Page 41 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

Then, suddenly, at the last turn toward our driveway she comes to an abrupt stop. It’s so unexpected that I barely avoid colliding with her. I catch myself against a small tree off the side of the road. “Lanny?—”

I notice her expression and fall silent. She’s gone completely still, body pulled tight. I’m instantly on guard, scanning my surroundings.

That’s when I notice the woman on the dock near the turnoff to our driveway.

“That woman,” Lanny hisses under her breath.

I nod. Something about her sets the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I’ve spent a lot of time on our deck, watching the lake, and I’m familiar with most of the locals who use this old dock for their boats. They’re all older men, retirees with white hair, hunched backs, and limps.

This is a woman who fits none of those descriptions. She’s tall and lithe with a bob of dark hair. She definitely stands out, which sets off my radar.

“I’ve never seen her before,” Lanny whispers. “Something about her isn’t right.”

I nod. I’m about to tell her to go up to the house when she leans toward me, her voice softer than a leaf sliding across the ground.

“I’ll go get Connor and set the alarm. If I don’t hear from you in five minutes, we’ll start driving.

If you don’t call or text by the time we reach Norton city limits, I’ll call the cops and head to Kez and Javi’s. ”

It’s exactly what I was going to tell her to do. I don’t even have to say anything before Lanny is off, sneaking through the woods up the hill to our house. I watch until I’m satisfied she’s safe, then I start toward the dock.

I generally don’t arm myself when I go jogging. I haven’t found a holster that fits right without chafing or dragging down my clothes. I regret that choice right now.

As I approach the stranger, I keep my legs and arms loose and stay on my toes, ready to defend myself or run—whichever is necessary.

She’s dressed smartly, which is part of the reason she stood out.

Most people around here dress for comfort, even more so in the winter, but not this woman.

She’s wearing dark leggings and a wool tunic with ankle boots.

A large cashmere scarf is wound around her neck.

It’s a pretty outfit, but she’s probably freezing, especially given that the breeze tends to be stronger on the dock out over the water.

She senses my approach because she turns to face me before I have the chance to say anything. I recognize her instantly, and my stomach twists .

“Rowan.” What the hell is she doing in Stillhouse Lake? What’s she doing here , right next to my house?

The answer is obvious. She’s been waiting for me. The thought sends a chill through me. I wish again that I’d carried a gun with me while jogging or had at least cut through the woods to grab one from the house before approaching this woman.

I stop where I am at the edge of the dock. From everything I’ve learned about Rowan recently, she could be a serial killer, and I might be her next target. She doesn’t look like one, of course—they rarely do.

She looks me over, her expression remaining unchanged. If she hates me or is imagining my mutilated corpse, I can’t tell. The woman has one hell of a poker face.

“I know about the bones,” she says. No preamble, no small talk.

I blink, completely blindsided by the statement. “What bones?”

She smiles slightly as if amused by my feigned ignorance. Except my confusion isn’t feigned. “Melvin’s bones,” she says. “I know someone robbed his grave, and I know they’ve been leaving his bones at various crime scenes. Murders, mostly.”

As far as I’m aware, the police haven’t released that information. “None of that is public knowledge.”

“You think the police are the only ones able to dig up information and put the pieces together? Please.”

“Why are you here?”

“Research. I’m considering a second season of the podcast and wanted to see where you lived after fleeing Melvin Royal.

I always wanted to figure out what it is about this place that made Sam turn against the Lost Angels.

Stillhouse Lake is synonymous with Gina Royal and Gwen Proctor. I wanted to see it all for myself.”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s the real reason?”

That gets a genuine smile. “Sometimes, I forget how smart you are. Then again, you have to be to have bested Melvin.”

She swings a large purse off her shoulder and reaches inside. My mind screams gun , and I’m already pivoting to run when she pulls out a folder. She notices my scramble to bolt and tsks. “I’m not here to hurt you, Gwen. Not physically.”

“Then why are you here?”

She rolls her eyes. “If you’ll take the damn folder, I’ll show you.” She stalks closer and shoves it at me.

Unless she’s coated it with some sort of poison—unlikely since she’s handling it with bare hands—I can’t see any harm in taking it.

I flip it open. Inside are dozens of pages, each a dossier of a different victim.

I recognize most of the names: Cooper Kuntz, Salem Adams, Forrester Blakeny.

All men I’d come across during Sicko Patrol. All men who sent me vile threats.

All men who ended up dead or missing, with one of Melvin’s bones found with them at the crime scenes.

I count ten murder victims in all, three more than I’d found on my own and passed along to the FBI. I stare back up at her, studying her. What kind of game is she playing?

“How did you get all this?”

