Page 108 of It Happened on the Lake

“You did that?” Harper said, remembering how Joel had sworn they’d been repaired.

“How sick are you?” She’d heard enough. She had to get away.

Who knew what Marcia was capable of? And that was when she realized that Marcia was wearing gloves, so that the fingerprints on Gramps’s pistol belonged to Harper.

The last person to have handled the gun.

But she would have to get close to make it look like suicide. Or . . . she could say she walked in on the battle between Craig and Harper . . . either way, Harper had to get out. Now!

She gripped the cleaver.

“Uh-uh-uh!” Marcia chided. “Dumb move, smart girl.”

Harper yanked the cleaver from the block.

Marcia fired.

Bang!

The bullet sizzled through the kitchen.

Glasses piled in the sink shattered.

Harper hurled the cleaver, and it spun wildly, whizzing end over end.

Marcia moved, but the cleaver nicked her shoulder. She cried out in pain. “You bitch!”

She fired again.

A cabinet near Harper’s head splintered! Chunks of wood flew through the kitchen. Another wild shot.

Harper threw herself toward the foyer and the front door. If she could just get outside, she had a chance. She sped over the marble, skidding as she reached the door.

Bang!

Once more, Marcia pulled the trigger.

Pain exploded in Harper’s shoulder and she stumbled, slipping past the door but flinging herself out of the foyer where she was an open target to the far side of the split staircase, taking whatever cover she could in the carved railing and spindles.

Marcia stepped into the foyer, blood staining her sweater, her face white, her expression deadly. Narrowing her eyes, her arm no longer steady, she took aim.

Bang!

Another shot.

Two spindles next to Harper burst, spraying her with splintered wood chips as she climbed.

Eyes trained on Harper, Marcia dashed to the opposite staircase and pointed the gun upward and across the foyer as Harper scrambled up the stairs.

Bang!

Glass and crystal exploded and the chandelier rocked, sending a shower of glass to crash on the marble floor below.

Harper didn’t wait for the next shot. She raced up the final steps of the staircase and ran through the hallway to the stairs leading ever upward. She heard Marcia running behind her but there was nowhere to go but up.

Bleeding, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet, she forced herself forward.

Marcia had only one shot left. The revolver had six chambers. And Harper had counted five shots. But who was to say, her stepmother, having planned this for years, couldn’t have more bullets?

“You can’t get away!” Marcia called after her, but her voice wasn’t as strong as it had been and she was breathing hard as she climbed the stairs. “You’re doomed up there, Harper! There’s no way out.”

“Screw you!” she yelled back, hoping that Marcia would take another wild shot to even the playing field.

With each step her horror, fear, and anger prodded her on. Marcia had killed everyone she loved. The bitch deserved to die and to die a horrible, excruciating death.

And what about her father? Bruce Reed had to have known or suspected something. He couldn’t be as na?ve as Marcia had said.

Heartsick, her hip aching, her shoulder throbbing, she slipped into her room and reached into the sleeping bag for Evan’s knife.

Blood was running down her arm now, sticky and wet.

She ignored it. What sweet vengeance it would be to slit Marcia’s throat with the knife owned by the stepson she’d killed.

She heard the steady, slow sound of Marcia’s footsteps still below.

Harper slid out of the room, leaving the door open, silently inviting her stepmother into the room, hoping the path of blood would direct her within. Then, hiding in the darkened curved staircase, she would get the jump on her.

Hardly daring to breathe, she hid in the shadows and saw the top of Marcia’s head appear as she reached the landing.

Please, please, please.

Harper’s grip on the knife tightened.

She counted her heartbeats, waiting.

Marcia paused on the landing, pushed open the door, and . . . snapped on the light.

A slash of illumination brightened the hallway, and Marcia caught a glimpse of the blood drops moving upward, so much that the trail was hardly interrupted.

She raised her weapon.

Crap!

Harper flew up the remaining stairs to the tower room. She locked the door. Breathing heavily, she went to the window and looked down to the terrace two full stories below. Even if the fall didn’t kill her, she’d break something, a leg or arm or pelvis, and she’d be a sitting duck.

But maybe not a dead one.

Harper cranked open the window, the fresh cool air swirling inside. At least she had the option of jumping rather than giving Marcia the satisfaction of shooting her.

She glanced over at the far shore and saw the five houses on the point.

Rand’s house was dark. Levi’s, too, showed no signs of life.

