Page 74 of It Happened on the Lake

S omething moved.

Harper’s eyes flew open.

She was lying in her makeshift bed and told herself she’d imagined it.

But, no, she sensed air moving when it should be still.

That’s crazy. You double-checked the doors and windows. Points of a star—remember.

She turned on the bedside light.

There was nothing . . .

She had gotten the locks changed. No one could get in.

And then she felt it again, a movement. A disturbance in the air. Something very wrong.

Slowly, she climbed out of bed and grabbed the knife lying on the bed beside her but left the crucifix and scissors. She needed one hand free.

Carefully she opened the door to her room and felt it again, the change in the atmosphere. The hackles of her neck raised. What was wrong with her? She eased into the hallway, and yes, there was definitely a breeze, cold and shifting.

Shit!

She flipped on the switch for the staircase. The light was dim, but she saw nothing. Barefoot, one step at a time, she descended, her heart pounding, her fingers in a death grip over the hilt of the hunting knife.

Pausing at the landing, she listened.

No footsteps.

No heavy breathing.

Nothing but the weird whirring sound that came and went. A few moments and then a pause.

Mechanical?

She didn’t think so.

On the main floor, she hesitated at the landing of the staircase, where it split in the foyer.

Nothing.

But the cool air. Where was it coming from?

Silently gripping the knife, she padded down the remaining steps and turned back toward the parlor but stopped as she passed the doorway to the kitchen, where she flipped on the overhead lights.

And discovered the side door ajar, cool air seeping in.

What the hell?

She crossed the cold tile floor and examined the dead bolt.

Unlocked. She tried it, and it functioned perfectly.

So had she not shut the door and twisted the lock, but no—she usually tried the door after she locked it. Just to make certain it was secure.

Had she?

Or had alcohol impaired her judgment?

She hadn’t been drunk, but . . .

“Damn it all.” She locked the door and double-checked the others. All locked. Satisfied that the house was as secure as she could get it, she started up the stairs, then heard the whizzing sound again.

“What?” she said, whipping around to eye the foyer just as a bat swooped down from the ceiling. She let out a startled scream. No. No, no, no!

Now what?

It flew up the stairs, and her heart sank. “No. Oh God.” Quickly she rushed back to the kitchen, found a broom in the closet near the pantry, and eyes turned upward, flew up the stairs. She was moving fast and felt a twinge in her hip but ignored it.

The bat, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

She paused at the second level, breathing hard, straining to listen.

Dear God, there could be a million places for it to roost and hide, and as long as those spots were not in her bedroom, she would be alright.

Except that her door was off its hinges a bit and bats, like mice, could slip through the tiniest of openings.

“Where are you?” she whispered and realized she was now holding a broom as a weapon and she’d left the knife in the kitchen—not that the blade would do any good against a bat, but she’d have to retrieve it.

After she’d dealt with the irritating flying pest.

She eyed the ceiling and in the dim light caught sight of a myriad of spots where it could conceal itself.

Through the bedrooms and bathrooms on the second floor and then she heard the whirring again.

In the hallway. She dashed out to see the thing fly upward to the third story and her bedroom.

“No,” she cried, as if she could control it. “Don’t you dare.”

Armed with the broom, she mounted the stairs and eyed the hallway. All the doors to the servants’ quarters were closed tight, and sure enough, she heard the distinctive sound of the bat’s wings as it flew in dizzying circles around the ceiling. “You can’t stay here,” she said. “No way.”

But right now, there it was, flying as high as it could, in frantic circles.

Remember, it’s more scared than you. It wants out as badly as you want it gone.

Heart pounding, adrenaline screaming through her bloodstream, she left the door open and mounted the stairs to the turret room at the top of the manor.

Once inside, she went straight to the window farthest from the desk.

She slid it open, feeling a rush of night air, then yanked out the screen and hoped to heaven that the damned bat would find its way out.

Setting her jaw, she made her way back to her room.

Silence.

“Where are you?” she whispered, and though it was against her most basic instincts, she turned out the lights and stepped into the hallway.

“Come on, come on,” she urged, though why she was talking to a bat made no sense at all.

She didn’t really fear them, but their quickness and the way they darted startled her, put her nerves on edge.

