Page 37 of It Happened on the Lake

And had kicked himself for doing so.

Now, as a dreary dawn broke over the city and he stood peering through a small window into the ICU where he could view his injured mother, he knew he’d have to talk to Harper.

I should be thankful, he told himself. If it weren’t for Harper spying his mother on the flaming boat, Cynthia Hunt might not have survived. Then again, if not for Harper, the entire Hunt family history could have been so much different and, he was certain, so much less tragic. Maybe Chase would still be around. Maybe his father would be alive.

Maybe.

But who knew?

He wasn’t one for conjecture or “what ifs,” but he couldn’t help but think Harper Reed was a curse upon his family. He watched as a doctor with a shock of white hair and rimless glasses examined his mother. She was swaddled in bandages, unconscious in a hospital bed, IVs and monitors hooked up to her.

From his vantage point, Levi saw that the individual “rooms” of the ICU were just partitioned by curtains, fanned out so that anyone in the nurse’s station could keep an eye on the patients. There were three that he could see, unmoving bodies on beds, hooked up to monitors and IVs.

Fuck.

Staring through the glass at the form on the hospital bed, Levi had trouble believing the comatose fire victim was Cynthia Hunt, the once-vivacious and happy-go-lucky woman who smoked and drank and told bawdy jokes and took in stray puppies. But that particular woman had been gone a long time, ever since Chase disappeared.

Now his mother looked much like a mummy.

Her face was covered in white gauze, space for her nose, eyes, and mouth left clear. Her arms and hands were also covered, no fingers visible, the rest of her hidden by a sheet.

He swallowed hard, and his jaw ached, it was so tight.

How had it all come to this?

Why had she been on the boat?

Why was it on fire?

Why had Harper been involved?

The police, so far, were being pretty mum on the whole situation, but he planned on talking to Rand. Now a detective with the department, Rand Watkins would have the inside scoop.

If he would share it.

The doctor, Frank Costello, was the town’s oldest GP and had delivered both Levi and Chase. As he finished his cursory exam, Costello paused to say something to the nurse at the desk before walking toward the hallway. Levi watched as Costello pressed a button unlocking the secure area.

As the door clanged open, Levi approached the doctor. “How is she? My mother. Is she going to be . . .” He almost asked if she would be okay, but that would have been ridiculous. She wasn’t okay before this last horrible fire and now . . .

“She’s doing as well as can be expected, considering.”

Meaning that she was alive. Barely.

“Walk with me,” the doctor said, checking his watch. “We’re transferring her to Mercy General,” he said and went on to explain that St. Catherine’s, in the small community of Almsville, didn’t have the equipment, space, or staff that the burn unit in Mercy General could provide. “All the best care there,” he was saying, “state of the art.” He went on about the Portland hospital being newer, larger, and better equipped to care for burn victims. But it was just white noise to Levi. He had gone through so many other conversations like this about members of his family that they all ran together.

“. . . She should be there in two, maybe three, hours or so. They’ll need time to admit her, and Dr. Horn will want to examine her, of course.” Dr. Costello paused and clapped Levi on the shoulder. “It’s what’s best.”

Was it?

Keeping a woman alive who would never be herself again?

He had his doubts as they walked down the pristine hallway where the tile floors gleamed under the fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic was strong, masking whatever other odors existed.

“I would guess you could visit her again this evening, maybe sooner.”

“Will she know I’m there?” Levi finally asked as they passed a nurse pushing a rattling cart of medications in the opposite direction.

“She’s still comatose and . . .” Costello didn’t finish his sentence, didn’t state the obvious, that it was best for Cynthia Hunt to remain unconscious. At least for now. And inwardly Levi wondered what to wish for. Years of plastic surgery and physical therapy and pain for a woman whose mind had already begun to fail her? Or a quick and hopefully painless death? His jaw tightened, and he hated himself for his thoughts.

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