Page 5 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

My thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on the office door.

I quickly minimize any screens as Lanny pops her head around the corner to say good-bye.

“I’m off to school in a few minutes. Sam’s driving me since you won’t let me borrow your car.

Unless you’ve changed your mind?” She shoots me a hopeful smile.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’ve got errands to run. Unless you want to drop by the grocery store on your way home?” I mimic the singsong cadence of her request.

She pulls a face. “No, thank you.”

“No complaining about what’s for dinner then,” I tell her .

“When has that ever stopped me?” She waves and retreats down the hallway to pack her bag for school.

“Good luck on your history test,” I call after her.

“With a brain like mine, I don’t need luck!” she shouts back.

I shake my head, admiring her confidence. It’s always so striking to me that I can be immersed in a world of online threats and hate one moment, and then jerked back into the ordinary life of a parent and their teen the next. It makes me appreciate the spots of normalcy in our lives even more.

Sam slips into my office then, a travel mug of coffee in his hand. He holds it out to me. “I figured you were due for a refill, given how early you were up this morning.”

I take it from him gratefully, the smell of dark roast already easing the tension in my shoulders. I swallow a sip and groan in pleasure.

He gestures at my computer screen. “Work?”

It’s obvious from his expression he knows what I’ve been up to. I shake my head, my cheeks flushing. I’m not ashamed to be protecting my family, but I shouldn’t have kept it from Sam. “Sicko Patrol,” I admit.

He nods, unsurprised. I wonder how long he’s known and kept silent.

“With the podcast, I was worried?—”

“I get it.” He blows on his coffee before taking a sip. “How bad is it?”

I shrug. “Nothing we haven’t seen before. It’s just the number that’s impressive. I fundamentally don’t understand how these people have so much free time and why they would spend it spewing such vile hate at someone they don’t know.”

“People like being outraged, unfortunately. It’s the one emotion that’s almost guaranteed to elicit a reaction. That’s what social media preys on: sparking outrage to increase engagement.”

“But what’s the point of it all? ”

“Given that you’re talking to a guy with zero social media presence, I have no idea.

I’ve got better things to do with my time.

Speaking of, after I drop Lanny off at school, I’m headed to the airport for a bit to catch up on paperwork.

I heard you mention the grocery store a second ago.

If you want to send me the list, I’ll take care of it on my way home. ”

I give him a grateful smile. He could have come down on me for resuming Sicko Patrol, but he didn’t. He understands that my need to protect my family is at the very core of my being.

Sam is a good man—a great partner and father to our kids. Which is why I hate that I’m about to give him bad news. “I heard from Taylor this morning.”

A muscle along his jaw twitches. He can already tell from my tone that it’s not good news.

“She hasn’t been able to find anything.”

He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair. “Even from the calls?”

“She’s just as surprised as we are. She’s going to keep looking, though. She’s pretty pissed she hasn’t been able to pick something up on him.”

Sam sags against the doorframe. Being falsely accused of murder has been a tremendous weight on his shoulders.

I notice more lines around his eyes than he’s had in the past, and more gray hairs near his temples.

Recently, he’s been having trouble sleeping too.

More often than not, I feel him tossing and turning beside me late into the night.

I think what’s hardest for him is the uncertainty of it all.

The DA chose not to press charges against him for Varrus’s disappearance, but that doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind in the future.

The DA is certain Varrus is dead, that Sam killed him, and that the calls are a hoax to deter suspicion.

Each morning we wake up, there’s no guarantee Sam won’t be in jail by the end of the day. That kind of stress takes a toll .

“Maybe the podcast will flush Varrus out,” he offers. “Especially if the next episode focuses on blaming me for his disappearance. I’m sure he won’t be able to resist calling to gloat.” His voice is understandably bitter.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” I tell him. “I know how difficult all this has been on you.”

He gives me a tired smile. “You’ve been falsely accused of being Melvin’s accomplice for years.”

“We should start a club,” I joke.

“I’d be too afraid of who else might try to join,” he says with a laugh.

From down the hallway, I hear Lanny jangling the keys with an impatient, “Let’s go already!”

Sam pushes off the door. “Duty calls.” He nods toward the computer. “Don’t spend too long on that stuff. Remember our agreement: no more letting fear dictate our lives.”

“One more hour, then I’m done,” I tell him. I hope it’s a promise I can keep.

He comes around the desk, leaning over to press a kiss to my forehead, and then my lips. He lets it linger for a moment. I shiver, memories of the night before warming me from the inside.

“Seriously? Ugh!” It’s Lanny. Apparently, she got tired of waiting for Sam and came to investigate what was taking him so long. “Look, you give me the keys and let me drive myself, and you can keep doing whatever this is,” she says, waving a hand at us.

Sam grins, catching my eye with a wink. He straightens and turns back to Lanny. “Nice try. Let’s go.”

Later that morning Connor brings his laptop into my office and takes his usual spot in the recliner under the window in the corner.

I quickly click away from Sicko Patrol and check the clock, surprised at how late it’s gotten.

I promised Sam I’d only spend another hour at most working on this, yet somehow I’ve lost most of the morning to it.

With a sigh, I mentally push Sicko Patrol aside and focus on my actual paying work.

