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“We still can’t find her,” I say, glad we have enough distance from the twins to talk freely.

“Can’t find who?”

I guess Taylor isn’t up to speed, so I catch her up quickly, though I omit the part about seeing Lucas and Fiona canoodling.

We fall into step together, trudging along a path parallel to the lakeshore.

A canopy of trees provides much-needed shade from the unrelenting sun, which is good because I, the ever-vigilant nanny, forgot to apply sunscreen to the children.

“That’s really weird,” Taylor says, following my debrief.

“I know,” I say. “And it’s triggering my obsession.” I decide to confide in her to a degree.”I love murder shows,” I reveal, whispering like it’s something to be ashamed of.

Taylor squints. “Like mysteries?”

“More like true crime,” I say. “Stuff that happened to real people.”

I expect to be judged. It’s a grim hobby, peering into the misfortunes of others, using their suffering for my entertainment. It’s a deeply personal fascination, but Taylor doesn’t need to know all that.

To my delight, she smiles back at me. “Oh yeah, I know those shows. They’re everywhere these days. Do you listen to podcasts or something?”

“Not or something, I love podcasts,” I say.

“Like, obsessively love them.” I could leave it at that, but since I’m sensing a kindred spirit, I spit out a list of all my favorite shows, name-dropping random producers and recalling victims and the grisly crimes visited upon them like I’m Death’s librarian.

Taylor listens intently.

“I want to produce a show myself one of these days,” I tell her. “Like White Lies or Tom Brown’s Body, one of those.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right lake if you’re looking for a mystery,” she says.

“I mean, we don’t just have one missing person—we have two.

” The spark in her eyes dims. “And if Fiona doesn’t come back soon, that’ll be number three—all women who have gone missing exactly thirty years apart from each other. ”

I shudder as if cold fingers are tickling the back of my neck.

“It’s always women,” I answer, feeling a lump in my throat and a pang in my heart for all the wives, mothers, and daughters who woke up one day not knowing it would be their last. “And it’s not because we’re weaker than men,” I’m compelled to add.

“It’s because we intimidate them. They can’t control us, so they demean, punish, and sometimes kill us out of fear.

They’re afraid of our power, so they try to extinguish it. ”

Taylor meets my gaze, and something passes between us. We’re both at that in-between stage of our womanhood, awakening to the reality that life isn’t always fair, equitable, or even safe.

“I think you just gave me an idea for a new poem,” Taylor says glumly.

“I put a lot of my difficult feelings into poetry. It doesn’t change anything, but it’s become something of a compulsion.

” Her head is bowed, making me wonder what else she expresses in verse.

For someone who seems to have everything, there’s a darkness about Taylor I have yet to understand.

Changing the subject, she asks, “Tell me more about yourself. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No. I attract the unavailable types, and that works for me.” I don’t explain that I learned through my mother how to erect walls that keep the Big Bad Wolf from blowing my house down.

Good guys are a gateway to a broken heart.

When a derelict dude lets you down, you can’t say you never saw it coming.

“What about you?” I ask, thinking she’ll say something about Lucas.

“Nope, I’m unattached,” she says, and leaves it at that.

Despite the somber reality of Fiona’s absence, I can’t help but take in my surroundings, appreciating the woodsy smell and fresh lake air.

Nutmeg seems to be doing the same. Every few steps she stops to sniff something—trees, the ground, rocks, a pine cone—which gives me a flash of inspiration, or more likely just a dumb idea.

I take off Fiona’s sun hat, which I don’t need on account of the shade.

“I grabbed the wrong hat by mistake on my way out,” I explain to Taylor. “This belongs to Fiona. Do you think Nutmeg might be able to sniff her out?”

Taylor’s not getting it, and I should probably let it go, but in for a penny, in for a pound—canine pun intended. “There are instances where dogs have solved cold case murders,” I elaborate.

Taylor gasps. “You think Fiona might actually be dead? ”

“No, no,” I say, backtracking. “But dogs have a great sense of smell, like ten thousand times better than ours, or something like that.”

“You think she can track Fiona? She’s really only demonstrated an aptitude for cuddling and playing fetch.” Taylor smiles tenderly at her aging pup.

“Worth a shot?” I ask, which earns a shrug from Taylor.

The kids are busy running around the path, chasing each other while keeping half an eye open for the elusive fort.

I call Nutmeg, shoving the hat in her face.

She sniffs it before taking it in her mouth.

And just like that, we’ve entered into a game of tug.

But then she releases her bite, and all of a sudden, she’s off like a shot.

She leads us down the path with urgency, like a bloodhound hot on the trail.

“No way,” I exclaim. “It’s working!”

This goes on for about two minutes, with Taylor and me in the rear, the kids in front, and Nutmeg, nose to the ground, sniffing with purpose. And then, just like that, she stops abruptly.

Taylor and I look about. The ground here is thick with vegetation, lots of ferns and small, prickly bushes that I pray to God won’t have a hand sticking out from underneath.

But there’s no body, and soon enough, I realize that Nutmeg’s days as a super sleuth appear to be short-lived.

She’s found what she was really after: a good spot for a poop.

Taylor and I burst out laughing.

“Oh well,” I say, feeling mildly relieved that we won’t need a body bag.

It’s then I notice a house in front of us.

It’s a rustic cabin that looks like it’s been there so long it’s become part of the forest itself.

The exterior is tinged with moss. Vegetation grows around the perimeter like an invading green army.

The lake is nearby, but this house is built away from the shoreline.

“Does anyone live there?” I ask Taylor, intrigued.

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “That’s Grace Olsen’s place.”

The name is familiar, and I realize I was just reading about her. “Anna Olsen’s sister?”

Taylor’ s eyes widen. “Wow, someone’s been doing their homework,” she says. “That family has been here as long as the lake. But seriously, Grace is a mainstay, one of the few residents who lives here year-round, even in the winter. No thank you!” She shudders at the thought of the dark, cold woods.

“Wow, is that place even insulated?” I wonder aloud.

“It must be. But Grace keeps to herself, so I’ve never been inside.”

My interest is piqued. Perhaps the reclusive Grace Olsen would be willing to talk to me like she did that reporter years ago.