden kick to my shin and I turn to Malinda. “Ow! What the hell, Lindie?” She forces a smile and inclines her head toward Mary, and I realize I’ve been caught dropping out of the conversation.

Mary clears her throat. “I was saying, Kit… your dad tells me you’re a private detective in New York City. That must be exciting!”

“Oh, um, yeah,” I mutter, shoving a too big bite of salad into my mouth, dressing dripping down my chin. “Sometimes.”

“And it must be busy, what with you staying away for so long.”

Is that a dig? I flick my eyes to Dad, who is busily chewing and avoiding eye contact. Six months together and he hasn’t told her the truth about why I’ve stayed away (as he understands it anyway) or, it seems, what happened to my previous employer. Malinda squeezes my knee under the table, a reminder to keep my temper in check. It’s not Mary’s fault she doesn’t know, and I’m not about to say anything about it right here at the dinner table or Caitlyn might show up in the middle of the night to murder me.

“It ebbs and flows,” I say eventually. “Right now, I’m actually working a missing person’s case in Moose Lake.”

Mary’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh really?”

“Yeah. Actually, Dad and I are working together.”

“Is that right?” Mary turns to Dad and then back to me. “Well, you must tell us all about it, then!” She’s trying to sound interested, but I can see I’ve touched a nerve. “Did Sheriff Tatum ask for your help?”

Dad and I both snort.

“No,” I reply, realizing Mary’s irritation stems from something else Dad decided not to tell her. “Actually, our neighbor, Ethan Harrington, asked us to look into his sister’s disappearance.”

“You’re looking into Donna’s case?” Simon says her name with familiarity, like he knew her. Probably she was a frequent visitor to Betty’s, and I make a mental note to pick that bone later.

“Do tell!” Malinda says, chin resting on her folded hands and a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Is Ethan still as handsome as I remember? I haven’t laid eyes on him in ages.”

“He’s fallen on some hard times, his sister’s disappearance notwithstanding,” Dad says, and I wonder what that means. “But I’m sure you’d still follow him around with little hearts in your eyes.”

“Lottie loves a man who needs fixing,” Simon jokes and Malinda gives him a playful swat behind my back because it’s absolutely true. She has what Mom would have called a bad picker. The men in Lottie’s life have always been more project than partner.

“The poor Harrington girl,” Mary says, trying to stay involved in the conversation. “I heard she was a runaway, though.”

I don’t like the way Mary says ‘the Harrington girl,’ like Donna isn’t important enough for a first name, like she hasn’t suffered something terrible, or if she has, it’s her own fault. “That’s what the sheriff says, but Dad and I don’t think so.”

“And what do you think, Robert?” To anyone else it might seem like Mary is truly interested in his thoughts, but I’m sure the two of them are going to have words about all this as soon as they’re alone. Maybe she doesn’t like that to Dad, retirement just means working less rather than not working at all. Maybe she’s upset that he clearly hasn’t told her about Ethan’s visit. Or maybe, like Caitlyn, she doesn’t think Dad should be stressing himself out with an investigation while fighting cancer. All of this gets my hackles up; just let Dad be Dad.

“Well, Kit and I think it’s possible Donna’s disappearance is connected to other disappearances.”

“The Moose Lake Missing,” Simon nods, using the nickname the local papers gave the missing girls. I haven’t thought of it in years. Hearing it now gives me chills.

“You’re saying ‘disappearance’ and ‘missing,’” Malinda says in full journalist mode, “but what you’re really saying is murder… Right?”

“It’s possible,” Dad concedes, never willing to put all his cards on the table this early in a case.

“And if these murders are connected,” Malinda continues, “you’re really talking about a serial killer. In Moose Lake!”

“Again, it’s possible.” I can see Dad trying to tamp down Malinda’s interest, but it’s futile. She loves a mystery as much as we do. The difference is I’m not going to publish an article about it that anyone might read – like the killer. I can already see her drafting the opening lines in her head.

“What’s the connection between Donna and the other missing girls?”

“We don’t know yet,” I say. “Mom had actually been looking into the disappearances before she passed. She put quite the list together, connecting more than sixty cases.”

“And?”

“Well, I don’t know…” I reply. “They’re all women and they’re all white and relatively young, but beyond that…there’s nothing, at least physically, that they have in common. I mean, it’s almost like this guy has no preferences at all or…” Something clicks. I look at Dad, wearing his trademark grin; he worked this out already and was just waiting for me to catch up. I hate it when he does that.

“Or?” he prompts.

“Or there’s more than one.”

