Page 111 of It Happened on the Lake

She shoved her hair from her face with trembling fingers and mentally castigated herself for being such a ninny. After struggling out of the sleeping bag, Harper snapped on the bedside lamp, winced at the light, but checked her watch on the night stand. Four-thirty in the morning.

Too early to get up.

Make thatwaytoo early.

And her head was pounding.

Great.

Yawning, tamping down the memories of the dream, she walked to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and dipped her head under the sink, taking a long drink in the hope it might stave off or lessen the hangover. But that was just wishful thinking, she knew as she splashed water over her face and felt the bandage on her chin shift. She’d have to put on a new one as she doubted the cut had healed.

As she reached for a towel, she caught her wan image in the mirror, the slipping bandage, dark circles under her eyes.

And a tiny, evil face.

Just over her right shoulder.

What?

She bit back a scream and whirled to find Maude, wide eyes open, sitting on a shelf on the opposite side of the room.

The lifeless doll with her brush-like eyelashes and plastic face seemed to stare straight into Harper’s soul.

“You—you little freak!” Harper spat, her heart racing. She knocked the doll from its perch. It landed on the tile with a thud and a faint, “Ma-Ma.”

“Oh, shut up!” Harper kicked the doll again. It bounced against the door frame with a pitiful “Ma-Ma.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Heart knocking, head thundering, adrenaline pumping through her blood stream, Harper glowered at the inanimate toy, head drooping downward. “What the devil?” Harper shoved her hair from her eyes and glowered at the doll. How had it ended up here? Who the hell had put the damned thing up on the shelf positioned just so?

Maybe it was you. Maybe you did it. You locked all the doors last night. And face it, you were pretty wasted.

“No.”

No one else has a key.

Or do they?

The damned doll didn’t march up the stairs and hop up onto the shelf by herself.

Harper breathed deeply, trying to piece together the night before. She remembered seeing all the dolls downstairs—including Maude. Right? Her memory was fuzzy from the alcohol, but she was pretty sure . . . and then she’d nearly stumbled up the stairs and half-tripped over that other stupid doll, the one Gram called Toodles. Once she’d landed on the third floor, she’d flopped straight onto the bed and struggled into the sleeping bag.

Right?

No—no. She’d changed in the bathroom. To confirm, she glanced down at her KISS T-shirt and pile of clothes left near the shower. She hadn’t seen the doll then, nor did she recall carrying it up here and placing it on the shelf. No, no, no, she wouldn’t do that. She didn’t even like touching any of the old things.

She’d been really tired, and her headache had pounded.

Wincing against the pain building behind her eyes, she tried to think, to remember. Though the night before was a little blurry, she was certain there had been no dolls in this suite. Zero. And she didn’t remember carrying any of them up here.

No, she wouldn’t have.

No reason.

And yet, somehow, someway Maude had ended up here.

Goose pimples crawled up the back of her arms.

Hadn’t she heard the creak of a door opening last night?

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