Page 265 of It Happened on the Lake

Harper flew up the remaining stairs to the tower room. She locked the door. Breathing heavily, she went to the window and looked down to the terrace two full stories below. Even if the fall didn’t kill her, she’d break something, a leg or arm or pelvis, and she’d be a sitting duck.

But maybe not a dead one.

Harper cranked open the window, the fresh cool air swirling inside. At least she had the option of jumping rather than giving Marcia the satisfaction of shooting her.

She glanced over at the far shore and saw the five houses on the point. Rand’s house was dark. Levi’s, too, showed no signs of life. A thin light shone from the Sievers’ place, and the Musgrave cabin was dark. But there were lamps glowing at the Alexander house, and she didn’t need to look through the binoculars or the telescope to see Craig sitting on the dock, Beth tending to him, the lights of an ambulance flashing through the trees in the swim park, its siren shrill and echoing across the water.

Craig was alive.

She hadn’t killed him.

She remembered pointing the shotgun at him, her finger on the trigger, but she’d hesitated. Then the echoing, ear-splitting blast. He’d tumbled into the boat slip, hitting his head on the Chris-Craft as he fell. He hadn’t been blown back, away from her but sideways. As if he’d been struck by a bullet coming from the tunnel. There had been no thunderous ping of dozens of buckshot pellets spraying on the walls of the boathouse or madly dappling the water.

She realized she hadn’t shot him. She’d never pulled the trigger.

Marcia had.

From a hiding spot in the tunnel.

She shot him with the first bullet of six, Harper realized suddenly. Was that right? Yes. Craig should have been blown backward if she’d shot him. Not sideways.

Since then, Marcia had fired five times.

So she was out of ammunition and possibly didn’t realize it.

Hoping she was right, Harper unplugged the single working lamp in the tower room. Then she gathered her weapons, such as they were.

She heard the key in the lock.

Of course Marcia had a key.

The interior locks had never been changed.

But Harper was waiting, hiding just inside the open doorway to the private bathroom.

The door from the staircase swung open, and she heard Marcia’s hands reach for the nonexistent light switch. “Where in the devil—oh shit.”

Harper saw a shadow, the nose of the gun as Marcia advanced into the room.

Then she pulled the ring of the doll she was holding and Chatty Cathy’s high voice said, “Please take me with you.”

“What?” Marcia whirled, just as Harper hurled the Ken doll like a spear. It slipped in her hand but still whizzed through the air and hit Marcia square in the face.

“Ow! Shit!”

Click!

The gun didn’t fire!

“Oh shit,” Marcia said, her voice tight.

Click. Click. Click.

Marcia kept trying to shoot.

And over the clicking Harper heard the sound of frantic, loud pounding. Someone downstairs at the door.

“What?” For a second Marcia was distracted by the sound.

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