Malinda claps excitedly. “A serial killer with a partner!”

“No,” I say, thinking back to the board in Mom’s shed, more pieces clicking into place. “Not a partner… A protégé.”

Dad’s smile only gets wider. 

I rush from the house, grabbing the shed key on my way. I hear footsteps behind me - Malinda and Simon - as Mary calls from the dinner table, “What about dessert?” Moments later I’m standing in front of Mom’s bulletin board, staring at the red tacks. Malinda and Simon burst through the door a few seconds behind me and pull up short.

“Woah…” Malinda says, her voice all hushed wonder. “Never been in here before.”

“Yeah…” Simon says, looking around. “It feels kinda wrong. Like Leslie might pop out any second and knock our heads together before shooing us out.”

I barely hear them as they take in Mom’s revered writing space, commenting to each other about the posters and awards. My eyes are on the board, on the red tacks.

“Look, guys,” I say, pointing. “Look at the dates.”

“Holy shit, Kit,” Malinda says, eyes like blue saucers. “Your mom made a murder board!”

Simon and Malinda approach, standing on either side of me as they examine the board. Simon reaches out to straighten a few of the labels, reading the names and dates.

“Whatever pattern Mom saw,” I explain, “began in the late seventies. See? And if we focus on just the red tacks, the ones Mom thought were connected, you can see there’s about one missing girl a year until the early two-thousands.”

“Then there’s two or three a year.” Simon stands so close to me that his shoulder brushes mine as he drops his hand from a tag. I look away from the board long enough to watch him push his glasses further up his nose, a habit from when we were kids. I always thought it was cute in a dorky kind of way. Judging by the tingle on my bare shoulder, I still do.

“And then it dips back down after twenty-twelve or thirteen,” Malinda is also standing close, but not close enough to feel me flinch away from the year. That year.

“It makes sense, right?” I ask, looking at each of them, trying to stay on track. “The original killer, kidnapper, whatever starts in the seventies, doing his thing. Then, I don’t know, maybe he feels like he’s getting old, or he’s thinking about his legacy or whatever, and he finds someone else to continue his work.”

Malinda snorts. “What’s that classified ad look like?”

“So, the uptick in cases is what?” Simon asks. “Training? They work together, or maybe the new guy watches and then emulates, for a period of time? Until the original is satisfied?”

“And then the original killer retires,” Malinda finishes.

“Right,” I say. “Most serial killers don’t take on partners. They work alone; their egos can’t handle a partner. But the idea of someone carrying on their sick work, well that makes perfect sense.”

“It’s a solid theory,” Malinda agrees. “But you’re a long way off from proving any of it.”

“I don’t know, though,” Simon counters. “The ‘training’ took place over a long period of time, ten or eleven years. It’s possible they liked working together, isn’t it?”

“But then what happened to the original guy?” Malinda asks.

“Maybe he died. Or moved away,” Simon suggests. “Or maybe he ended up in prison for something else.”

“No,” I shake my head. “He’s still here.”

“Based on what?”

“Gut feeling.” I wonder what Dad thinks. Remembering his smile at the table, I know we’re on the right track. But I still feel like I’m missing something. What does he see that I can’t yet? What did Mom see?

“What are you going to do with all this?” Simon asks, pointing to the board. “It’s kind of a lot to look at. If you want, I can put together some of the data on my computer. Do some, I don’t know, cross referencing or something? Maybe that’ll help, give you something a little cleaner to look at.”

“I’ve already got a guy working on it.” Which reminds me that I’d hung up on said guy a few hours ago and I’m going to need to do something about that. Eventually.

“You’ve got a guy, huh?”

“A private eye’s best resource, you know.” I give Simon a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you guys in the loop. Maybe we can do a little sleuthing together since Dad is…” My voice trails off. I can’t make myself finish the sentence. Sick. Dad is sick.

“So, wait,” Malinda interrupts, turning from the board. “What’s your plan? What about Donna Harrington?”

“Well… first I’m going to try to track down Martha Morgan, Donna’s best friend. And then I need to track down this boyfriend of hers, Christian Lewis, who also appears to be missing. But I think he’s just hiding. Maybe he’s guilty. Maybe he killed Donna and her case isn’t connected, or…”

“He didn’t and it is,” Simon finishes. “Any idea where to start?”

“Well tomorrow is Friday,” Malinda says with a mischievous grin. “You know what that means.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me that’s still a thing.”

