Page 33 of It Happened on the Lake

She unrolled the old zippered bag over the double bed and tossed her pillow to its place near the wooden headboard where, years before, she had carved Chase’s initials surrounded by a heart.

How silly , she thought now. How over-the-top in love she’d thought she’d been. Love at seventeen and eighteen was something far different than it was when another twenty years had passed.

Or so she imagined.

It seemed like eons since she’d been in love. Really in love.

If she ever had been.

In the adjoining bath she stripped and tossed on an oversized black T-shirt from a KISS concert she’d attended years before, then ran a damp washcloth over the parts of her face that weren’t bandaged.

Brushing her teeth was more of a chore than normal.

Since the pounding in her head hadn’t subsided, she opened the medicine cabinet to see an ancient thermometer, a rusted pair of scissors, Band-Aids from the sixties, and an old bottle of aspirin.

She picked it up, looked for an expiration date, but it was too old to even list one.

Twenty years and degraded?

Probably not a good idea.

She dropped the bottle into the empty trash can near the toilet.

As she closed the cabinet door, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

The phrase “death warmed over” came to mind.

Her skin was sallow, the bandage over her chin no longer bright white, the one near her eye beginning to fray.

Deep circles were visible under her eyes, one of which was swollen a bit, a major bruise developing over her cheekbone.

Even some of the blood vessels in the white of her eye had broken.

“Lovely,” she said. No amount of makeup would improve her much. Well, too bad.

Yawning, she rubbed the strain from her neck, then unzipped the old sleeping bag she’d had since the first years of her marriage.

From its depth she pulled out one framed picture she’d brought to Oregon, her favorite snapshot of Dawn, at about eight.

Her front teeth were too big for her slim face, her brown eyes wide and sparkling in the Southern California sunlight, her hair a deep gold at the time and seeming to sprout from a black mouse-eared hat.

It had been their first trip to Disneyland, and Dawn had been over the moon.

How long ago it all seemed now.

Crrreaak.

The sound echoed through the house.

Again.

Her heart stilled.

She didn’t move a muscle.

Waiting.

Did she hear rustling? Something moving? A door quietly opening?

Or was it a step protesting against someone’s weight?

She swallowed hard and told herself that she was imagining things, that whatever she heard wasn’t out of the ordinary and was probably amplified by the simple fact that she was alone. She just wasn’t used to the sounds the old house made.

Quietly, she set the framed picture onto a night table.

Old houses settled.

Still . . .

“Hello?” she called from the landing outside her bedroom door, and her voice seemed to echo down the well. Heart suddenly pounding, she glanced up at the dark turret, then down the winding stairs. She saw nothing but darkness.

Anyone could be lurking in the shadows.

“Is anyone—?”

No one answered.

Of course. No one was here. What was wrong with her?

Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Ridiculous.

Ears straining, she listened but heard only the thudding of her heart in her ears and the soft rush of warm air being forced through the ancient heat ducts.

She slipped back into the bathroom where she’d seen an old pair of scissors. Once she had them in her grip, she decided to check the house.

One more time.

Holding the shears in a death grip, she headed first up the stairs to her grandfather’s crow’s nest and held on to the banister for support.

She had, after all, had several drinks, and she wasn’t as steady as normal.

Once at the top of the turret, she flipped on the light and blinked, muscles bunched, ready to spring if an attacker was inside.

But no.

She found no one lurking in the shadows or hiding in the shower stall.

Down she went, past the floor she’d claimed for her bedroom, then lower to the second floor.

Cautiously, every muscle straining, she searched the bedrooms and bathrooms, opening closets and expecting someone to leap out at her at any moment.

No one did.

Don’t freak yourself out!

On the landing, she paused, again listening hard.

Could Jinx have nudged a door open? One that hadn’t quite latched? “Kitty?” she called. “Jinx?” But her voice seemed to die in the darkness.

Down another flight she went, switching on lights. Through the foyer and kitchen, parlor and Gram’s bedroom and everywhere, every damned room she encountered the dolls, all of them staring sightlessly at her.

Plastic faces unmoving.

Rubber arms limp.

Lips set in forever pouts.

Unnerving.

She’d get rid of the damned things tomorrow. Every last one of them.

Still clutching the scissors, she moved through the butler’s pantry and dining room, then peered out to the terrace where anyone could hide in the darkness. The lake beyond was a black abyss, only a few lights on the opposite shore winking.

Get a grip , she told herself but knew she’d never go to sleep unless she double-checked the doors.

So she went through the same routine she’d done with Gram years before: front door, kitchen door, terrace door off the parlor, door to the basement, and door to the garage.

Five. “Like the points of a star. Remember that,” Gram had told her when she’d been a child and they had counted them off together.

Then, later, when Gram was unable and Harper had spent some nights with her, she had gone through the ritual.

Tonight, all the doors were secure.

Berating herself, she returned to her room, her heartbeat returned to normal, though she was still unsteady and her damned hip was hurting again.

Well, so be it. At least she was safe here.

After snapping off the bedroom light, she slid into the flannel-lined bag and told herself not to be such a goose—and to cut down on the drinking. She needed to keep her wits and be at the top of her game.

No one else was inside this huge house.

Yet, despite everything, she kept the shears at her side in the sleeping bag.

In the pale light from the window, she caught one last glimpse of the crucifix in the room, Jesus appearing to look down on her.

“Don’t judge me,” she mumbled to the ceramic son of God hanging on the faded wallpaper. Then absently made the sign of the cross over her chest, a habit left over from childhood. As she was drifting off, she told herself she was being ridiculous. She hadn’t been to mass in ages.

But so what?

Right now, considering everything that was happening, Harper needed all the help she could get.

A small dose of divine intervention wouldn’t be such a bad thing.