A thin light shone from the Sievers’ place, and the Musgrave cabin was dark.

But there were lamps glowing at the Alexander house, and she didn’t need to look through the binoculars or the telescope to see Craig sitting on the dock, Beth tending to him, the lights of an ambulance flashing through the trees in the swim park, its siren shrill and echoing across the water.

Craig was alive.

She hadn’t killed him.

She remembered pointing the shotgun at him, her finger on the trigger, but she’d hesitated.

Then the echoing, ear-splitting blast. He’d tumbled into the boat slip, hitting his head on the Chris-Craft as he fell.

He hadn’t been blown back, away from her but sideways.

As if he’d been struck by a bullet coming from the tunnel.

There had been no thunderous ping of dozens of buckshot pellets spraying on the walls of the boathouse or madly dappling the water.

She realized she hadn’t shot him. She’d never pulled the trigger.

Marcia had.

From a hiding spot in the tunnel.

She shot him with the first bullet of six , Harper realized suddenly. Was that right? Yes. Craig should have been blown backward if she’d shot him. Not sideways.

Since then, Marcia had fired five times.

So she was out of ammunition and possibly didn’t realize it.

Hoping she was right, Harper unplugged the single working lamp in the tower room. Then she gathered her weapons, such as they were.

She heard the key in the lock.

Of course Marcia had a key.

The interior locks had never been changed.

But Harper was waiting, hiding just inside the open doorway to the private bathroom.

The door from the staircase swung open, and she heard Marcia’s hands reach for the nonexistent light switch. “Where in the devil—oh shit.”

Harper saw a shadow, the nose of the gun as Marcia advanced into the room.

Then she pulled the ring of the doll she was holding and Chatty Cathy’s high voice said, “Please take me with you.”

“What?” Marcia whirled, just as Harper hurled the Ken doll like a spear. It slipped in her hand but still whizzed through the air and hit Marcia square in the face.

“Ow! Shit!”

Click!

The gun didn’t fire!

“Oh shit,” Marcia said, her voice tight.

Click. Click. Click .

Marcia kept trying to shoot.

And over the clicking Harper heard the sound of frantic, loud pounding. Someone downstairs at the door.

“What?” For a second Marcia was distracted by the sound.

Harper leapt, hitting her full center. “Oof!” Marcia fell backward, Harper on top of her, knocking against the tripod holding the telescope upright. It wobbled but didn’t fall.

The loud knocking suddenly stopped as Harper and Marcia wrestled, the gun tumbling away. They rolled against the chaise as Harper heard a thunderous crash of shattering glass as Marcia got a handful of Harper’s hair and pulled her head back.

Harper swiped upward with the knife.

Marcia let go and in one swift motion, Harper flipped and pinned her stepmother to the floor.

“It’s over,” Harper said through clenched teeth as she glared down at her stepmother. “You fucking bitch, it’s over.” Then turned her head and shouted over her shoulder, “Up here! Rand, I’m up in the tower!”

“No!” Marcia reached out for the gun and grabbed it by the barrel. Then she swung upward. Bam! The pearl handle cracked against Harper’s skull. The knife, slick with blood, slipped from her hands and the world started to tilt.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

With a fresh burst of adrenaline, Marcia swept up the knife and onto her feet. Bloody and breathing hard, she stood over Harper, ready to cut her to ribbons. “You’ve been the bane of my existence,” she snarled, waggling the knife, taunting Harper. “But no more! No more!”

Frantic footsteps pounded up the final spiral stairs.

Harper’s fingers curled around one leg of the tripod. She managed to get to her knees, but as she tried to stand, Marcia sprang.

“Die!” Marcia ordered, slashing wildly with the blade.

With all her might, Harper swung the huge telescope and hit her stepmother midair. Then she let go.

The door burst open just as Marcia let out a hideous scream. She and the spiraling telescope flew through the open window and into the dark night.

Still on her knees, Harper heard the sickening crunch of breaking bones on the terrace far below.

She winced at the sound, darkness closing in.

Rand was at her side. On his knees. Gathering her into his arms.

There was a single, gurgling moan and then silence.

“Radio for an ambulance,” he said to someone—another person? Harper didn’t know. Couldn’t see.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said to Harper, his breath warm against her cheek, his strong arms surrounding her. She almost laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. Being “okay” would be a long, if not impossible journey and she was fading. “You’re gonna be okay,” he repeated. “I’m here now.”

“About effing time,” she said before everything went black.