“Friday night parties in the woods? Of course it’s still a thing,” Malinda says. “It’s Moose Lake tradition! You won’t find the boyfriend there if he’s hiding out, but I’m sure you’ll find Martha. And who knows? Maybe someone with loose lips will say something about the boyfriend.”

“I don’t know… I’m a little old to show up at a teen kegger in the woods.” Late at night. In the dark. Where everyone is a shadow.

“You’d be surprised,” Simon says and then quickly adds, “Oh, no. Not me. But there are others. You know, the ones who don’t want to grow up.”

“Or who like groping drunk teenagers,” Malinda adds.

“Gross.”

“I could go with you,” Simon offers, his ears turning red, as if he’s just asked me on a date. “I know Martha and some of the other girls Donna was – is – whatever – friends with. They’re in the shop all the time. They don’t know who you are, but they know me. Might grease some wheels?”

I hesitate until Malinda surreptitiously pinches my arm hard enough to bruise. “Alright, sure. That’d be a big help.”

“It’s a date,” Malinda says, putting her arms around our shoulders and now both of us are blushing. “Now. Simon. Let me have your keys. I need to grab something from the car.”

Simon’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Why?”

Malinda rolls her eyes. “Give Lindie the keys, Rushie.”

Simon reluctantly complies. “You’re up to something.”

“So suspicious.” Malinda winks and disappears through the door, jingling Simon’s keys.

“Tell me I’m wrong!” he shouts after her.

The room falls quiet in Malinda’s absence. I sink into Mom’s plush chair and Simon takes the desk chair. The awkward silence builds around us. I think about how easy it is to be in the same room as him, to talk with him and Lindie as if we’re still best friends. As if I haven’t spent ten years pretending Simon doesn’t exist. As if being with him now doesn’t give me that same butterflies in my stomach feeling it did when we were kids.

“So…” Simon eventually says, swiveling around and looking anywhere but at me.

“So,” I sigh.

“You came back to Moose Lake.”

“I did.”

“Been a long time.”

I don’t know what Simon is thinking, but he’s definitely fishing for something. “I came back to help Dad…and because I had nowhere else to go.”

“Still getting along with Caitlyn as good as ever I see.”

I laugh. “That’s a fair statement.” Silence stretches between us again. I feel an urge to fill it. “Look, Simon, I just want you to know…it wasn’t you. The reason I left.”

Simon turns to me, eyes somewhere near, but not on, my face. “I know,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, thoughts I’ve avoided for years beginning to cloud my head. “I should have… I don’t know. There are a lot of ‘should haves’ in my head right now.”

“We don’t have to do this, Kit.” This time his eyes find mine. “You don’t owe me anything.” I can tell he means it. He’s as kind and forgiving as he’s ever been.

But he’s wrong. I don’t deserve such forgiveness, and I owe him so much more than I ever gave him. I open my mouth to tell him so when the sound of an engine interrupts us. Simon’s head snaps to the door and he pops up from his chair.

“No, she didn’t,” he mutters to himself, hands balling into fists. “No, she fucking didn’t.”

My phone pings with a text from Malinda:

Tell Rush not to have a heart attack. I promise to return the car in pristine condition by morning. Lottie’s got a hot date! Guess Rushie will need a ride home… 😉

I sigh. “Yes, she fucking did.” I show Simon the text.

“Subtle,” he mutters. “Fucking Lottie.”

“Fucking Lottie,” I agree. “Well. How about that dessert?”

*                                       *                                  *

Dessert is still on the dining table, but Dad and Mary are nowhere to be seen. The foil on the blueberry cobbler has been folded back and there are dirty dishes in the sink. Soft jazz music floats down the stairs, probably from Dad’s room. Ick.

“Grab the ice cream from the freezer,” I tell Simon. “This calls for double the sugar.”

We return to our seats at the dining table in silence. I scoop the still warm cobbler into two bowls and Simon dishes out generous portions of vanilla ice cream. As we dig in, I can’t prevent the moan of pleasure when the cobbler hits my mouth.

Simon laughs. “That good, huh?”

“Ugh!” I complain. “Why does she have to be such a good baker? Makes it so difficult to keep hating her.”

Simon looks like he’s about to say something about it but changes his mind. “You don’t have to take me home,” he says instead. “I can walk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I mumble with a full mouth. “I’ve gotta take Mary home too, I assume.”

“Um…”

I drop my spoon with a clatter. “What?”

“Well, it’s just that Mary usually stays over…” he explains. “She doesn’t have her own car. I bring her over a couple times a week, then pick her up in the morning to take her to Betty’s since I’m there every day anyway.”