And there was rabies to consider. If it decided to attack, which it wouldn’t.

Still, either the bat found its way outside or she would have to trap it, maybe kill it.

Where was the cat when she needed him?

Not that he’d ever caught a mouse, much less a flying bat.

But she couldn’t think of Jinx right now. And she wanted the bat to take off, fly away, it didn’t need to die.

She waited.

Nothing.

The seconds turned into minutes.

Why was the damned thing quiet now?

“Just leave,” she mouthed.

Maybe it could sense her. Smell her or use echolocation? She had to move, to let the damn thing fly out of her room and hopefully up the stairs and out the window. Otherwise she would have to actually trap it or kill it.

She left the upstairs dark and went to the main floor, where she poured herself a drink. One surely wouldn’t hurt, especially since her very last nerve was frayed.

She waited.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Finally, at nearly half an hour, broom in hand, she mounted the stairs again and stopped at her room. Turned on the light.

Nothing.

She scoured the room with her eyes and waited, her gaze moving over all the nooks and crannies near the ceiling and saw no evidence of the bat. Relief! Then she checked her bed.

Her sleeping bag was unzipped and she tossed it, half expecting a tiny winged beast to fly into her face.

Didn’t happen.

She was breathing hard, nervous as hell, certain the damned thing would fly out.

But nothing.

O—kay.

Maybe—just maybe—the room was clean.

Barely daring to hope and fingers clenched around the broom handle, she ascended to the top floor and her grandfather’s refuge. Heart knocking, she flipped on the light. “Please,” she whispered as she shut the door and scanned the room.

Saw no little bat cowering in a corner or hiding on the doorjamb.

“Where are you?” she wondered.

At that second the bat darted from behind the ornate frame of a picture, diving down and flying crazily around the room.

“Get out!” she ordered and swung the broom upward. “Get out!”

The little bastard cut past her, soaring in a panic as she swatted at it. “Get out, get out . . . get out !” she cried, as frantic as the bat. Flailing with the broom, she hit a lamp. It teetered, then fell, shattering against the floor.

The bat swooped again.

Harper spun, twisting her hip, then stepping backward and feeling a shard of glass from the lamp pierce her foot.

“Shit!” she spat out but watched as the bat finally got the message and flew out the window and into the night.

Quickly she hobbled across the room and slammed the window shut.

“Thank God,” she whispered, sagging against the sill and spying the splotches of blood she’d trailed across the old carpet. “Great.”

At least the stubborn little creature was gone.

She only hoped he didn’t have friends in the house.

Down the stairs she hitched, stopping off at the bathroom and opening the medicine chest she found the tin of Band-Aids, circa 1965. She picked out the small fragment of glass from her heel, cleaned the cut as best she could, dried it, and slapped two plastic strips over the wound.

Good enough for one in the morning.

Then, too hyped up to sleep, she limped her way down the stairs to the liquor cabinet and poured herself another drink. Just a short one. To steady her frayed nerves.

As she poured the last of the vodka into a glass, she told herself that she’d have to refresh the supply soon.

But tonight . . .

She took a long swallow of her drink and felt the alcohol warm her stomach as she made her way to the telescope in the parlor.

It was late, probably no one was awake, and yet she couldn’t help but peer through the eyepiece to observe the lives of the people across the lake.

Visibility was hampered by the mist that crawled across the black water, but she fiddled with the focus and was able to bring the homes on Fox Point into some kind of clarity.

Most of the houses were dark, she noted. Only the Watkins’ A-frame was illuminated at the very peak, where the triangular window offered a view of the loft and the desk where she’d seen Rand work before.

He was at his desk again, and she had to remind herself that he was the enemy.

He thought her capable of murdering her grandmother and knowing about Chase’s whereabouts.

Didn’t he remember that she and Levi had come to him that night to ask about Chase?

Did he think it all part of some elaborate ruse she’d concocted at eighteen? An act?

“Who cares?” she said aloud, taking a sip.

She watched as Rand stood and stretched, rotating his muscles and twisting his neck as if hours in the desk chair had cramped his muscles.

Well, good. Fine. Harper hoped he ached all over.

Unable to turn away, she observed him walking out of the loft to disappear, presumably going downstairs.

She focused on the lower level, but it remained dark.