Page 52 of It Happened on the Lake

“Maybe.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” she said, then seemed to give herself a mental shake. “So. You wanted to know what happened last night?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. I came back to the house on the island, had driven all the way from Santa Rosa. Long trip. I was about to unpack when I looked out the window to the lake and saw the burning boat.”

“And then?”

“And then . . . God, I just reacted.” She told him about calling 9-1-1 before diving into the lake, swimming, and finding Cynthia Hunt tossing all kinds of things into the water as the craft was on fire. About how she’d gotten hurt from slipping on the wet stone steps on the island and from some flying shrapnel, courtesy of a raving Cynthia.

“Did she say anything to you?” he asked.

“Oh yeah.” She bit the edge of her lip, as if she wasn’t sure exactly what to confide and then added, “Out of the blue, while she was on fire, she saw me, recognized me, and started throwing things at me and screaming that I was to blame for Chase’s death. Yelled out that I’d killed him, if you can believe that.” Harper paused and shook her head. “I didn’t even know that he was dead. I thought he was still missing.”

“He is.”

“But why would she . . . ?”

“Who knows? Officially he’s still a missing person.”

“But unofficially?”

“What do you think?”

She lifted a shoulder and frowned. “I’ve been gone a long time, but I thought someone would have let me know if his bod—if he’d been located.”

“It would have been big news around here.” He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. “Did she say anything else?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone else in the lake?”

“No. Not until other boats started showing up.”

“No one was in the boat with her?”

Staring at him as if he were mad, she said, “I just told you. No. She was alone.”

“Did you see her pour gasoline or any other kind of fuel on the boat?”

“No.”

“Did you see her light a match or use a lighter to—”

“No!” Her temper flared in her eyes. “I told you everything I saw, everything I did, everything that happened, okay? Look, Rand—er, Detective—I don’t know anything else. Why am I down here anyway? Am I under some kind of suspicion? Because that’s just ludicrous! I tried to help a woman in distress, and I didn’t know it was Cynthia Hunt when I saw the boat, okay? Not at first. I just reacted to try and save her. And it looks like I did a damned piss-poor job of it, doesn’t it?” She was upset, angry now, her pale face suddenly flushing. “Wait a minute. Are you accusing me of something here?” she asked in disbelief.

“No, just getting the facts.”

But she was undeterred. “Do I need to call my attorney? Do you think—what? That I killed Cynthia Hunt?”

“This isn’t a homicide investigation,” he said. “You’re not under suspicion.”

“Oh, good.” She didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm. “What a relief. Because for a second or two, I thought you were going to say that me trying to save Cynthia somehow contributed to her death.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You’re sure?” she demanded. “Because this is feeling a lot more like an interrogation than an interview.” Her gaze found his and held. “And it’s not like I haven’t been here before,” she said, her lips flat. “The only difference is that the last detective wasn’t someone who used to be my friend.”

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