“But she didn’t bring a bag,” I say stupidly. And then it dawns on me. She’s been seeing Dad for six months. Surely, she’s left things here. In the bedroom. Where Mom used to sleep. I groan and put my head on the table.

“She and your dad seem to really like each other,” Simon adds awkwardly.

“Not helping.” I lift my head and look at my mostly gone dessert. Part of me wants to throw it away out of spite, but my tastebuds won’t allow it. It’s too good, dammit. I finish off the cobbler and push my bowl away, disgusted with myself and how much I just ate. “Anyway. Where are you living these days? Don’t tell me you’re still putting up with Feather and Fawn?” Ridiculous names both, but they always fit Simon’s hippie parents perfectly. At least they didn’t inflict the same ridiculousness on their children.

“Nah,” Simon shakes his head, finishing off his own plate. “They moved down to North Carolina a few years ago to be close to Alex and the grandkids.”

“Jesus. Grandkids?”

“A boy and a girl. Six and eight.”

“Well, shit. Congrats, Uncle Simon.”

He laughs. “Thanks. Anyway, they sold the house but kept the hunting cabin. I live there now.”

My blood runs cold, my mouth suddenly dry. “The cabin?” The cabin.

“Um, yeah,” Simon says, clocking my discomfort. “It’s small, but it’s all I really need. It’s just me, you know?”

“Yeah.” All the good feelings that had flooded my body over the last couple of hours drain away. “Sure.”

“Anyway.” He pushes back his chair with a heavy scrape. “I should probably get going.” Suddenly he’s in a hurry.

“You don’t have to walk,” I say weakly. “I can—” Thank god, he cuts me off. Because I definitely can’t. I can’t drive him back to that place. Not in the dark. Maybe not even in daylight.

“It’s all good, Kit. Really. I’ll walk off that cobbler.” He pats his stomach and forces a grin for me. “Get some rest, okay? It’s going to be a late night tomorrow.” He reaches for his empty bowl.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it.” I sound numb.

“Um, yeah. Thanks.” He runs an anxious hand over his beard. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then? I’ll pick you up. Around 10?”

“Sounds good.”

“Right. See you tomorrow then.” And then he’s gone.

He watches Simon Rush leave, flee really, through the windowed doors. Kit stays at the table, staring off into space. She looks like she might throw up. What had Simon said to her, he wonders, to upset her? He has an idea, of course. He’d watched their friend take off in Simon’s car and he knows where Simon lives. How close it is to that spot. Their spot.

He wonders about her fear now. How afraid was she to come back? How afraid is she now, sitting all alone in the cone of light at that monstrous dining table? Can she feel him here? Can she feel his eyes on her? He wants her to. He wants her skin to crawl under his gaze. He wants her pulse to race, her heart in her throat. Wants her eyes to dart back and forth, looking for him. Wants her to desperately wonder Where is he? Is he out there somewhere? Is he watching me right now? Will he come for me again?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

She startles and looks at her fat, orange cat. It’s sitting in front of the doors, looking directly at his hiding spot. The cat’s fur sticks up along its back, its body puffed up like a giant orange marshmallow. The cat’s mouth is open, but he can’t hear the angry growl, that I see you yowl. But she can.

She stands, grabbing the empty bowls and admonishing the cat before disappearing from his view. He could move around to the back of the house, watch her through the window above the sink, but he’s been out here long enough. He’d just wanted to see her in her own space. He’d wanted to see if she really felt comfortable and safe here. She certainly seemed to, especially in the company of old friends.

His jaw locks, his teeth grinding together until his muscles ache. She doesn’t deserve to feel safe. To feel comfort. He will need to do something about that.

He steps back. Leafy tree limbs envelop him, take him in as if he is a part of the forest itself. He disappears, a wraith in the woods. As he heads for his hidden vehicle, an idea comes to him. A delicious, devious idea. A grin slices across his face in the dark.

The drive takes about half an hour. His little log cabin is around the lake and up an undulating road built into the mountains surrounding Moose Lake. It sits on ten acres of thick forest, neighbors miles away. It’s perfect for him. Far enough away to feel secluded, lonely even, but close enough to the necessities. It’s also the only place he ever feels free to be completely himself. He loathes the mask he must wear when he’s out in the community, but he understands the necessity. It is what keeps him safe.

When his house finally comes into view, relief floods him. The masks slips off.

Then he sees the other car in his driveway. He is surprised. The anger bubbles up. She knows better. How dare she? How dare she come into his house without his permission. How long has she been here? What has she been doing? What has she snooped through?