Since returning from North Carolina after solving the Juliette Larson case several months ago, I’ve been mostly working on background checks.

My boss, J.B., has been incredibly understanding.

She knows I’m one of her best investigators when it comes to missing persons, and that my reputation has, in turn, bolstered the agency’s reputation.

She also knows that missing persons cases are emotionally draining, and I need time to recover.

Now, with the podcast, I’m guessing she’s happy to keep me working in the background.

Not that she’s ever really cared about my history and connection to Melvin Royal, but it’ll just be easier if she doesn’t have clients asking questions about me.

Connor and I work silently—him with his headphones in as he listens to a lecture.

I glance over at him every now and again.

His hair is shaggier than he would normally wear it, though I think part of that is to cover the scar on his head from being shot several months ago.

Sometimes, I notice the light on under his door in the middle of the night and know he’s up late reading, fighting against sleep and the nightmares that often come with it.

I remember when he was a baby and would hurt himself—a scraped knee or stubbed toe or knot on the head from walking into a table—and he would cry and hold out his arms for me. I would gather him close and feel his little body sag against mine with relief.

There was a time when I could fix my kids’ problems with a hug.

I miss those days.

It’s one of the hardest tasks as a parent: teaching your kids how to live without you. Taking this infant who knows nothing other than you—your scent, your heartbeat, your voice— and is completely dependent on you and, over time, teaching them to become their own being.

I’m not ready to let either of my kids go, though I know that eventually I won’t have a choice. Lanny turns eighteen soon. She’ll be a legal adult. She has plans to start community college. Connor will follow a few years later.

My throat tightens at the thought, emotions welling inside. I swallow them back. As Sam reminded me earlier, I shouldn’t borrow trouble from the future. Especially when the present has enough trouble. I can worry about all of that later.

I refocus on my job, diving into the background of a political candidate considering running for higher office. They’re curious about what opposition research would find and hired us to dig up anything we could.

A few hours later, I’m knee-deep in research when Connor’s phone pings. He pulls off his headphones and checks his messages. “Sweet!” he says with a fist pump.

I lift my eyebrows in question.

“A book I’ve been on the hold list for at the library finally came in. I’ve been waiting for it for months. Can I go pick it up?” He’s already standing and packing up his school things.

I glance down at my screen. I have a dozen tabs open, and searches currently running through two databases. It will be at least another two hours before I’m even close to finishing. “If you give me an hour or two, I can drive you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Mom, it’s just the library. I’ve been there a zillion times.”

Still, I hesitate.

He crosses his arms, settling in for an argument. “You’re letting Lanny go on a field trip to DC, but you won’t even let me bike to the library on my own? How is that fair?”

I want to tell him that Lanny wasn’t shot last year after meeting a young, pretty girl and falling for her. It wasn’t Lanny I found stumbling out of a burning house. It wasn’t Lanny’s hand I held in the hospital while she was in a medically induced coma.

Instead, I take a measured breath. As my therapist has pointed out to me multiple times, Connor’s troubles earlier this year came from his willingness to trust others. That’s a good trait for people to have. He shouldn’t be punished for it.

“Make sure to maintain your situational awareness at all times?—”

He breaks into a smile, knowing that means I plan to let him go. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

He starts to back out of my office, and I call after him, “And if you feel like someone is paying you more attention than they should?—”

“ I know, Mom ,” he shouts back.

“Make sure to take your phone!” I add. “Call me if you want a ride home!”

My answer is the sound of the front door slamming shut. I pull up the tracking app on my phone. The icon representing Connor is already moving away from the house, verifying that he remembered to take his phone.

I lean back in my chair, watching his icon on my screen wend its way toward the library. Maybe I should have pushed my work aside and gone with him. Except I know I can’t watch him all the time. If I tried to, he’d only chafe against the restrictions which might lead him to rebel.

It’s such a difficult balance—letting my kids grow older and allowing them to take on more responsibility, while also protecting them.

Given everything they’ve been through, they have a good understanding of the threats that exist for them in the world.

But they’re still teens—they believe they’re invincible.

The reality is, I can’t stop the future from coming. All I can do is give them the tools they need to face it .

The doorbell rings before I can spend too much time falling down the rabbit hole of anxiety over my kids. I switch over to the front door camera on my phone to find a man and woman standing on the front porch.

Both are on the early side of middle-aged, wearing dark suits, with sensible haircuts and neutral expressions. I immediately peg them as law enforcement and feel a spike of adrenaline, wondering if they’re here for Sam.

Our lawyer told us that if the Norton DA decided to move forward with charges against Sam, we’d get a heads-up. But that wasn’t a guarantee. Panicking won’t help anything, and I force a deep breath. Whatever this is, I’ll handle it. I always have.

I move to the closet in my office where I keep the lockbox containing my Sig Sauer. It pops open with the touch of my finger to the biometric sensor. Once I’ve loaded the clip and have it securely in hand, I click on the intercom button to the front door camera and ask, “Can I help you?”

The man looks toward the camera as he reaches for something in his front pocket. “Ms. Proctor? My name is Special Agent Amar Indiri. This is my colleague, Special Agent Lydia Wren. We’re with the FBI. Do you have a moment to answer some questions?”