Page 88 of It Happened on the Lake

Maybe so, but those “no-goods” might just know something.

Rand thought back to the night Chase died. Hadn’t he said something when Rand had suggested his brother might watch over Harper. “. . . not Levi. He’s a prick! . . . Can’t be trusted.”

What was that all about? Simple sibling rivalry? Or something more? Something darker?

Recalling that night, he also remembered Chase’s damning accusation about Rand’s feelings for Harper: “You’re half in love with her already.”

That much had been true.

And seeing her today? He didn’t want to go there. Some emotions just never die.

Turning his thoughts from Harper, he rubbed his knuckles, almost remembered the pain he’d felt in his hand when he’d slammed his fist into Chase’s jaw. From that fight and Chase’s desperate attempt to save himself from plunging down the cliff face, Rand knew that Chase would never have committed suicide. Not only had no body ever been discovered, but the truth of the matter was that Chase Hunt was all about Chase Hunt living the good life.

He wasn’t about dying.

So how was his disappearance tied to all the rest of this mess, newly exacerbated by his mother’s bizarre death?

He kicked his chair back into position at the desk, sat down, and took another swallow from his bottle. As he flipped through Chase’s file, he once again found his father’s signature as lead investigator.

Rand’s own statement was there. Short and to the point. He’d been with Chase earlier up at the logging road, where they said their good-byes over beers as Rand was leaving the next day. He’d told the cops—not his father—a cleaned-up version of what had happened, leaving out the drugs, Chase’s crazy talk, and the fist fight that had nearly taken Chase’s life. Then he’d explained that he’d stayed out until closing time at the local watering hole, which he assumed the bartender had verified. He’d been so intent on drowning his own sorrows, he’d even missed his mother’s visit. He’d learned later, from a letter he received on the other side of the world, that she had, as promised, stopped by the house, but Rand hadn’t been there.

If his dad had noticed Rand’s bruised hand and split knuckles, he hadn’t asked about it, but probably Gerald Watkins had been too busy dealing with Olivia Dixon’s death and Chase’s disappearance to notice.

Or he hadn’t wanted to know.

That thought ate at him as once more he eyed the pages on Chase’s missing person’s file. The statements were old and faded, the notes short and inconclusive, a list of names and phone numbers of people associated with Chase. He recognized a few, his own home phone number as well as the Hunts’ and the Dixons’, the number for the main house on the island. The digits he didn’t recognize had names attached to them.

He read the familiar names: Harper Reed. Tom and Cynthia Hunt. Levi Hunt. Rand himself. A few other people, including Chase’s highschool coach, a couple of friends, his college roommate, and a few people Chase had befriended at the university. No one had a clue. No one had thought Chase seemed troubled. No one had been involved in his disappearance. No one knew if he had plans to leave.

Except Rand, and he hadn’t admitted as much.

“Well, hell,” he muttered, guilt creeping up on him as he paged through the notes.

Chase’s Chevelle had been left at the house. If he’d decided to head for the border, he’d taken off on foot, hopped a bus, or hitched a ride from a stranger. Unless he had some secret accomplice who had later lied.

Then what about the boat found in the middle of the lake?

A decoy?

Left adrift to put the police and his family on the wrong trail?

Possibly to buy time?

That damned boat, Rand thought.

He leaned back in his chair.

There were also statements from the other residents’ houses on the point, including Ed Sievers, the recluse next door; the Leonettis, who lived on the other side of the Hunts; and a few others from the rental house at the end of the block: Charla Lopez, Ronald Mayfield, and Janet Van Arsdale—ahh. Moonbeam, as Chase had called her. He noted her given name. But there was no mention of the kid from Texas who seemed to be the dealer. What was his name? God, it had been so long. He had a weird name. Like . . . what? Trip? For the LSD? Or Tripper? No—Trick! Chase had said, “A guy from Texas, Trick, he can get you whatever you want. Any slice of heaven. I’m not kidding.” Unless Ronald Mayfield had been given the nickname of Trick, the guy wasn’t listed.

Harper’s and Levi’s statements echoed each other: Harper showed up at the house in the early morning hours. She knocked on the window, waking Levi. Together they looked for Chase. They stopped to talk to Rand. Then Levi drove her and her canoe back to the island before driving home and telling his parents that Chase was missing.

So all the information jibed.

And yet it seemed off. Shallow.

Harper had been questioned, of course, with her attorney present. Her statement included information about how she’d been caring for her grandmother and how she, after allowing the woman to have alcohol with her medication, had waited for the old woman to fall asleep, then taken off in the canoe in search of Chase. She’d admitted to dropping Olivia’s pills on the floor and scrambling to pick them up, perhaps screwing up the dosage, but it had been an accident. And she’d been a minor, not quite eighteen, so no charges had been filed. In fact, there had been no further investigation into Olivia’s death.

Accidental overdose.

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