Deep breaths, he tells himself. Deep breaths. He hates surprises, yes, under normal circumstances. But this one… This one could work to his advantage. He clamps down on his temper, strangling it with his will. Yes…yes, it could.

When he opens the front door, she’s stretched out on his black leather couch with a book in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. She is also confidently, unabashedly, naked. He recognizes a peace offering – or a bribe – when he sees one. And that’s when he realizes that he should have expected this, expected her. He’s been too distracted the last few days to even consider this possibility. Distraction is dangerous, he chastises himself. Tighten up.

He closes the door and hangs his keys on the rack, slipping his mask back on. She rises, her wavy hair falling over her generous breasts. When he turns around, she’s standing before him, smiling brightly.

“Been a while,” he says.

“I’ve surprised you.” She’s pleased with herself but smart enough to hide the smirk from her face if not her voice.

“Yes,” he admits as she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in for a lingering kiss. When she pulls away, he slides a slick smile across his lips for her benefit. “And what other surprises has Loving Lottie planned for this evening?”

With a wink, she takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom.

He decides there will be time for her punishment later.

*                                       *                                  *

I sit at the table after Simon leaves, trying not to feel sick. Trying not to feel how this thing that happened to me so long ago has seeped into everything I feel and do. How it’s contaminated every aspect of my life for the last ten years. How I’ve allowed it to wall off the people I care about. Tonight had – if only slightly – weakened those walls. Until Simon told me where he lives. That fucking cabin where we’d last seen each other. Where we’d parted as high school lovers. The last place Simon had seen me without knowing it would be the last time he’d see me…for ten years. It was that cabin I’d left in the middle of the night. Where I’d begun that walk home. Alone.

Phillip Marlowe’s growl startles me. He’s crouched in front of the windowed doors by the dining table, his orange scruff up, tail twitching. I follow his gaze, but beyond the windows is unyielding darkness. Phil lets out a yowl that fades into a rumbling belly growl. He probably just sees some animal that I can’t, a possum or something, but the hiss that follows his growl chills me to the bone.

I carry the empty dishes to the sink and avoid looking out the window there. The music in Dad’s room has stopped and I realize how quiet it is. How isolated it can feel here, surrounded by nothing but trees and water, with neighbors that feel so far away in the dark. My pulse speeds up. My heart thunders against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Climbing the spiral stairs, I reach for my phone without thinking. The call connects just as I slip into my room and quietly close the door.

“Kit?” PiMan‘s voice contains none of the rebuke I was expecting for hanging up on him earlier. He sounds worried. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know. Yes?”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“I’m not.” I sigh. “I’m really not. My mind is in a million different places and…”

“What is it?”

“I-I’m—” I stutter, fighting against my closing throat as I lie back on my bed. I close my eyes. “I’m scared.”

“Tell me.” His tone lacks the urgency I’d get from someone like Caitlyn or Malinda. It’s soft. Caring. My pulse slows as I start to talk. I tell him everything.

I tell him about Mary and how she’s too good at baking for me to hate her, and how right this minute, she’s in my dad’s bedroom, and how I’m praying they’re just sleeping. I tell him how magnificent it was to see Malinda and Simon and act like no time had passed, like I hadn’t allowed a nameless horror to drive us apart. I tell him about showing them the murder board and how now it seems like we might be working together. I tell him that Simon and I are going to the party in the woods tomorrow night, to try to find Martha Morgan and –

“And how do you feel about that?” PiMan asks, interrupting my rush of words.

“Careful,” I say, trying to sound flippant. “You sound like my old therapist.” PiMan doesn’t say anything, doesn’t rise to the distraction I’ve tried to plant. I answer his question. “About going with Simon? I don’t know. It’s going to be weird. I can’t even believe he’s willing to talk to me after what I did—”

“You’d be surprised how forgiving the people who love us can be,” PiMan says, his voice unusually tight. Before I have a chance to process that, he adds, “But that’s not what I mean. I mean, how do you feel about going into the woods? Those woods. At night.”

“Oh. Um…” I try to process my feelings as I talk, surprised my heart’s not beating out of my chest just thinking about it. “Okay, I think? I won’t be alone. And there will be plenty of other people there. It’s just a bunch of dumb kids drinking in the woods, right?”

“And you’re sure you feel comfortable going into the woods with Simon?” He hesitates, his voice taking on a strange quality I haven’t heard from him before. “After all…he’s the one who left you alone before…before what happened happened.”

