Page 2 of Knot the Last Chapter

The lake is real, by the way. Deep, dark, large, and weirdly cold year-round. The kind of place local kids dare each other to jump into at night. The kind of place that has secrets—mostly gossip from the tiny islands scattered throughout it, some with ramshackle cottages like ours, and others with breathtaking mansions.

I don’t expect a reply from Harper. It’s been five years, and I have no idea where she’s at. Is she married to an alpha, like she always wanted to be? Or pursuing arts? Maybe she’s in the big city, too, even though she wanted to stay in Starling Grove.

A second later, my phone buzzes.

Depends. How dramatic is the killer? Are we talking monologue-at-the-water’s-edge levels of flair or practical farmer with a wheelbarrow?

I sit up straight.

That… wasn’t Harper. I know Harper, and she’d laugh and give a random time estimate. This is entirely much more eloquent than my paintbrush wielding best friend ever was.

…who is this?

My eyes are glued to the screen, waiting for an answer.Wrong number. Or right number, depending on how badly you needed a sassy true crime consultant.

I snort. It startles me. I’d forgotten what it felt like to actually laugh.Sorry. Thought I was texting someone else.

The response is immediate.No harm done. We all send our darkness to strangers sometimes. Occupational hazard of being human. Not the only one, too, if you’re about to be drowned in a lake.

Another laugh escapes me and I type quickly:You're a bit odd.

His response doesn’t disappointment.Thank you. So are you.

I let my phone rest on my chest, staring at the ceiling again. A strange warmth pools behind my ribs. It’s not much—but it’ssomething. A spark. A thread. I guess I’m more lonely than even I thought. And why do I think it’s a man, anyway? Could be a woman, too. Still…a picture forms in my mind, and he’s handsome. Doesn’t hurt to fantasize a bit. Either way, I could use the company.

My phone buzzes.So, who are you planning to off? Asking for a friend.

I giggleI’m trying to write a book. First one. It’s… harder than I thought.

Of course it is. Worthwhile things usually are. But hey—you started. That’s more than most people do.

I smile at his words, feeling slightly better.Are you a writer too?

Not exactly. Just someone who appreciates a good mystery.

I’m Lila, by the way. What should I call you, mystery person?

There’s a long pause. Just enough time for me to feel a little foolish for asking.

Then:

Let’s go with Pine.

I frown.Like the tree?

Like the feeling.

I reread that twice.

My thumb hovers, then types slowly:Thanks, Pine. I feel… less like a total failure now.

Then I’ve done my good deed for the day. You’ve got this, plot bunny.

His words encourage me to get a whole paragraph down. It’s not good, but it’s there, which is more than I had before. I close the laptop—not in defeat, but as a quiet truce with the day. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write an actual chapter. Maybe not. Either way, I’ll try again.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on one by one, casting little pools of amber across the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance,a dog barks. Wind rustles through the oak trees lining the street, the kind of small, comforting sound you forget to miss until you come home.

I don’t know who Pine is.

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