Page 197 of It Happened on the Lake

A bitter taste rose in her mouth as she stubbed out her cigarette in a tray on the night table. What a fool she’d been. To trust him. To fall in love with him. To marry him. She should have listened to her mother.

Angrily, she stripped out of underwear and bra and threw on her nightgown. She reeled a bit. Was dizzy. Nonetheless, she padded barefoot into the kitchen and found a bottle of gin.

Her mother’s favorite. And good enough for a nightcap.

But just one . . . well, make it two. No telling how long she’d have to wait up for the slimy bastard. She snagged a glass from the cupboard, poured the first drink, then left it on the counter while she went into the bathroom at the end of the hall. After using the toilet, she washed her hands and caught her reflection again, this time in the mirror over the medicine cabinet.

The image wasn’t good.

She was thirty-six. Forty was staring her in the face, and after bearing two children in a rocky marriage, her age was beginning to show, or so it seemed tonight. She scrubbed her face clean, getting rid of the drizzles of mascara and eye shadow. Next up, she washed off her foundation, powder, and the rest of her lipstick. With her face clean, she did look younger, except for the fact that the whites of her blue eyes were red from her recent tears and recent drinks.

She turned off the water and heard something.

A movement in the front of the house?

She went to investigate. Maybe Evan was home, back from the events of the night early, or maybe her lying, cheating, scumbag of a husband had returned.

But the living room was empty, the kitchen just as she’d left it.

Weird. She could have sworn . . .

She took a long swallow.

Had one of her mother’s nasty cats somehow gotten in?

She opened the door to the garage and saw that Bruce’s sporty little Aston Martin wasn’t parked in its usual spot. But wait! She had blocked the drive with the crumpled T-Bird. So maybe he parked out front.

“Bruce?” she called unsteadily.

No answer. Just the whoosh of air through the ducts from the furnace and the hum of the old Frigidaire over the steady drip of the rain on the deck.

Of course he wasn’t home.

She knew better.

“Hope springs eternal,” she said and silently berated herself for being a fool. She took another big gulp and poured herself another drink.But first, she thought suddenly,I need to check on Harper. What was I thinking?But the house seemed so quiet. For the tiniest bit of a second, she wondered if Bruce had truly been worried about their daughter and called the doctor and begged him to look at Harper.

Probably wishful thinking.

But she should check.

Clinging to the railing, she made her way upstairs where she cracked open the door to her daughter’s room. She knocked softly and pushed open the door. In the slice of light spilling from the hallway, she could just make out Harper’s bed. She seemed buried under the covers, the dog at her feet. Bandit lifted his head, ears up expectantly, but Anna said, “Shh,” and held a finger to her mouth.

Funny, she couldn’t feel her lips.

And her tongue felt thick, as if it were twice its normal size.

Too much booze, she thought, stumbling against the door to her son’s room.

It banged open to reveal a shadowy mess of clothes, books, records, and baseball cards. His bed was unmade, and she thought maybe his pillow was missing, but she didn’t care.

Bump!

She started.

Did she do that?

Or had it come from downstairs?