Page 93 of Darkwater Lane

It’s cold outside, and the neighborly thing to do would be to invite them in for coffee. I’m not feeling particularly neighborly this morning, though. So, I grab my coat from the hook on the wall and slip outside. “What’s this about?”

The young officer looks toward the lake, and I follow his gaze.

I’m struck with such an overwhelming sense of déjà vu that I nearly lose my balance. An ambulance is parked in the gravel lot off the road near the end of our driveway, its lights flashing. The back bay doors are open, but the paramedics are sitting on the bumper, chatting with another officer, who looks to be guarding access to the dock.

Beyond them, out on the lake, a couple of police boats are anchored, red and blue lights strobing. A couple of men in scuba suits stand in one of them, and I watch as a third tips over the side, disappearing into the dark water.

The scene is devastatingly familiar. So much so that I half-expect to find Lancel Graham and Detective Prester waiting for me when I turn back to the cops. After all, they were the ones who came to talk to me after the first woman’s body was found in the lake after we moved here four years ago—the young woman that Graham himself had tortured and killed at my ex-husband’s request.

All of it in an attempt to flush me out.

“What’s going on?” The words come out dry and broken. I lick my chapped lips and clear my throat.

“They found a body in the lake,” Diakos says.

This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. It has to be a joke, somehow. An elaborate prank of some kind.

Both Diakos and the officer are young. I wonder if either of them was around four years ago when Graham went on his murderous rampage. Do they have any idea that this has all happened before? Just like this? Do they understand that this is history repeating itself?

I remember the first time, how I initially thought it was just a boater who’d suffered an accident. But if that was the case now, there wouldn’t be two police officers standing at my door, asking me questions.

“Who?”

He shakes his head. “We haven’t identified her yet.”

Her. So, they know it’s a woman.

“What happened?” I’m fairly certain I don’t want to know the answer, but I have to. I need to know if this is related to Melvin again. If we’re starting all over from the beginning.

Diakos hesitates. “We’re still trying to piece that together.”

Of course, he’s not going to share details, especially with me.

Still, I have to know. “Was it an accident?”

He looks at me for a long moment before saying, “No.”

My knees go weak. I press a hand against the door at my back to steady myself. Diakos watches my reaction with a keen eye. I’m sure he’s trying to gauge if my surprise is genuine or if this is all an act.

Another murder. Another woman found in the lake. Melvin’s ghost reaching out from the grave.

Diakos continues. “We’re going around to all the houses on this side of the lake, asking folks if they heard anything out of the ordinary last night.”

Just like last time. I close my eyes, thinking back through the evening. It’s winter, which means there aren’t a ton of boats out on the lake these days. I would think the sound of a boat might stand out, but only if it had an engine. I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary.”

Diakos nods, trying to hide his disappointment. “Who else was here who might have heard something?”

“My kids, but they’re asleep right now.” I’d rather not wake them, but I know that’s not an option. Last time, Lanny was a witness of sorts—she saw the boat and heard the splash. I hope to God that’s not the case again.

“And Sam?” Diakos presses.

“He was here too.” It’s only once the words are out of my mouth that I remember that’s not entirely true. I flash back to him coming home late, the mud on his clothes, his wet pants. A cold feeling tunnels through me.

“I’ll get them,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“Do you mind if we continue the conversation inside?” Diakos asks. I wonder if he’s asking out of his own personal comfort or because he wants to make sure I don’t have a chance to prep Sam and the kids. I want to keep him outside. I want to keep all of this away from my house, our refuge.

I know how suspicious that would look, though. How ridiculous it would be to have Connor, still in his PJs, huddling on the frozen front step. “Of course,” I say.

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