I know what PiMan means. Simon could have walked me home that night ten years ago. He’d offered, of course. He’s always been a gentleman that way. But after we’d finished groping each other like the teenagers we were, we’d fallen asleep. When I woke up and realized how late it was, I knew I had to get my ass home before Caitlyn ratted me out for missing curfew. Simon had roused, but he’d looked so tired, so handsome, laying back on the bed, that I’d told him to stay. He’d fallen back asleep immediately. I never blamed Simon for what happened, not once.

“It’s not Simon’s fault.”

“He might not feel that way.”

“He doesn’t even know what happened, Pi.”

“He doesn’t need to know the details to know something terrible happened to you, Kit. He doesn’t have to know the details to feel responsible, to have regrets.”

I don’t know what to say. PiMan has given more thought to Simon’s feelings than I ever have.

An awkward silence builds between us and inside it I can hear the background on PiMan’s end. It sounds suspiciously like crickets and cicadas.

“Are you…outside?”

PiMan huffs a laugh. “Believe it or not, I do actually leave the house sometimes.”

“Har har,” I reply. “It’s not that I didn’t think you ever went outside.” Although he’s right. “I guess I just pictured you living in some fancy high rise apartment in a big city. But it almost sounds like you’re in a forest or something.”

“What? A tech nerd can’t like nature too? Sometimes it’s nice to replace the glare of monitors in my glasses with sunlight. Or, well, moonlight.”

“Touche.” Something inside me warms at the idea of PiMan strolling through a forest, enjoying the sounds of nature the same way I used to. But then I remember the last time I heard nature’s night song and fear starts climbing back up my throat. I shift on the bed, uncomfortable. I can almost feel the bulky envelope under my mattress, the proverbial pea.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” I say into the quiet, my voice tight.

“Anything,” PiMan replies. I know he means it.

I tell him about the tack.

*                                       *                                  *

PiMan and I talk into the early morning hours. He’s deeply troubled by the tack, more concerned for me than I’ve ever heard him sound. I almost thought he was going to offer to come to Moose Lake to, I don’t know, help me? Protect me? But of course, he didn’t. And I don’t even know what I would have said. Do I want to meet him? In person? I don’t know. Our relationship suddenly feels complicated, and I have enough complications to deal with right now. In the end we decide he’ll delve more deeply into the missing girls from the murder board, and I’ll focus more on Donna, since that’s what I said I’d do for Ethan anyway. If there’s a connection between Donna and the other girls, PiMan will find it.

I lay awake for a while, trying very hard not to think about PiMan and how different he’d sounded, or about Dad and his companion in my parents’ bedroom, or about Philip Marlowe and his strange growling. Eventually I drift off.

The pale peach of dawn glows outside the windows when I wake. I’ve slept fitfully, curled in a ball on the loveseat, making myself as small as I can be. Don’t see me. Don’t notice me. Don’t kill me.

Lindie snores on the couch, in a heavy sleep that an earthquake wouldn’t disturb. She’d refused to go home, and even though I knew her mom wouldn’t care, I made her send a text, so her mom knew where she was. Just in case.

The pain of my ordeal crept in while I slept. My wrists and ankles are raw and angry. My leg muscles are weak and sore. A small but deep cut on my hand from my knife throbs in time with my heartbeat. My feet are bright, stinging reservoirs of pain.

Flashes of my terror come back to me. Footfalls in the dark. The scrape of shovel on dirt. The sound of his haunting whistle, his voice. His weight on top of me. The scent of something dangerously sweet. Warm blood splashing across my face.

My stomach bubbles up into my throat. I lurch for the front door, stumbling down the steps into the cool, dewy grass. I take great heaping gulps of air, inhaling until my lungs are balloons ready to burst. I exhale, trying to send all of the pain, both physical and mental, out with my breath. I stare at the blades of grass, watch as the dew slowly evaporates while the air around me begins to warm with the rising sun. A glint of sunlight catches my eye. I turn to the driveway.

Dad’s Volvo station wagon. Mom’s Volkswagen sedan. An old Honda Civic that Caitlyn and I share. And sitting in front of all of them, something that doesn’t belong.

A bike.

My bike.

It flashes across my mind’s eye, my bike. Laying on the ground by a tree. In a small clearing in the middle of the woods. Next to a grave. My grave. The last place I had seen it, had known it to be, before I took off into the woods, running for my life. Because I’d left it. I’d left it right there, by that tree. I’d left it behind.

