Page 17 of It Happened on the Lake

Harper had been hopelessly, blindly in love with him.

Of course it had been puppy love, but it had consumed her.

She would have done just about anything for him, and now that thought made her uncomfortable.

Looking through the linked prisms of age and wisdom, she realized how one-sided the love had been, how pathetic.

Beth peered through the eyepiece again. “This is really high-powered.”

“My grandfather bought it a million years ago.” So he could get off by ogling the women—and girls—across the lake. George Dixon, “Gramps” to Harper and Evan, had pocket binoculars, as well as this telescope and an even higher-powered one in the tower room on the fourth floor.

Beth would have freaked out if Harper had dared to share the extent of her grandfather’s interest in the women of Lake Twilight while touching himself.

Had he been watching Cynthia Hunt exercising?

Or viewing Beth’s mom, Alaina, the ex-model sunbathing in her tiny bikini?

Or had he been focused on Beth, who was just starting to develop into a woman, or even some of the coeds who occupied the last house on the point?

Harper never knew.

She had backed down the steps, quiet as a mouse, when Gramps did his dirty spying.

Over the years, she’d steadfastly pushed the vision of her grandfather with his hands down his pants aside, just as she’d tried to forget the “girlie” calendars she’d found in the garage.

Sensual images of Hollywood starlets, posed nearly naked, large breasts with pink nipples exposed, lips puckered in come-hither expressions.

Despite the years passing, Gramps had kept the slick calendars and foldouts in a neat stack.

“Your grandfather could have been a pervert,” Beth said astutely.

“No could have known about it. Well, almost no one.”

“But you knew?”

“Gram did, too. Looked the other way. But it bothered her.”

“It sure as hell would bother me, too.” Beth straightened.

“Oh well, he wasn’t the only one. Unfortunately this town is filled with them.

But I wonder how many lecherous old farts got their rocks off as they watched us .

. .” Then, as if she were forcing it back on her face, Beth’s ebullient mask was in place.

“Water under the bridge, so to speak. Right?” She checked her watch.

“Oh crap, I’ve got to run! Max is already late for his tennis lesson!

I hope you find your cat. I’ll call you or you can drop by the office.

It’s on Maple Street, part of the old theater—you remember.

It was renovated into offices about ten years ago, and I snapped one up! Okay. Gotta run. Feel better.”

And she was off, the heels of her boots clicking sharply on the marble floor as she hurried across the foyer, Harper right behind her.

Beth scooped up her purse, searched inside, and grabbed her keys as she hurried out the door and into the rain.

“Thanks for the ride!” Harper called.

“Anytime. Kisses!” Beth waved but was already slipping into her BMW. She fired the engine and completed a sharp, three-point turn, narrowly missing the back of Harper’s Volvo. As she passed, Harper heard Bon Jovi again, this time singing “You Give Love a Bad Name” as the car sped onto the bridge.

Harper hoped to high heaven that Jinx wasn’t anywhere near the Bimmer’s path and told herself she was borrowing trouble. Until she caught a glimpse of black fur sliding through the bushes near the lane.

No, no, no!

“Beth! Watch out!” she yelled, squinting against the curtain of rain.

But Beth, head bobbing to the music, cranked the wheel at the end of the bridge and hit the gas.

Harper screamed, “Stop!”

But the creature had scurried out from beneath the bushes and started across the lane.

Thud!

Harper gasped and heard a pathetic little squeal.

Oh. God. No!

“Jinx!” Sick inside, she ran through the rain across the bridge, her heart pounding as fast as her footsteps. No, no, no!

Beth’s car had disappeared by the time she reached the far side of the bridge, and she braced herself for the sight of the bloody, mangled body of her cat.

But there was none.

No crushed feline anywhere on the roadside or in the bushes. Relief washed over her, but the cat was still missing. “Jinx,” she called, over and over as a wash of rain deafened her. “Jinx! Here, kitty, kitty! Goddamnit, Jinx, where are you?”

She wondered if she’d conjured the shadow darting near the BMW’s wheels. A figment of her imagination, her own dark fears coalescing behind her eyes after the traumatic, sleepless night? Or . . . was it something worse?

Then out of the corner of her eye, she saw the lifeless body tucked under the dripping leaves of a rhododendron.

She froze, her stomach roiling.

Stepping closer, she recognized the matted, wet black fur, the long hairless tail and the snarled yellow teeth of a dead rat.

It didn’t move.

Blood pooled from its mouth.

Her stomach heaved, but she didn’t throw up.

A rat. It was just a rat. An unfortunate rodent that got caught under Beth’s BMW’s wheel.

Her stomach threatened again.

She leaned down, her elbows on her knees, and retched. At least it wasn’t Jinx.

This time.

Swiping a hand over her lips, she straightened and swallowed back her revulsion as cold October rain washed over her. Blinking, she looked up at the gargoyles with their taloned feet curled on their perches and their stony faces ever menacing.

What was it that Beth had said?

That maybe they all were cursed?

As Harper walked across the bridge to the garage in search of a shovel, she knew there was no “maybe” about it.

They were all cursed.

Every last one of them.