Page 105 of Darkwater Lane

What are you doing, Sam? I think to myself.

I’m sitting at one of the few stoplights in Norton. A right will take me out to Javi and Kez’s. A left will take me to the lake.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath. I turn left and hit the gas.

“Everything okay, Mom?”

“I need you to keep your brother safe, okay? Lock the doors, tell Kez and Javi that we should be back soon but to keep an eye out until then.”

I can hear her wanting to ask questions, but she doesn’t. She knows the drill. “Be careful, Mom. I love you.”

I will never get tired of hearing those words. “I love you too, honey.”

Less than ten minutes later, I veer onto the road that circlesStillhouse Lake. I tried calling Sam again, but he still didn’t pick up. “Please, be home,” I murmur under my breath. “Please, don’t have done anything stupid.”

Finally I pull into our driveway and let out a sigh of relief when I find Sam’s truck parked in his usual spot. “Thank God,” I breathe. I swear if he just came back here to pick something up and for some reason left his phone in the truck, I’m going to kill him myself.

I’ve barely thrown the SUV in park before I’m out and racing to the house. I throw open the door, ready to give him a piece of my mind for scaring me. I’m several steps inside before I realize that something’s wrong.

The alarm. It’s not beeping. Which means, it wasn’t armed.

I freeze. My hand twitches, wanting to reach for the shoulder holster I’m not wearing. I listen, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. There’s the tick of the freezer as a fresh batch of ice cubes falls into the automatic dispenser. The soft whoosh of the heat through the vents. Out on the lake, there’s the irregular chug of a boat trawling near shore.

Slowly, keeping to the shadows, I slip into the kitchen. I sift through the junk drawer, my hand brushing against the folding utility knife Javi and Kez gave me as a housewarming gift when we moved back from Knoxville. I slide it into my pocket, then unlock the secret compartment at the back of the drawer and pull out the .32 I have hidden there.

Now armed, I let out a breath of relief. I sweep through the house quickly, but it’s empty. I find myself back in the living room near the front door, trying to understand. Setting the alarm is like breathing—such an automatic reflex that we don’t even think about it. None of the kids or Sam would ever leave without resetting it.

He was here. I know he was. And then he left without resetting the alarm.

I don’t want to admit the thought that’s been nagging me since Italked to Lanny. It doesn’t escape me that within seconds of me telling Sam that Madison was the killer that he took off. He has every right to be furious with her for what she’s put him through—putusthrough—but I’m worried his rage might take over and get him into trouble.

I have to stop him before he does something stupid.

Keeping the gun by my side, I slip outside and race up the hill toward Madison’s cabin. As I near, I notice the front door hanging open, and my heart lurches. My first instinct is to race toward it, but I hold myself back.

Instead, I pull my phone from my pocket and hastily dial 911. The operator picks up and starts into the standard spiel, but I cut her off. “Stillhouse Lake. The old hunting cabin by Gwen Proctor’s house. Call Diakos, he’ll understand.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to slow down. Do you need ambulance, fire, or police?”

“Yes, send them all.”

“What’s the nature of the emergency?”

I’m still staring at the open door to Madison’s cabin, waiting for any hint of movement. There’s nothing. I don’t want to tell them that I think my partner might be armed and dangerous. That it might already be too late.

“I don’t know,” I tell them instead. Until I know for sure what’s going on, I’m not throwing Sam under the bus.

“Ma’am—”

“Detective Diakos will understand,” I interrupt. “Tell him Gwen Proctor called it in.” Then I hang up.

I approach the cabin in a crouch, cringing at the sound of my steps through old fallen leaves and sticks. I circle the property, trying to get a look inside, but the lights are all out. If I didn’t know better, I would say it was abandoned.

I slowly climb the stairs, keeping myself at an angle so as not to provide anyone a direct shot through the open front door. Thoughthe reality is, if someone’s inside, they had plenty of opportunity to take me out already. Which means either the place is empty, or whoever is in there isn’t paying attention.

I slip through the open door, my steps light. Moonlight filters through one of the windows, providing enough light for me to see that not only is the main room empty, but it has also been trashed. A chair lies on its side, the coffee table is cracked, and a large planter has been shattered, spilling dirt everywhere.

It looks like there was a struggle. I’m familiar enough with the cabin that I’m able to clear it quickly. I end up back by the front door, my eyes skimming the destruction. There are footprints in the potting soil strewn across the floor. At least two sets—one larger than the other.

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