Slowly, I get to my feet, pain forgotten. I approach my bike as if sneaking up on a wild animal. I don’t understand. How is it here? A fluttering piece of paper sticking out of the pouch tied to the handlebars holds the answer. I reach for it with trembling fingers. The folded paper has spots of brown on one corner. Dried blood. Slowly, as if I’m unwrapping an ancient map, I unfold the note and read.

Kit - until we meet again.

The words wobble on the page. But no. It’s not the words that wobble. It’s me.

On rubbery legs, I stumble to the Civic.

Open the door.

Sit.

Pop open the glove box. The note goes in. The car key comes out. Slot it into the ignition and twist. The engine comes to life.

I drive.

Out of Moose Lake. Away from this great, heaping fear.

I don’t look back. And I won’t. For ten years.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel rouses me from my sweaty bed. The front door opens and closes. I watch Mary climb into Simon’s car, which I see Malinda has returned to him as promised. Mary blows a kiss back at the house as Simon makes a careful U-turn and the car disappears up the driveway.

Downstairs, I pour myself the rest of Mary’s coffee. At the table, Dad reads over the papers between bites of leftover blueberry cobbler. He smirks when he sees me dish some for myself. When Phil protests, I dish him what’s left of the pies he destroyed while Lily pops up from Dad’s lap to lick his plate.

It's peaceful, this moment. Dad reading. Birdsong drifting in from the open windows. Squirrels chasing each other in the yard. I take a deep breath, filling my nose with the scent of old wood and fresh air. If I close my eyes, I can picture so many moments like this growing up. Mom might be out in her writing shed. Caitlyn will still be in bed, sleeping off her illegal hangover. I can admit now that I’ve missed this place, this feeling – something I haven’t allowed myself to do in so long. I wasn’t allowed to miss this place. If I missed it, then I might have come back. Might have put myself and my family in danger, which was why I left in the first place – the fear that my attacker would find me, this time in my home. In my bed. With Caitlyn only feet away, my parents just down the hall.

Jesus I shouldn’t be here.

Dad clears his throat.

“Father,” I say, just managing to keep my voice from wavering.

“Daughter,” he replies, folding his paper and setting it on the table. “It’s just you and me today. What should we do?”

I shrug. “What have you got in mind?”

Dad grins. “How does Phil feel about fish?”

*                                       *                                  *

Dad and I sit at opposite ends of the canoe. Lily had watched us push off from the dock with an indifferent flick of her tail, but Phil, who’d trailed after us with curiosity had hopped right in, now suns his belly between us. My line is in the water, the pole held loosely in my hands. I scan the glassy surface of the lake, breathing deeply of the cool morning air. A Great Blue Heron soundlessly sails across the water. Out here, where it’s serene and still, it’s hard to believe there’s a whole world of people still asleep beyond the trees. People who wake up without nightmares, who go to work and have a normal day, who aren’t possibly responsible for several missing girls, who don’t keep a deadly secret from everyone they know.

The soft plop of his fishing line draws my attention back to Dad. His silhouette glows with a ghostly aura in the morning sun. He looks smaller, older than I realized, age and cancer eating him from the inside. But he smiles beneath his ballcap, perfectly happy as he waits for a fresh bite. There hasn’t been so much as a nibble in the hour we’ve been out here, but I’m not sure that catching fish is actually on his agenda.

“So?” he says when he catches me watching him.

“So?”

“How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

Dad reels in his line and recasts on the other side of the canoe. He won’t participate in my circular banter.

“I don’t know,” I say eventually, avoiding his gaze, focusing on the shoreline instead. “It’s kinda nice to be back. Mostly.”

“Kinda? Mostly?”

I shake my head. I can’t explain my complicated feelings without telling him the truth.

“Simon and Malinda seemed happy to see you. Your mother would have been pleased to see the three of you together again.”

“It was good to be together again,” I admit.

“Simon seemed especially glad,” Dad continues. “He always asks after you, you know. I think he still—”

“Tell me about your profile,” I interrupt. Because there’s no way we’re having that conversation.

Dad gives me a look that tells me he knows what I’m doing, but he doesn’t push. He never does. He is a man of infinite, infuriating patience.

“Without bodies…” he shrugs. “There isn’t a lot to go on.”

“I know you’ve got ideas rattling around up there.” I recast my own line. Phil snaps to, watching the line whip across the canoe.

“I don’t enjoy guessing.”

“You’re not guessing. You’re speculating.”

“Those are synonyms,” he says with a displeased raise of an eyebrow.

“Humor me.”

Dad sets his rod in the holder on the side of the canoe and takes a deep drink from his water bottle. “Well, to start, they’re organized. Mostly.”

