Page 34 of Stranger in the Lake

Micah answers for him. “Means she was still breathing when she went under.”

Sam confirms it with a nod. “The official cause of death was drowning.”

Micah’s gaze latches on to mine, and I must look as traumatized as I feel because he says, “She wouldn’t have felt anything, if that makes you feel better. She would have been unconscious.”

No, it doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it’s almost worse. That woman was alive when she slid into the lake. Somebody could have fished her out, given her mouth to mouth. She didn’t have to die.

“Micah’s looking for a murder weapon with a long, flat surface,” Sam says. “Most likely an oar.”

Micah makes a frustrated sound. “Good thing there aren’t many of those around here.”

Sam gives him a tight smile, but I can’t find an ounce of humor in Micah’s wisecrack. Whoever killed that poor woman did it twice—first with a whack to the head, and second by watching her sink. Whoever did it must have really wanted her dead.

My gaze creeps to Chet, but it’s just not possible. Flirting, I can believe. Clobbering her upside the head and shoving her into a freezing cold lake? No way.

I look back and Sam’s watching me. “What about Mr. Keller? Is he home?”

“No. He’s out scouting properties.” It’s an excuse I come up with on the spot, mostly for lack of anything better. Vague enough it could mean anywhere, realistic enough to be believable.

“He’s not answering our calls.”

Welcome to the club.“He’s probably out of range or something. If it makes you feel any better, he’s ignoring me, too. But I’ll make sure to tell him to give you a call the next time I talk to him.”

Chet grabs a fistful of berries, drops a few in his mouth. “I don’t get it. If she was staying in town, how’d she get all the way to Skeleton Cove?”

Sam shrugs. “Wind. Currents. Some combination of the two, maybe, but that’s up to Micah to figure out. Probably too many factors for us to ever know for sure.”

“By the time I’m done in the water, I’ll know for sure,” Micah says. “I need for this weather to clear. Then give me another day or two and I’ll know.”

Sam’s gaze flits to mine. “Those security cameras on the back of the house. Are they working?”

“I think so. Paul said something about them being motion-sensitive, so they only record when they’re activated. I don’t know how to pull up the footage, though.”

“I’ve already started the process for a warrant.”

I bristle. “I said I don’t know. Not that you couldn’t see.”

“The warrant is procedure,” Micah says, “mostly to cover all the bases. Defense attorneys love to use any little missed step to eliminate evidence.”

Sam confirms it with a nod. “And that’s something I want to avoid. We’ll be asking for anything the cameras picked up starting on Tuesday evening and up until the moment you spotted her. Time of death was somewhere between 4:00 and 6:00 a.m.”

His words send a billow of heat to my skin, and the room hollows out, the smell of bacon and vanilla burning like acid in my lungs. That means she hadn’t been in the water for all that long when I found her. The numbers on the nightstand clock flash across my brain, crimson as fresh blood. It was 6:04 when I woke up to an empty pillow next to me.

What time did Paul leave? When he reappeared, covered in sweat and mud and blood, was it really from a fall down Fontana Ridge? I sink onto a stool and remind myself to breathe.

“God, poor Sienna.” Chet’s voice is tinny, ringing in my ears. “Did you figure out where she’s from? What she was doing in Lake Crosby?”

“We did, but we’re not releasing any details, not until we get ahold of her next of kin. The folks down at the B and B are under a strict gag order, but you know Piper.” Sam shrugs, more resigned than unconcerned. His tone is as serious as ever. “We threatened her with jail time. We’ll see how much good it does.”

None, probably. Nothing keeps in this town, not in the bed, not at the dinner table, not at the bar or B and B. And especially not with Piper.

Chet settles the platter on the island, bobbing his spatula between us. “Who wants the first?”

“Sam.” I push the stack of plates his way, pass him the sugar and jam, which I know he’ll choose over butter and syrup. I know where this conversation is going, and I can’t even think about food.

He dumps on the jam, smearing it around as he asks the next question. “But since she was found on your property—”

I stop him right there: “It’s Paul’s property.”

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