Page 70 of Darkwater Lane

“Could be there was something personal about Kuntz. Or the killer was trying to make a statement, and no one was listening.They knew that putting the bone in the victim’s body would get attention.”

“Most killers don’t like attention,” I point out.

“Apparently, this one does.”

“So, what is this one trying to say that we’re not hearing?”

She rolls her head toward me. I can feel her studying my profile in the darkness. I continue staring out at the empty lake. “You know what this means, Gwen.” It’s a statement not a question.

I do. I just haven’t wanted to acknowledge it. Hiding from the truth doesn’t make it go away.

“You’re the common link,” she continues. “The victims are all men who threatened you.”

I know where she’s going with this—it was obvious the moment she said the deaths were all connected. “I’m the one who benefits from their deaths.”

“You’re going to be their first suspect,” she confirms.

Or Sam, I think to myself. I hear his laugh carry from where he and the others surround the grill. As I watch, he claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder. My son grins up at him. Sam’s smile is more fragile, careful not to re-split his lip.

I think about the lengths Sam would go to protect us. The rage I’ve seen in him when he’s taken a turn at Sicko Patrol.

Would he kill for us? Absolutely. Of that I have no doubt. If it came to pulling the trigger to keep us safe, he wouldn’t hesitate. The question is, where would he draw the line? Would he hunt down the people who threaten us? I can’t see it.

That doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of imagining Sam as a vigilante. But the reality of the situation is too horrible.

“Any chance you can reach out to Detective Gutierrez with the Knoxville PD and ask them if they found a bone fragment at the Varrus crime scene?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You think they’re related?”

“I think it’s in our best interest to find out.”

She nods.

“The internet trolls are going to lose their damn minds when they find out about this,” I say. “They’re going to come for me. Except now, it will be even more personal. They’ll think I’ve been targeting them. They’ll feel even more justified in taking me out.”

“You need to be ready,” Kez says. “Before going to the FBI, you need to have your alibis locked down tight. Don’t even give them a chance to consider you as a suspect. You should do the same for Sam,” she adds.

“That won’t matter to the trolls,” I tell her. They don’t listen to reason. They never have.”

The next morning, Sam is already gone by the time I wake up. He mentioned picking up a job a bit farther away than usual and wanting to get a head start on the commute. I’m usually the first one up in the mornings, so it’s a little disorienting to find a pot of coffee already brewed, and a scone waiting for me on a plate by my empty mug.

I smile at the thought of Sam picking up scones on his way home yesterday just so that he could surprise me this morning. It’s one of the things I love about him: how attentive he is to those around him, anticipating their needs—sometimes before they even realize what that is.

I carry my scone to the window overlooking the lake and eat while admiring the view. The same old fisherman from before is down by the dock, loading gear into his rickety boat. I shiver at the thought of how cold it must be out on the open water. He must really love to fish if he’s willing to brave this weather to do it.

I realize, then, that I don’t have anything like that in my life. I like to read, but I’m not sure that counts as a hobby, especiallyconsidering I usually only manage two or three pages in bed before passing out at night. Back when I was married to Melvin, I liked to cook. I’d spend hours scrolling through recipes online, trying to find just the right meal that might impress him.

It’s not that I’ve given up cooking, I just don’t put the same time or effort into it that I used to. Somewhere along the way, as a single mom with two kids on the run from my ex-husband, it became less of a priority and more of a chore.

Then it hits me. I know exactly what my hobby is: self-defense. I’ve spent hours at the gun range, watching videos online, working out, and running drills. It’s such an everyday part of my life that I don’t even think twice about it.

I press my forehead against the window, feeling the cold from outside seep into my skin. What does it say about me that I spend my free time perfecting my aim with various weapons and practicing Krav Maga? In the beginning, it was a necessity. I had to learn how to protect my kids. Then, as they grew older, I continued learning and training so I could pass on that knowledge to them.

I’ve always been proud of my self-defense skills. I burn with self-righteous pride when I enter a new gun range and get derisive looks from the other shooters, only to watch their jaws drop when they see my target. I like attending sparring classes and being dismissed by larger participants, only to pin them to the mat before they realize what’s happening.

Ultimately, though, I started training because of Melvin. This part of my life that makes me feel strong and independent and powerful exists as a reaction to my ex-husband.

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