“The Lost Angels tip line,” she says. “We’ve been running an ad for it at the end of the podcasts, inviting anyone with information to reach out. Most of what we’ve gotten is crap, but some of it turned out to be true.”

It’s a plausible explanation, though I’m not sure I buy it. I don’t trust anything Rowan says.

“You know what they all have in common other than Melvin’s bones being at the crime scenes?” she continues. “You. They’re all men who threatened you in some form or another. Now, they’re all missing or dead.”

It’s rich that she’s blaming me when she’s the most viable suspect. I wonder if this confrontation is somehow a part of her plan to set me up.

I close the folder. “I had nothing to do with these men’s deaths. ”

She quirks an eyebrow. “For someone so innocent, a lot of people end up dying around you.”

“You know, there’s no such thing as a perfect murder. Whoever did this will get caught. I hope you have a good lawyer.”

She laughs, incredulous. “You think I’m involved?”

“I think someone is trying to set me and Sam up. You’ve made your hatred of us clear. You’d stop at nothing to get revenge, and it’s not going to work.”

She stalks closer, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t want you dead, Gwen. I want you miserable. Sam too. I want the world to hate you as much as I do. I want you to live a long life, and every minute of it I want you to suffer.”

Her words send chills down my spine. I remember looking into Melvin’s eyes after he’d been arrested and no longer felt the need to hide his true self from me. He carried so much hatred inside. It burned through him, just like it does in Rowan.

“And my kids?” I ask her. “Do they deserve to suffer too? Do you have any idea what your podcast has done to them? The kind of hate they’re getting online? It wasn’t enough for you to come for me and Sam in your podcast, but you came after my kids. You used their names. You made them targets.”

“Their father made them targets,” she spits.

I throw up my arms. “They didn’t get to choose who their parents were!”

She steps forward, finger pointing. “Yes, but you chose who you married. Who you had children with.”

“I didn’t know he was a murderer!” I shout. My hands clench into fists at my sides. I’m so tired of these fucking accusations. I’m surprised by the rage coursing through me. I force myself to take a step back and put distance between us.

“You know what I think, Gina?”

I bristle at her use of my old name. She’s doing it on purpose— refusing to acknowledge who I am now. I clench my teeth and say nothing.

Her eyes narrow. “I think you’re still Melvin’s Little Helper. I think you haven’t stopped killing. I think you have an enemies list and you’re working through it one by one, killing them all. And I think you leave one of Melvin’s bones behind as a calling card. As a sick way of honoring him.”

“If I had an enemies list, Rowan, you’d be at the top of it.”

“Is that a threat?”

I hear a car engine behind me and turn to see my SUV pulling out of the driveway and onto the street.

Lanny is at the wheel, Conner in the passenger seat.

I’ve forgotten to text them the all-clear and I kick myself for the panic I see etched on both my children’s faces. It only adds fuel to my anger.

I wave to indicate that everything is okay, then motion for them to pull over so I can hop into the car. Lanny drives half off the road, and I heave open the back passenger door. “Leave us alone, Rowan,” I call back to the woman. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

She laughs. “Why would I care about your lawyer? Don’t forget, truth is an absolute defense to a defamation claim. You can’t run from the truth, Gina!”

Her voice echoes behind me as I slam the door and tell my daughter to drive.

“Who was that?” Lanny asks. There’s a slight quaver to her voice, though she’s trying not to let it show—remnants of the adrenaline dump from having to grab Connor and run.

“Rowan Applegate,” Connor answers before I have a chance. “Sam’s sister Callie’s sister.”

“The woman from the podcast?” The sudden rage in my daughter’s voice makes me worried she might slam on the brakes and turn around to go after the woman. “What the hell is she doing here? ”

“Probably wants to keep ruining our lives. It’s what the Lost Angels like to do,” Connor says.

There’s a dullness to his voice. It almost sounds like exhausted complacency.

It worries me. He’s been less animated lately.

Less engaged. I worry that his scars from what happened in Gardenia last fall are more emotional than physical.

He’s become withdrawn, and I desperately want to find some sort of normalcy for him. Something for him to look forward to.

There’s so much I should be doing right now.

There’s a potential serial killer out there targeting people who have been stalking me.

I have to tell Sam, we have to figure out his alibis, we have to alert the FBI.

We have to figure out what to do about Rowan.

We have to record more of the podcast for Madison.

We need to be figuring out who’s trying to set Sam up and why.

Then I think about what I told Lanny earlier about how we can’t let these things dictate our lives. That Melvin wins when we live in fear. If I want her to believe that, then I need to embrace the same philosophy.

“Why don’t we go ahead and head over to that barn we were going to check out?” I suggest. “We can stop in town and get a slice of cake at Kathy’s Kakes on the way home.”

Lanny’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Do I get to drive?”

I smile at her. “Absolutely.”