Page 36

Izzy

Brody and Becca hover over me as I lie on the couch. They assess my injured ankle, which I’ve propped up with a stack of pillows. Their grave expressions suggest amputation might be in order.

“I think you need medicine,” Brody says.

He puts an empty Dixie cup to my lips and forces me to drink.

I grimace, pretending it tastes as bitter as Grace’s herbal concoction that (surprise, surprise) continues to help with the swelling and pain.

Even the bruise is far less purplish than yesterday, and my mobility has improved, though I limp when I walk without Grace’s crutch.

I’m surprised how good it feels to be back with the twins.

My time in the woods made me keenly aware how much I’d miss the people in my life, these two included.

Last night I was too tired to confront Lucas about abandoning me on the hiking trail.

Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to take the tourniquet Becca has inexplicably latched around my arm and tighten it around Lucas’s scrawny neck.

But I’ll get an explanation from him, even if I have to resort to threats of violence.

“You have a fever,” Becca tells me after placing her clammy little hand on my forehead.

“I do?” My voice carries the appropriate degree of alarm. I might not be a trained actor like my roommate, Meredith, but I know how to stay in character.

“Yes, and it’s a high one,” Becca says. “I think you’re going to die.”

“Well now,” I say, holding back a laugh, “I think your bedside manner might need some refinement.”

Both kids eye me with confusion. “What does re-hine-man mean?” asks Brody, mispronouncing the word.

“It means you’re both wonderful doctors, but there’s always room for improvement,” I tell him. Even when I’m on the precipice of death, my nanny know-how is as sharp as ever.

Before the children have a chance to start amputating my injured limb with a wooden spoon, David comes downstairs, sunglasses on.

He’s not trying to be cool—it’s simply a matter of practicality with so many windows and so few shades.

Even at this early hour, the sun is like another guest in the home.

“Kids, why don’t you get your bathing suits on, and we’ll go for a swim,” he tells them. He’s already wearing his blue trunks.

Without giving me or my ailment another thought, the children dart upstairs to get changed. Doctors these days—so distractible.

I’m hoping David will move along as well and leave me be. But no such luck. He comes over and sits on the chair beside the couch.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, preempting any disapproving remark he might toss my way. “I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow. And Taylor promised she’d help out all day. You can pay her instead of me.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he says without a smile. “It’s not your fault you’re laid up. Accidents can happen anytime, anywhere, to anyone.” His voice is flat, lacking any trace of kindness. With his sunglasses on, I can’t tell if he’s sending me a veiled threat.

His warning about talking to Taylor still nags at me. Does he harbor a grudge about what I told the police? It’s obvious David has a strong aversion to people nosing into his business.

“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “Grace told me you were really worried.”

When he finally removes his sunglasses, I immediately wish he’d put them back on. His stare could freeze a penguin.

“Of course I was happy to know you were okay,” he says.

“Two women missing from my home wouldn’t look good for me, would it?

Now listen, Izzy. I need you to get better so you can take care of the kids.

I have work to do while I’m here, and I’m paying you good money to keep them out of my hair.

But more important, I need you to be very mindful going forward.

I’d certainly hate for there to be any more… mishaps.”

The way he emphasizes the last word sends a chill down my spine.

Did I hear him correctly? It sounds like he’s trying to send me a not-so-coded message: next time, it won’t be a clumsy fall I have to worry about, but David himself.

In a blink, his fractured smile morphs into something I’d have to call charming. His eyes hold a touch of warmth. “You keep that ankle elevated,” he tells me with what seems like caring. “We need you back at one hundred percent as soon as possible. The twins are counting on it—and so am I.”

He pats my uninjured leg before standing to go. If he noticed me flinch, he didn’t care. I’m speechless and completely confused by his contradictory behavior. But I don’t have time to dwell on it for long, because Taylor arrives flaunting an extra-wide pearl-white smile that feels falsely cheerful.

“How’s the patient?” she asks.

I confess to being in pain, but leave out the part about getting another glimmer of David’s sadistic side. Since I’m stuck here with him, I’m better off trying to keep the peace.

Taylor’s expression shifts. “My mom wants to talk to me about something. I think she and my dad got into a huge fight. He’s gone. Took the car. But she’s not home right now, so I came to check in on you while I wait for her to get back.”

