Page 114 of It Happened on the Lake

Whoever had come here had been stealthy.

In the parking area she aimed her flashlight down the length of the bridge, but the beam faded into nothingness before reaching the gate at the far end. And the grounds at the front of the house, including the roses in the garden that doubled as a cat cemetery, didn’t so much as shiver as there was no breeze. The blooms were long gone now, the skeletal canes growing wild along the tiny headstones where Gram’s pets had been buried to much fanfare, towel-draped corpses laid to rest in the soft loam of the garden.

Now quiet.

Almost eerily so.

Again, no live cat.

She kept searching for hints about the person who had broken into the house.

Her panic had subsided, thankfully. By nature, she wasn’t nervous or afraid, not a shrinking violet. If anything she was often times too forthright and vocal, her temper too quick to flare, her tongue sometimes razor sharp. And right now she felt a surge of anger. Who would dare do this ridiculous, childish prank? And why? To scare her off? To frighten her into selling?

Well, she wasn’t about to be intimidated.

Still, the next time she went to bed, she would sleep not only with the scissors but also with the hunting knife she’d seen in Evan’s jacket, still hanging in his closet. And she’d even take down the crucifix, use it as a weapon.

Just in case.

“Go ahead,” she said aloud as the clouds scudded over the moon. “Bring it on. Give me your best damn shot.”

At the sound of her own words, she thought of the gun she’d found when searching for liquor. The pearl-handled revolver.

She’d find some ammo.

Then take the gun.

Chapter 27

The last person Harper wanted to talk to, the very last, was her ex-husband, but here she was on the phone, winding the cord nervously in her fingers and listening to Joel tell her that he’d be “right there.” He reminded her that Bend, Oregon, was only a little over a three-hour drive to Almsville and the island.

Right.

Just what she needed.

Joel riding in on his white steed—or in his case a red Camaro—like the damned Lone Ranger to save her.

He’d done that once before, and look where it had gotten them. She wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

He was saying, “I’m packed—already on my way.”

“Look, Joel, no,” she said for what seemed the dozenth time. “I’m all right.”

There was a pregnant pause, and she knew what he was thinking, that she’d never been “all right,” not in the past twenty years.

“Seriously,” she insisted. “Don’t come.”

“Okay,” he said, and she pictured him, standing at the phone, rubbing the back of his neck, his hair rumpled. “But you were in the hospital, Harper. Injured. Again. Jesus, you’ve barely gotten over that leg injury from falling through the deck.”

She bit her tongue rather than remind him again that it was his faulty step that had caused the tumble that had sent her to the hospital in Bend.

He added, “And you’ve been through a helluva thing with that woman drowning and all.”

“I said, I’m fine,” she stated more firmly. “There’s nothing for you to do here.” Stretching the kitchen phone cord, she looked into the foyer, then down the hallway to the parlor and couldn’t imagine Joel poking around the place. He was tall, six foot two, his eyes blue and scrutinizing. His blond hair had grown darker than it had been when he was growing up near Malibu, when the California sun had bleached it nearly white. Not that she’d known him then, of course. But she’d seen pictures. Even when he’d moved to Oregon in his early twenties to go to college, he’d been far more blond than now.

If he showed up here, he’d be curious about the island, the house, the gatehouse, and all within. He’d be sizing the place up, mentally taking note of the value of everything while still trying to play off his once-upon-a-time surfer dude vibe.

No, she didn’t need him.