Page 72 of It Happened on the Lake

She had to deal with real life, and the day had nearly slipped away.

She planned to pick up much-needed groceries, go back to the island, find the damned cat, shower the day and night off, then call Dawn and bring her up to speed.

Tomorrow she would tackle the unpacking and start organizing the house. There were utility companies to call, repairmen to find, and housekeepers and gardeners to contact.

She left enough cash on the table to cover the bill and a tip, then stepped outside to find a fine October mist falling on already damp sidewalks, wet leaves collecting in the gutters, the day gloomy and cold, the night creeping in. Her head was bare, so she flipped up the hood of her raincoat, her boots splashing through small puddles. As she rounded a final corner, she spied the police station, a conglomerate of three buildings that took up half a city block, windows bright in the gathering night. Near the glass door in the front of the building stood a flagpole, Old Glory drooping in the drizzle, lit by surrounding street lamps.

Spying her car in the adjacent lot, she fished her keys from her purse and headed straight for her Volvo. As she unlocked the car, she caught her own reflection in the window of the driver’s door, a shimmering image distorted by raindrops sliding down the glass.

And behind her, over her shoulder, something moved.

A person?

She turned just as she heard a female voice say, “Harper? Harper Reed?”

“Yes?”

“I thought so!” the woman said. She was small and compact, a long wool coat cinched at her tiny waist, a hood covering her head. “Wait a minute. It’s Harper Prescott, right? You’re married now.”

“Was,” she said, thinking the woman was vaguely familiar. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“Oh yeah, you do! It’s me!” the woman said, offering a wide toothy smile. “Rhonda!”

“Rhonda?” Harper repeated, trying to place the name and face.

“Rhonda Simms—well, now, but you knew me as Rhonda DeAngelo.”

“Rhonda DeAngelo.” Faint bells were ringing in Harper’s mind: warning bells.

“Yeah, yeah! We were in chemistry together as juniors. Remember? Seventh period? Mr. Latham’s class? I cheated off of you all the time,” Rhonda admitted, stepping into the light. Suddenly her features—big, Kewpie doll eyes, rosy cheeks, and pointed chin came into clearer view. Harper’s gut tightened. She did remember. But the girl she recalled was a dishwater blond with straight hair, braces, and a bad case of acne in high school. She’d worn cat-eye glasses and had been quiet, a listener.

This was a newer version. With straight teeth, blue eyes, clear skin, and platinum curls sprouting out from beneath the rim of her hood, this Rhonda was definitely more confident and forthcoming. “Sorry about the cheating, but I just didn’t get it. At all!” She flashed Harper what was clearly meant to be an abashed smile.

“Doesn’t matter now.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t, but I’d love to talk to you. Maybe get a drink? Or coffee? Catch up?”

“Now?” Harper asked, remembering the petite little girl who slithered around corners, listening to gossip, pretending she wasn’t trying to overhear what anyone was saying. Harper had always considered her a bit of a snake. So what was she doing lurking in the parking lot of the police department?

“Now would be great!” Rhonda enthused. “I mean if you’re up to it. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Oh.” She was talking about the bandages. Inadvertently, Harper touched her chin.

“I heard what you did last night,” Rhonda was saying.

Already. “Did you? How?”

“Oh, come on, you know. Almsville might have grown in the last decade or so, but it’s still a small town. Gossip spreads like wildfire.”

And you’re probably holding the gasoline can. Harper didn’t say it, but she was getting the gist of what was going on here. Rhonda had been the editor of the school newspaper back in the day. So now? “Let me guess, you’re a reporter.”

“Well . . . yes!” she said, unable to keep the enthusiasm from her voice and her gaze from the gauze on Harper’s face. “The Twilight Tribune.”

Crap! The local paper. And Rhonda had either followed her here or somehow discovered that she would be at the police station. Had Rand spilled the beans? Unlikely. He’d been closemouthed in high school, and as a cop he had an obligation to keep things private. But who knew?

“And I’d love to do a story about the island,” Rhonda said, gearing up. “And about your family and how they ended up with it. There’s just so much interesting history there, so I thought a series about it, and your family and you, of course, now that you’ve inherited it.”

“How do you know that?”

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