“I’m sorry about the fight. I hope it’s nothing too serious. And I’m glad you’re here,” I say. “I could use your help with something.”

We wait for the twins to head outside with David before Taylor helps me to my bedroom upstairs, where I show her the box that I ostensibly stole from Grace’s house.

“What’s this?” Taylor asks. She sits on the edge of my bed, turning the box over in her hands, opening the top to stroke the empty, velvety interior.

I tell her how the box felt important to me, and how Grace said it belonged to her sister, Anna.

I describe my panic when the clasp broke and my ill-thought-out decision to take the box to have it repaired, hoping Grace’s memory lapses would allow me to sneak it back onto the shelf without her ever knowing it was gone.

“I need a tiny screw and probably some glue. I don’t have the right tools.”

Taylor gives the box and clasp a close inspection.

“Honestly, Lucas would be better at this than me,” she says.

“He’s really meticulous with his guitar repairs.

I’ve seen his tools, and I’m sure he has a screw small enough for the clasp.

” She hands the box back to me with a bemused expression.

“But why couldn’t you take your eyes off this?

” she asks. “It’s just a box. It’s pretty and all, but it’s not that nice. ”

“There’s something about it,” I tell her. “Something familiar. I just wanted a closer look. I didn’t plan on taking it. It means so much to Grace.”

“But why does it mean so much to you ?”

I flop onto the bed, landing hard enough to jostle my ankle. “I wish I knew,” I say with a sigh. “It’s like I’ve seen it before or something, but for the life of me, I can’t remember when or where, and it’s driving me absolutely crazy.”

“Why don’t we try hypnosis?” Taylor suggests, as if she does it all the time.

“You know how to do hypnosis?” Call me skeptical.

“No, but, like, I’m sure we can figure it out,” she says. “It’s got to be on TikTok. You can learn anything there.”

Before I can say dumb idea, we’re watching short videos on how to perform hypnosis, and afterward, even she agrees it would be a waste of time.

I ask Taylor to grab my iPad off my desk.

I’m glad it’s fully charged, because I want to search for boxes like the one in question.

Taylor does the same, but on her phone. If we can figure out what era it’s from or where it was made, perhaps that will jog a memory.

It certainly can’t be any less effective than hypnosis.

Soon I’m scrolling through pictures of boxes: big ones, little ones, some that look like the one I have, but most don’t.

I refine my keywords with no success, trying the names of different woods and textures.

There’s no make or model, no identifiers on the box whatsoever, so that makes it even harder.

I’m about to give up when Taylor thrusts her phone in my face.

There’s a wood box in the picture, but not an exact match.

“Look at this room,” she says with a laugh. “Totally eighties.”

It was true. The colors were vibrant—eclectic blues, hot pinks, and neon greens. The clothing styles on display in the many posters covering the walls, along with a cassette player parked next to the wooden box that had caught her eye, marked the era well.

On closer inspection, the box is nothing like the one I took from Grace.

But still… there’s something here, something important I can learn from this image.

I just know it. Since it’s not the box, perhaps it’s the time period that matters—the eighties, like Taylor said.

Then it hits me, and now I think I know why I was so drawn to the box at Grace’s house in the first place.

My breath catches in my throat. Can it be true?

I use my iPad to log in to our family iCloud, where we uploaded all our old photos.

I know it’s here. I’ve looked at the picture I’m searching for a thousand times.

It hangs on the wall in our living room, haunting my mother, and our home in equal measure.

My heart pumps like I’m doing intense cardio.

Eventually, I find it. I zoom in. It’s hard to believe my eyes: a box that looks exactly like the one in my lap is also right there in my family’s old lake house back in the 1980s, the same era as the picture that jogged my memory.

It’s resting on an end table, with my mom standing beside it.

Her hair is something to behold—huge bangs that appear to defy gravity and curls that never quit.

She’s posing in a denim miniskirt and a concert T-shirt with the words Duran Duran above what must be a rock band .

One arm is decorated with bangles, and the other is lovingly draped around her sister, my aunt Susie—or Susie Welch, the second woman to go missing at Lake Timmeny—a kind and beautiful soul whom I would never have the chance to know.