Page 37 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

GWEN

That evening, Kez and Javi come for dinner. While Javi, Sam, and the kids chop veggies and man the grill, Kez and I sit on the porch under a blanket. The air is crisp, the sky above still sporting the remnants of sunset.

“I agreed to record a podcast about Melvin,” I tell her.

She looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads. “I’m quite sure I didn’t hear that correctly because the Gwen Proctor I know would never voluntarily talk to the media.”

“It’s worse than you think. I’m working with Madison Westcott.”

“ The Royal Murders Madison Westcott?”

I nod. “You don’t have to say it, Sam already has. I know it’s a risk.”

“Risk isn’t exactly the word I’d use, but sure, you can call it that. Did you at least give her a thorough background check?”

“I did. And I asked Taylor from work to do so as well. So far, nothing’s come up that has us worried.”

“Except for all the shit she’s said about you and your family in The Royal Murders ,” she points out.

“I’m not committed to releasing it yet. I’ve just agreed to talk to her. So far, I can’t imagine anything interesting coming from it. We recorded for two hours this morning, and it was all boring background stuff.”

“I wouldn’t trust her.”

I laugh. “I don’t trust her. Especially given that she’s renting the house up the hill.”

Kez nearly spits out her drink. “The hell you say?”

“The house Sam stayed in when he first came to Stillhouse Lake.” I nod toward it.

She cranes her neck to get a better look.

From here, we can see the flicker of the TV in the front windows.

I’d noticed her leaving earlier in the day, but she must be back.

The lights in the kitchen are blazing, and I strain to catch sight of movement but there isn’t any.

I wonder what she’s watching. Aside from the few times my kids turn something on, it’s been so long since I’ve sat down to watch TV that I wouldn’t even know what’s popular these days.

Beside me, Kez clears her throat. I look her way and am met with pursed lips. “Gwen. Seriously.”

I hold up my hands. “I know. It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird. It’s stalkery. And disconcerting. It’s not like you to be okay with something like this.”

“I went online and looked up short-term rentals. She’s right. There aren’t many options in the area right now. Apparently, there’s an arts festival in Norton that’s got everything close to town booked.”

She gives me a long, hard, disapproving look.

I sigh. “I know, Kez. It’s a risk and I hate risks. But I have to do something because the nothing I’ve been doing isn’t working. If a podcast can help clear our name and take some of the pressure off, I have to try it.”

“That’s some magical thinking shit right there,” she says.

“Trust me, if I thought magic might help, I’d try that too. ”

She presses her lips together in a grumble but decides to change the subject. “I was able to get ahold of some of the officers involved in those cases you sent over. The Sicko Patrol.” She glances my way.

I perk up, waiting.

“They all recovered shards of human bone at the scene.”

Up until now, I’d always considered the possibility that the deaths might be connected, but it had seemed so far-fetched. Here, though, was proof. “All of them?” I ask.

She nods. “Every single one.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. It takes a moment for the reality of this to sink in. “They’re all connected, then?”

She nods again.

I stare out at the lake, a dark scar devoid of light, as the repercussions become clear. The enormity of the situation is staggering. “That means there’s a serial killer out there.”

Kez isn’t surprised by my conclusion. She’s clearly already thought it through.

“Shit.” I run a hand down my face.

The reality is, despite everyone’s fascination with serial killers, they’re actually fairly rare these days. Except in my world, apparently. First Melvin Royal, now this.

“None of them reported it to the FBI?” I’m assuming they didn’t, otherwise I would have gotten another visit from Special Agents Indiri and Wren.

“Most of them dismissed it as an odd quirk of the scene. None of the bones were found in the victims’ bodies like Cooper Kuntz. That would have definitely raised some red flags.”

I consider that for a moment. “Why do you think that is? Why the change with Kuntz? Why literally shove the bone down his throat? It seems like an escalation, doesn’t it?”

“Could be there was something personal about Kuntz. Or the killer was trying to make a statement, and no one was listening. They knew that putting the bone in the victim’s body would get attention.”

“Most killers don’t like attention,” I point out.

“Apparently, this one does.”

“So, what is this one trying to say that we’re not hearing?”

