Page 113 of It Happened on the Lake

No open window banging against the shutters.

Everything was calm.

Too calm.

Any night wind had died in this pre-dawn hour.

Nerves stretched tight, she dropped Maude into the trash can in the kitchen and checked all of the locks on the doors, like the five-pointed star Gram had told her about when she was a girl.

Everything appeared to be locked up tight.

She felt no disturbance in the air.

There’s no one here. Not now.

Still, she went through every room and made certain the latches on all the windows were secure. One by one she tested them. Kitchen, dining room, foyer, den, and parlor . . . all the windows were closed. Until she felt a breath of cold air. A draft? Her heartbeat accelerated as the whisper of cold air crawled up her nape.

She backed up and felt the icy breeze seeping from beneath a window overlooking the terrace from the parlor. Though the latch appeared locked, it wasn’t. The window had swollen. When she pushed on the window sash, the pane slid upward with some difficulty. “Son of a—” She tried to shut the window, but despite throwing all of her weight into it, it wouldn’t completely close.

She hadn’t noticed last night.

She peered through the rain-dappled pane to the darkness beyond. Of course there was no one visible. Stepping backward, she tried to find a footprint on the floor and even reached down to feel the carpet.

No wet print.

But this had to be the point of entry.

“You bastard.”

She rummaged around in the kitchen until she found a flashlight, which, of course, wouldn’t light. But she located one of the new packs of batteries she’d picked up at the grocery, loaded up the flashlight, and headed to the terrace. Outside she tried again to lower the window. It didn’t budge. It would have to be fixed, along with the dozens of other repairs this old house needed just to function properly.

Sweeping the flashlight’s beam over the flagstones, she walked to the steps, the very steps she’d flown down in her desperate attempt to save Cynthia. So anyone could have approached by boat. Silently. Without a motor running. But who? Why? Unerringly, she stared across the lake to the point and the five houses directly across. Every home had a boathouse or slip housing some kind of watercraft and docks protruding from the shore, the largest belonging to the last house on the street. Some of the homes had canoes or kayaks on their docks. Also, hadn’t she witnessed Craig Alexander using a boat when he was creeping into the Hunts’ house?

Could he have rowed silently across the lake, climbed the stairs, found the unlatched window, and climbed in?

Her blood ran cold at the thought.

Or could it have been someone else? There were several hundred houses all along the shores of the lake. She was only fixated on those located at Fox Point because it was the shortest distance to the island. And she knew some of the people who lived there.

More importantly, they knew her.

But who would do this horrifying but childish prank? Why?

And really, couldn’t someone have come from the road, through the open gate? Or by boat from one of the other houses or public accesses around Lake Twilight? She scanned the dark shoreline that stretched for miles.

But again, who? And why?

And why break in and try to terrorize her rather than harm her? Finding the doll scared her, yes, but whoever was behind the sick deed could just as easily have attacked her in her sleep. Even killed her. But he hadn’t. His intent was to freak her out, intimidate her, or play mind games with her.

She walked over to the open garage housing the tram, the car still in place. Running her flashlight’s beam over the interior, she wondered if the tram still ran. The inside showed wear, a little rust, and it seemed as if it hadn’t been used in years. Like everything else. Outside the car, she ran the flashlight’s beam over the rails onto which it was attached. She expected fir needles and leaves, even clumps of dirt on the rusted track that ran zigzagging down the hill from the house to the dock.

But it was clear.

Not so the path. The steep trail of switchbacks was covered in soggy leaves, broken boughs, and dirt. She walked slightly uphill to the spot at the back of the house where the path forked, one trail winding around the side of the house to the garage and parking area, the other leading to the kitchen door. With all the wet yard debris, it was impossible to see any footprints, but she shone the light along the ground as she made her way behind the garage to the front of the house. And in the back of her mind, she hoped she would spot Jinx, out prowling.

She didn’t see any eyes reflecting from beneath the fern fronds and rhododendrons, neither feline nor those of a raccoon, possum, or rat.

She thought of the intruder.