Page 13

You’re dead to me.

My ashes as a centerpiece will be a great conversation starter on Thanksgiving. That you’re hosting. AT YOUR LAKE HOUSE.

Give the cute coach my number.

Camp did yesterday.

Four

Thehouseresemblesaridiculous pyramid constructed in the seventies and smells like the walls are insulated with mothballs. The photos did not do this place justice: it’s worse. All ridiculous lines and wallpaper and outdated everything.

The downstairs of the house is both open and cramped, the angles of the walls seemingly stealing square footage. A U-shaped kitchen and small living room bleed into one another, and down a short hall there’s a bedroom, bathroom, and a utility room with a washing machine one spin cycle away from falling apart.

Other than the pristine view of the lake out of the one solid wall of windows, it’s ghastly.

My heels click up a steep spiral staircase that leads to the master loft. Behind the clunky headboard of the bed is a smaller wall of windows, framing in a thick hedge of trees. The closet has a few of Archie’s shirts, fishing gear, and a lone pair of suspenders. ThePepto-colored tile master bathroom has a full-sized bathtub, grimy grout, and carpeting on the toilet.

Through the entirety of it all, above me is the exposed, wood-planked apex of the roofline.

I lean on the spindled railing that overlooks the open downstairs, wondering if I can do this. If Iwantto do this. If it can possibly sell for enough money to get me out of here.

Straight ahead, the lake and the town’s namesake rock ledge fill the windows like a painting. While most of the lakeshore sits down at water level with a gentle slope, there’s a long section—directly across from me—that’s bordered by a slick granite rock face that drops straight down. At the top, a rock ledge where the first people settled and declared the town Ledger. Way Archie told it, his great-great-grand something was the one who led the Ledger-naming charge.

Light from the mid-afternoon sun makes the ripples on the water look like sparkly confetti.

The house, though burning my retinas, vibrates with a kind of energy that begs to be noticed. Like it’s only ugly because nobody thought to make it shine.

And, dammit, something in that grabs my throat and squeezes. Like maybe all my ugly and all the ugly in this stupid triangle can become something less ugly together.

I push off the railing and start toward the steps, stopping when I catch my reflection in a gold-framed mirror leaning against the wall, its old age evident by the wavy glass.

Everything about me looks abstract: my dark, brown-haired bob is big and wild, my hazel eyes are more wideset, and my lean build is Wanda-like curvy. I tug on the lapel of my blazer, tilting my head. My reflection is always a mind fuck; it never shows what’s there, only what’s not. Even though I’ve come to accept it, every time it happens it’s a deep bruise being pushed on. This mirror might be the most accurate one I’ve ever looked at.

Down the stairs, across the shaggy carpet, by the tube television and floral everything furniture, I emerge onto the large porch and take a deep breath of the hot summer air.

At the wooded corner of the property sits a shed resembling a kill room. I make my way toward it, clusters of pine needles making the points of my heels wobble with every step. Unkempt grass and piles of leaves slope gently down to a sandy patch of beach with a canoe resting bottom up, two paddles next to it. In the middle of the yard, a bird lands at a half-filled bird feeder hanging from a hook.

I spent my entire childhood on this lake, laughing with June and being chased by Ford. Pretending I belonged here instead of the run-down trailer park I grew up in and with the worthless parents that bred me. Standing on the familiar shoreline, I feel just as fraudulent all these years later, and it nearly knocks the wind out of me.

Ripples caused by a small boat kiss the shore as I let the idea of me in this house—a place of my own on the lake June and I used to dream we’d live on—be the thing to cut the shackles that have tied me to every person I’ve lost—dead or alive—and set me free.

At the cedar-shingled shed, the door sticks the first time I try to open it, swinging open the second. No dead bodies, just a wooden workbench with tackle boxes and tools. There’s one window letting light in and a single dusty bulb hanging from a beam in the center with a string.

I open a tackle box and chuckle: Between the hooks and lures, there’s a plastic bag of rolled joints.Archie, you sneaky bastard.

In the first cabinet: dried up cans of paint. In the next: a small box I pull from the shelf.

A loud bark rips through the air and a shot of terror makes the box fall from my hands—metal sinkers and plastic bobbers scattering across the floor—as my head snaps to the doorway.

There, sitting with a tilted head and another loud bark, is a dog.

Hand to my chest, heart pounding, I let out a breathy laugh. “Shit, dog.”

Its tongue lolls out of its mouth as it barely lifts its ass off the ground, wags its tail once, and sits back down with a whimper before barking again.

I wince at the noise, studying the strange pattern on the fur—I recognize it from one of the photos Lydia showed me. It’s mostly black with random yet bold streaks and splatters of white. Like a zebra and a wolf got drunk at a party and banged a new species into existence. “The hell did you come from?”

Another whimper, but it doesn’t bark this time. I look around the shed, keeping my distance from the creature but noticing the details I hadn’t before: metal bowls on the wood-planked floor,kibble in a container, and, much to my dismay, a doggy door. Archie had a dog.