She rolls her head toward me. I can feel her studying my profile in the darkness. I continue staring out at the empty lake. “You know what this means, Gwen.” It’s a statement not a question.

I do. I just haven’t wanted to acknowledge it. Hiding from the truth doesn’t make it go away.

“You’re the common link,” she continues. “The victims are all men who threatened you.”

I know where she’s going with this—it was obvious the moment she said the deaths were all connected. “I’m the one who benefits from their deaths.”

“You’re going to be their first suspect,” she confirms.

Or Sam , I think to myself. I hear his laugh carry from where he and the others surround the grill. As I watch, he claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder. My son grins up at him. Sam’s smile is more fragile, careful not to re-split his lip.

I think about the lengths Sam would go to protect us. The rage I’ve seen in him when he’s taken a turn at Sicko Patrol.

Would he kill for us? Absolutely. Of that I have no doubt. If it came to pulling the trigger to keep us safe, he wouldn’t hesitate. The question is, where would he draw the line? Would he hunt down the people who threaten us? I can’t see it.

That doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of imagining Sam as a vigilante. But the reality of the situation is too horrible.

“Any chance you can reach out to Detective Gutierrez with the Knoxville PD and ask them if they found a bone fragment at the Varrus crime scene?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You think they’re related? ”

“I think it’s in our best interest to find out.”

She nods.

“The internet trolls are going to lose their damn minds when they find out about this,” I say. “They’re going to come for me. Except now, it will be even more personal. They’ll think I’ve been targeting them. They’ll feel even more justified in taking me out.”

“You need to be ready,” Kez says. “Before going to the FBI, you need to have your alibis locked down tight. Don’t even give them a chance to consider you as a suspect. You should do the same for Sam,” she adds.

“That won’t matter to the trolls,” I tell her. They don’t listen to reason. They never have.”

The next morning, Sam is already gone by the time I wake up.

He mentioned picking up a job a bit farther away than usual and wanting to get a head start on the commute.

I’m usually the first one up in the mornings, so it’s a little disorienting to find a pot of coffee already brewed, and a scone waiting for me on a plate by my empty mug.

I smile at the thought of Sam picking up scones on his way home yesterday just so that he could surprise me this morning. It’s one of the things I love about him: how attentive he is to those around him, anticipating their needs—sometimes before they even realize what that is.

I carry my scone to the window overlooking the lake and eat while admiring the view.

The same old fisherman from before is down by the dock, loading gear into his rickety boat.

I shiver at the thought of how cold it must be out on the open water.

He must really love to fish if he’s willing to brave this weather to do it.

I realize, then, that I don’t have anything like that in my life.

I like to read, but I’m not sure that counts as a hobby, especially considering I usually only manage two or three pages in bed before passing out at night.

Back when I was married to Melvin, I liked to cook.

I’d spend hours scrolling through recipes online, trying to find just the right meal that might impress him.

It’s not that I’ve given up cooking, I just don’t put the same time or effort into it that I used to. Somewhere along the way, as a single mom with two kids on the run from my ex-husband, it became less of a priority and more of a chore.

Then it hits me. I know exactly what my hobby is: self-defense. I’ve spent hours at the gun range, watching videos online, working out, and running drills. It’s such an everyday part of my life that I don’t even think twice about it.

I press my forehead against the window, feeling the cold from outside seep into my skin.

What does it say about me that I spend my free time perfecting my aim with various weapons and practicing Krav Maga?

In the beginning, it was a necessity. I had to learn how to protect my kids.

Then, as they grew older, I continued learning and training so I could pass on that knowledge to them.

I’ve always been proud of my self-defense skills.

I burn with self-righteous pride when I enter a new gun range and get derisive looks from the other shooters, only to watch their jaws drop when they see my target.

I like attending sparring classes and being dismissed by larger participants, only to pin them to the mat before they realize what’s happening.

Ultimately, though, I started training because of Melvin. This part of my life that makes me feel strong and independent and powerful exists as a reaction to my ex-husband.

Which means that, in some ways, he’s had a role in it. Not directly, but it’s another area of my life defined by him in one way or another.