Page 78 of It Happened on the Lake

Or planted somewhere at the Hunts’ house?

If so, why?

She bit her lower lip and swung her telescope, sweeping Craig’s office/gym again.

Yes, the telescope caught all the minute details of the room, but it sure didn’t explain what he’d been doing.

“Nothing good,” she told herself as she saw him peer through the glass door again, angling his head so that his gaze swung upward and across the lake. To the island. To the house she was in. To the very room where she sat in the dark.

Craig reached for the phone, then wedged the receiver between his shoulder and ear. Still staring, he punched out a number.

A second later, the house phone began to ring.

Chapter 20

Harper’s pulse pounded, and her stomach ground nervously. Had Craig seen her spying?

Was he calling to warn her to mind her own business?

What would she say?

Could she deny it?

Or maybe he was going to ask her about fixing up the place?

She hurried into the kitchen, her hip protesting as she snagged the receiver from the wall phone. “Hello?” she said breathlessly, her heart in her throat.

“Mom?” Her daughter’s voice stopped her cold.

It was Dawn.

Dawn was calling.

Not Craig Alexander.

No one had seen her spying.

“Hi, honey,” she said, sagging against the wall in relief.

“Jesus, Mom, what the fu—hell is going on?”

Harper’s relief was short-lived as she heard the angst and the anger in Dawn’s voice.

“Why didn’t you call me and tell me that you were in the hospital?” Dawn demanded. “Holy shi—crap, Mom! You should have called me immediately! Instead, I get this call from some lame-ass reporter!”

“Rhonda DeAngelo.” The woman worked fast. What had she said her name was? Smith or . . . “Simms. Her name is Simms now.”

“Like I care! It doesn’t matter, Mom,” Dawn snapped. “God!” Then she took in a deep breath before adding, “Maybe. Maybe that was it. I don’t remember, but she told me. Yeah, maybe, Rhoda or Rhonda Something. I’m not sure. I didn’t really catch her name. I was too freaked out! I wasn’t thinking straight. She told me something about you and a woman who died in a fireonthe lake and I couldn’t say anything. I just hung up on her and called the gatehouse, but there was no answer. Nothing, just some dead-sounding voice saying the number was no longer in service.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry—”

“So I tried this one for the lake house that you gave me like a million years ago. I didn’t even know if the phones there still worked. You know it was really embarrassing for some random reporter to be the one to tell me you were in the hospital!”

“I was going to call you.”

“When?” Dawn wanted to know, and Harper could imagine her eyebrows slamming together in frustration. Brown eyes peeking out from dyed black hair, skin as white as alabaster, black lipstick—all part of the whole Goth thing she’d been going through. “Jesus Christ, Mom, if—”

“Hey! Language!”

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