Page 49 of It Happened on the Lake

Her stomach threatened again.

She leaned down, her elbows on her knees, and retched. At least it wasn’t Jinx.

This time.

Swiping a hand over her lips, she straightened and swallowed back her revulsion as cold October rain washed over her. Blinking, she looked up at the gargoyles with their taloned feet curled on their perches and their stony faces ever menacing.

What was it that Beth had said?

That maybe they all were cursed?

As Harper walked across the bridge to the garage in search of a shovel, she knew there was no “maybe” about it.

Theywereall cursed.

Every last one of them.

Chapter 13

Detective Rand Watkins’s day had spiraled from bad to worse. Cynthia Hunt had given up the ghost.

Just before she was to be transported to Mercy General Hospital in Portland, Cynthia had suffered a massive heart attack and died. Right here at St. Catherine’s. On a standard-issue gurney.

Code Blue.

And it appeared there was a fuckup involved.

Shit.

He walked out of the hospital for the second time that day and told himself that his suspicions were way out of line, that he’d been shaken by the events of the past twenty-four hours because he’d been thrown back into a time he didn’t want to remember.

Because of Harper Reed.

Because she was back in Almsville, which was now his jurisdiction.

And how off the wall was it that nearly the minute Harper showed up, Cynthia Hunt managed to put on a violent, self-mutilating display in the middle of the lake? One more tragedy for the Hunt family and another problem for Rand and his department.

And this one cut too close to the bone.

It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that because of Cynthia’s bizarre death, all the old scandals and secrets would be dredged up again. Already he’d received three calls from reporters wanting information about the Hunt family.

He climbed into his Jeep and started the engine. Waited. Letting the engine warm in the cold October air.

Why did he feel that this was going to be a shit show?

He spied his partner hurrying out of the main doors of the hospital and put the Jeep into gear. Michelle Brown was his latest partner. Green as the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day but smart as hell. Flipping the hood of her jacket over her head at the imposing statue of St. Catherine, she glanced up at the sky, then hurried his way.

As she slid into the passenger seat, he turned on the windshield wipers.

“Get anything?”

She shot him a what-do-you-think glance. In her late twenties, she was athletic, with smooth mocha-colored skin, black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, hoop earrings, and an attitude that wouldn’t quit.

He put the Jeep into gear and pulled away from the curb.

“The only person who checked in on her since her arrival, other than hospital staff, was her son. Levi Hunt,” she said. “He was there this morning but left without actually going inside the ICU. Talked to the doctor in charge, a Dr. Frank Costello. People called in, inquiring, and I’ll get those numbers from the phone company.” As he pulled away from the curb, she asked, “Do you really think something’s going on here? I mean, the woman had burns over half of her body. Don’t you think nature just took its course?”

“Probably.” The autopsy would show as much. But it was odd that Cynthia Hunt had been left alone in a hallway before the transport could pick her up. Worse yet, in that particular area, there were no security cameras.

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