I pretend he isn’t throwing my own word back at me. “Mostly?”

Dad prepares to elaborate, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. Phil takes this as an invitation to bump his head into them, begging for pets. Dad obliges.

“Again, hard to say without bodies, but let’s start with the abductions. There’s no surveillance footage of the actual abductions, or any evidence the victims were stalked beforehand, but they most certainly were. He knew where they were, where they were going, when they’d be alone, and he knew how to avoid being seen. Many of the girls we think are connected went missing after leaving a local gathering…” He pauses, wanting my participation.

“So…he planned to take them. These aren’t crimes of opportunity. And he took the time to watch them, so…he’s a local?”

Dad nods. “A local or certainly someone who spends a lot of time here. Remember that most of them went missing in the summer months. Tourist season. And for at least some of the girls, there’s an idea of where they may have been abducted, but no scene to point to – no signs of a struggle, no purses or jewelry or shoes left behind. He’s careful. He’s clean. Precise.”

Precise. I don’t like that word, the image it brings to my mind of military corners. Of a voice that says, If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.

“What about motivation?” I ask. “Why does he – do they – do this?”

“Hard to say at this point. If I’m forced to speculate, they’re not visionary killers – the kind who kill because some vision or voice known only to them tells them to, like Son of Sam. These are people considered to be psychotic and people like that tend to be caught relatively quickly. They can’t think far enough ahead to cover all their tracks.

“They could be of the hedonistic type – those who kill for pleasure. But that’s nearly impossible to determine without bodies. The people in this category like to, ah, mutilate… They could be thrill seekers; the stalking certainly points to that.”

“The thrill of the hunt, of setting the trap,” I say and Dad nods.

“Or they could kill because it makes them feel powerful. They want to feel dominance over someone else, like Ted Bundy.”

“Maybe they’re mission-oriented?” I offer. “Maybe they’re trying to cleanse the world of some specific type of person?”

Dad smiles, pleased. “It’s possible, but that’s hard to say until we know the connection between the missing girls. If they were all prostitutes or addicts, that could be true. That’s not where I’d put my money.”

“Where would you put your money?”

“Again, no bodies. But as is often the case, especially since all of the victims are women, maybe it’s about sex.”

“It’s not.” I respond so quickly that The Agent clocks it.

“Evidence?” He asks carefully.

“No evidence,” I admit. “Call it a gut feeling.” Or the memory that haunts my dreams. Where I’m fully clothed and tied up next to a grave. No, he hadn’t been about to rape me. He was going to roll me into the dirt, maybe even bury me alive.

“But think about it,” I add, trying to distract The Agent’s penetrating gaze. “There is so much variation in age, in appearance. If it were about sex, you’d expect there to be a type. And with two killers, maybe even two types. But that’s not what we have. Some of the girls are older and some younger. Some pale, some tan, some freckled. Blondes, brunettes, red heads… There’s too much variation for it to be about sex. It’s almost like it’s about their, I don’t know, personalities, or their actions. Like he’d interacted with them before and something they said or did singled them out…” When I turn back to Dad, he’s smiling again.

“Dammit, you knew that already didn’t you?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“You’re holding back. Spit it out.”

“Well, remember your mother was looking into these,” he says. “Remember that she grew up spending time here.”

I squint my eyes at him. “What are you saying? Mom knew them?”

“Your mother knew one of the victims from the eighties. They’re weren’t close, but they had crossed paths. And she knew of a few of the others. Small town and all that.” Dad casually picks up his fishing rod like he hadn’t just laid a bomb in my lap. “As such, she had a theory and started to group the victims together.”

“Based on what?”

He smirks. “She called them feisty.”

“Feisty?”

“I think she was onto something,” Dad says, recasting his line again, Phil following the bait with his eyes. “And if she was, then that might point to a couple of men with mommy issues. Perhaps Mother was overbearing. Or disrespectful to an idolized father.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this yesterday, Father?”

“Where’s the fun in that, Daughter?”

“You know, not everything has to be a teaching moment.” Annoyed, I snap my fishing rod up and recast, failing to notice Phil’s hunting crouch and twitching tail. As my hook sails out over the water, so does Phil – right into the drink. He sinks like a stone before popping back up with a sneeze, a shake of the head, and panicked meows.

“Hell, Phil!” I reach over the side of the canoe to haul him back in, but I move too quickly. The canoe tips dangerously and while Dad has two free hands to brace himself with, I’ve reached both over the side for Phil. Before I can get Phil back into the canoe, I join him in the lake.