Page 163 of It Happened on the Lake

An unlikely combo.

And a mystery she couldn’t solve now, or maybe ever.

She left the jar in the drawer with the other items and thought she should burn the letters. She would. But she would probably read them first. What would be the harm? Gram and almost everyone she loved was long dead.

“Not tonight,” she said, recalling sadly that her grandmother had buried her husband, only daughter, and grandson before she, too, had left this world with the help of her granddaughter.

At that thought, Harper walked straight to the liquor cabinet and, despite her earlier convictions, poured herself a stiff drink—vodka again, to vanquish the spirits that haunted this island—or more precisely crept through her mind.

“There are no ghosts,” she told herself before she took a long swallow and made her way to the parlor windows and the night dark beyond. A specter appeared in the watery glass—her own ghostly reflection, pale and wan.

From out of nowhere she heard Cynthia’s curse:You fucking bitch! You go straight to hell. You killed my son!

“Not today,” she said and finished her drink. “Not going to hell today.” After all, she’d been there already, about twenty years ago.

1968

Chapter 41

Harper couldn’t get out of bed.

Devastated and heartbroken, still wearing her nightgown, she stared at the ceiling in her room at the cottage. Bandit lay on the pillow beside her, the bedside lamp turned low, the February wind rattling the panes of the windows.

With effort, she forced herself to roll from beneath the covers. She was cold from the inside out, testament to her grief and the gray winter day. She peered out the window, wondered if it might snow, and without thinking, plucked at a spot near the window frame where the wallpaper was stained and pulling away from the casing.

Her mother would never have allowed the discoloration or the tiny tear. When Anna was alive, this room was awash with light, the woodwork was a bright white, the curtains crisp, the rug a thick shag.

But after Anna died, the room had seemed to fade and Harper had spent more and more time at Gram’s big house. The books and toys still on the shelves were still the same as they had been for years. The only nods to her becoming a teenager were the portable record player that was set up on her desk, a scattering of 45s on the floor, and a small television with rabbit ears that had once been Evan’s.

She flopped back onto the bed and heard her father and stepmother downstairs, smelled coffee brewing, and closed her eyes. She knew Marcia was angry that Dad insisted they stay here, at the cottage, rather than the condo in downtown Portland. She’d overheard several fights between them.

Didn’t care.

Hadn’t cared about anything since the night when Gram died.

Somehow a week had passed.

All in a blur of police interrogations, reporters’ calls, funeral preparations, and lawyers’ visits. The “big house,” as Dad called it, had been crawling with cops, reporters at the gates. The whole town of Almsville and the world beyond were caught up in the scandal and mystery.

Another weapon in Marcia’s arsenal in her fight to move back to their penthouse.

“We’d be protected there, Bruce. There’s a doorman and security. We could be away from all of this madness. It would be good for us, you and me, and for Harper as well.”

“Not yet,” her father had replied. “I’m not uprooting Harper. She’s been through enough trauma as it is.”

The fight had ended with the bedroom door slamming so hard the whole cottage had shuddered. But they’d stayed.

Absently, Harper petted Bandit, barely feeling the dog’s rough fur.

Her heart ached, not just for Chase, wherever he was, but for Gram as well. Harper couldn’t imagine life without her grandmother.

Never had Harper felt so all alone. Even when her mother passed, Gram had remained stalwart, just as she had when Evan, too, left them.

But now?

Now?

Who was she left with? Her father and his wife. She let out a sigh. Daddy had always been somewhat distant, he’d been closer to Evan. Then there was Marcia, a stepmother who was only ten years older than Harper but one of those women who acted and appeared a generation older. Marcia’s taste in clothes, hairstyles, music, makeup, you name it, was part of an older generation. More Marilyn Monroe than Twiggy. Just like Dad was more Dean Martin than Mick Jagger—but then he could be excused. Hewasfrom another generation. An older one.

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