Page 5 of It Happened on the Lake

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Harper forced herself to her feet, swiped at her chin, and refused to feel the ache in her right leg as she ran across the deck, kicking off her shoes and peeling off her sweater.

Somewhere far off, she heard sirens wailing through the night.

Thank God!

Oh, please, please, hurry!

She sprang, diving deep.

Knifing into the water.

Feeling the lake’s icy embrace.

Swimming faster than she’d ever swum before.

Toward the torch in the middle of the lake.

Toward Cynthia Hunt.

Before it was too late.

If it wasn’t already.

Swim!

Swim, Harper, swim!

Faster!

Where the hell were the other neighbors?

As she swam, she thought she heard the motors of other boats.

Oh God, please . . .

And the cops. Could they hurry and show up?

Stroke!

Stroke, stroke, stroke!

The boat loomed nearer, a funeral pyre.

Aboard, surrounded by flames, Cynthia screamed horribly, her voice rising with the smoke and flames.

Harper thought she might be sick.

Stroke, stroke, stroke!

She knifed through the water. Hard. Fast. Toward the flames.

Closer.

Feeling the heat.

Smelling the smoke.

Watching Cynthia writhe, her face twisted in agony, her arms flailing as she tossed leather-bound albums into the water.

“Jump!” Harper screamed, treading water for a second. “Jump!”

Cynthia’s dress caught fire.

She didn’t notice. Just reached down and flung a thick album into the lake. What the—? “Cynthia, jump! Get out of the boat!” Harper yelled again.

But the woman ignored her and reached through the flames to grab a record jacket and send it skimming across the lake right at Harper.

She ducked. Jesus, was Cynthia aiming at her? The woman seemed blind to anything other than her mission.

Another record album shot across the surface.

Where were the police?

“For the love of God, Cynthia! Get out!” Harper screamed, panicked. “Jump!”

Wild-eyed, Cynthia tossed something glittering, a small statue—no, a trophy like the one Chase had earned in high school—into the water.

What was wrong with her?

Flames licked at Cynthia’s face and caught in her hair, singeing the gray strands.

“Jump!” Harper yelled again, her voice raw.

“Cynthia! Get out of the damn boat!” What was wrong with the woman?

Treading water less than ten yards away, Harper heard the shriek of sirens and caught a glimpse of red and blue lights slashing through the trees on the south shore. Finally. Oh God, please, hurry!

But it seemed too late.

Fire crawled up Cynthia’s robe.

She heard the sound of other motors, caught a glimpse of two boats approaching quickly, the men aboard yelling, motioning frantically for Harper to get out of the way.

Cynthia let out a soul-jarring scream.

A human torch, she picked up another leather-bound photo album.

“Get off the boat!” Harper screamed, looking for a way to get closer, to drag the crazed woman from the boat, but the flames were everywhere.

A man yelled, “I’ve got her!”

Harper heard a splash—the boater leaping into the water?—just as Cynthia hurled the album.

It skimmed fast across the surface.

What?

Harper ducked.

Too late!

Bam!

The thick book smacked into her face, a corner jabbing into Harper’s eye socket.

Knocked backward, she started to sink, the water a cool, soothing blanket.

For a second the world swam before her eyes, orange and gold shimmering.

Pages from the album floated downward. Photos swirled around her, old pictures of the boys she’d known.

Boys she’d loved.

Boys she’d touched.

Chase . . .

Levi . . .

Chase again . . .

Rand and Chase . . .

Stunned, blood whirling around her, she was lost . . .

“ Harper, ” Gram said as surely as if she was whispering in her ear, “ Harper, you wake up! You wake up right now!”

Harper blinked, floating as if in slow motion, the world spinning.

Her eyes opened and for a few seconds she couldn’t determine what was up or down or remember where she was . . . and then she caught a glimpse of the orange glow seeming to float in the sky above her.

She blinked.

In a second, she was alert again.

Realized where she was.

She kicked upward.

She needed air.

Now!

As she broke the surface, she gulped water along with air. Coughing and sputtering, pain ricocheting through her face, the horrible night came into clear, sharp focus.

Cynthia Hunt’s clothes were aflame, and she shrieked in agony, falling to her knees as another swimmer, a balding man, nearly reached the craft.

It was too late.

Gas had spilled onto the debris-strewn water. Flames surrounded the small craft. Burning, cracking, sending up a cloud of black smoke. The man kept trying to get to the Hunts’ boat but was driven back.

Dazed, Harper floated.

Sirens screamed, closer now, echoing over the water.

Did she hear shouts?

The sound of another boat engine?

A large craft tearing across the water, a spotlight trained on the horror in the smaller craft?

She couldn’t tell.

The world spinning.

The boat seeming to sink and the wild-eyed woman aboard pointed a long, accusing finger in Harper’s direction. It seemed that through her lipless mouth, one ragged word escaped: “Bitch,” just before Harper lost consciousness.