Page 51 of It Happened on the Lake

A cold wind cut through the town, a promise of the coming winter as he followed her inside. He hung his jacket in the locker room, then walked along a hallway where pictures of officers lined the wall, his father’s portrait included. As if the old man were watching his every move. Ignoring the picture of a much younger Gerald Watkins, Rand made his way through a rabbit warren of cubicles on the way to his office. Which, for the meantime, he shared with Michelle Brown. At least until Chuck Fellows retired this summer.

Neither Rand nor Brown much liked the situation, but for the foreseeable future they were stuck with it.

Brown had already shed her coat and was seated at her desk. It was slightly smaller than his own and had been pushed under the window next to a short filing cabinet. The windowsill was now covered with houseplants and pictures of Brown either hiking, riding horses, or canoeing on the lake. Beneath the trailing ivy or whatever the hell it was, her desk was strewn with empty coffee cups, Diet Coke cans, and messy piles of paper, some of which had migrated onto the filing cabinet.

His desk, set at an angle to hers, was neat, file folders stacked in one corner, his in-basket on the other, phone and computer in the center.

He settled into his chair, logged onto his email, a new addition to the department, and was scrolling through when the phone rang and he scooped up the receiver.

“Mrs. Prescott is here, Detective Watkins.”

Mrs. Prescott, aka Harper Reed.

“She says she’s here to give a statement regarding Cynthia Hunt.”

“That’s right. Give me five, then bring her back to Interview 2.”

“Got it.”

He gave Brown a heads-up about Harper Prescott giving her statement, then slid his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and grabbed a legal pad, pen, and pocket recorder as he made his way down the short hallway and around a corner.

He’d just sat down when Officer Suki Tanaka, the front desk officer, escorted her in.

“Come on in,” Rand said, up on his feet again and noting that she’d changed into jeans and a sweater, her shoulder-length hair now down. Though she was still sporting a bandage covering her chin and one higher on her cheek, she’d applied enough makeup to partially disguise the bruise around her eye. But she hadn’t been able to hide the swelling or the broken blood vessels. “Have a seat.”

“Okay.” She sat on one side of the small table, he on the other, as the officer closed the door behind her.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee or a soda or . . . ?”

“Let’s just get on with this.”

“Okay.” He pulled his recorder from his pocket and straightened the legal pad on the desk. “I want to ask you about last night.”

Her lips tightened, and her good eye glared at him. “Fire away.”

“I’m going to tape this.”

She nodded as he hit the Record button. The little red lights started blinking as he made mention of his name and rank, the date, time, and that he was interviewing Harper Reed Prescott. Then he got down to it.

“You know that Cynthia Hunt died?”

“What?” A hand flew to her mouth. “No . . . what? Are you . . . no! When? Holy God. I—I—” She caught herself and took a long, audible breath. “I thought she was going to be sent to a burn unit at a Portland hospital.”

“She was. Didn’t happen.”

“No,” Harper whispered. She held up a hand, as if to push back on any other question he might have. For a minute she gathered herself. When she looked up at him again, all of the anger and fire he’d witnessed in her gaze earlier had diminished, replaced by confusion. “I didn’t . . . I mean I knew she was bad, but I thought she was going to pull through.” She was obviously stunned.

“They think she had a massive heart attack,” he explained. “Just before she was transferred.”

“At St. Catherine’s? But I was there . . .” Harper let out a long, tremulous sigh and glanced up at the window mounted high overhead where the gray sky was visible. “Sorry . . . I just didn’t know. I mean, I knew she was in bad shape and that she might not make it, but . . . it’s still a shock.” Then she cleared her throat. “Oh. Dear. God. Is—is Levi okay?” Her eyes shone with restrained tears, but she blinked them away.

“Don’t know.”

She looked at her hands and seemed to gather herself before whispering, “Maybe it’s for the best.”

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