Page 30 of The Lake Escape
Neither budge. Brody actually groans, so I improvise. My Mary Poppins training kicks in like a well-honed muscle. Mary doesn’t order, sheinvites.
“Children,” I say, giving myself a slight British accent, “I’ve just discovered there’s a secret fort hidden somewhere in these woods, and who knows what treasures we might find within. But first we must go outside and start looking. So I invite you both to get your shoes on and meet me at the door. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can have the brownies I’ve packed for our journey.”
With that, I stuff a box of store-bought brownies into my backpack (who has time to bake with these two running around?), head for the door, and wait.
The plan works. In no time flat, two eager children greet me with shoes on (not tied, but I help Brody with that), ready to explore. I’m so amazed at my own effectiveness that I fail to notice until I’m outside that I’ve grabbed Fiona’s sun hat by mistake.
Warm sunshine and a soft breeze greet us. I see Taylor across the way, tossing a ball to Nutmeg in the yard. As soon as the kidsnotice her, they take off in her direction, their little legs running at high speed. Nutmeg wags and barks excitedly, then rolls in the grass as she soaks up their attention.
Taylor takes out her AirPods as I approach. “Hey,” she says, with a friendly smile.
“Hi there.” I wave. “We’re off to find an old clubhouse I heard about. David said it’s off a path marked by a knotted oak tree. Any idea where we can find it?”
“Oh yeah, I know that place. I guess it was the teen hangout back in the day. There’s a path through the woods we can take. I haven’t been there for ages, but I’m sure I could help you find it if you’d like.”
“Would you?” I say, and the kids nod eagerly.
“I need to walk Nutmeg anyway, so sure, let’s go.”
Taylor clips a leash to Nutmeg’s harness, but the dog tugs so hard, she unhooks it. As soon as Nutmeg is free, the pup races ahead, but doesn’t go too far. The kids keep pace with the dog, while I keep my eyes on them.
Taylor is like a walking body lotion ad. Everything about her is pert and perky. Her Daisy Dukes and revealing white top make it hard not to notice her figure. I feel protective of her—David better keep his eyes and mitts off.
I probably shouldn’t look, either. Envy is a terrible trait, but I’d love to have long, luxurious hair like hers. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s come across a picture on Pinterest that I’ve taken to a hairdresser, had my hair cut the same way, and gotten home only to hate the way it looks. Then I hate myself. Next, I’m wallowing in self-pity with ice cream. And that’s such a terrible cliché that I hate myself even more. Alas, this is my cycle of hairstyling, as unbreakable as my stiff, unyielding, wiry follicles. Taylor undoubtedly would have ignored Frizzy Izzy if we’d gone to high school together.
I let these petty thoughts go. The bottom line is that I like Taylor and I can tell by her smile that the feeling is mutual, though my friendly expression is short-lived.
“We still can’t find her,” I say, glad we have enough distance from the twins to talk freely.
“Can’t find who?”
I guess Taylor isn’t up to speed, so I catch her up quickly, though I omit the part about seeing Lucas and Fiona canoodling. We fall into step together, trudging along a path parallel to the lakeshore. A canopy of trees provides much-needed shade from the unrelenting sun, which is good because I, the ever-vigilant nanny, forgot to apply sunscreen to the children.
“That’s really weird,” Taylor says, following my debrief.
“I know,” I say. “And it’s triggering my obsession.” I decide to confide in her to a degree.”I love murder shows,” I reveal, whispering like it’s something to be ashamed of.
Taylor squints. “Like mysteries?”
“More like true crime,” I say. “Stuff that happened to real people.”
I expect to be judged. It’s a grim hobby, peering into the misfortunes of others, using their suffering for my entertainment. It’s a deeply personal fascination, but Taylor doesn’t need to know all that.
To my delight, she smiles back at me. “Oh yeah, I know those shows. They’re everywhere these days. Do you listen to podcasts or something?”
“Notor something,I love podcasts,” I say. “Like, obsessively love them.” I could leave it at that, but since I’m sensing a kindred spirit, I spit out a list of all my favorite shows, name-dropping random producers and recalling victims and the grisly crimes visited upon them like I’m Death’s librarian.
Taylor listens intently.
“I want to produce a show myself one of these days,” I tell her. “LikeWhite LiesorTom Brown’s Body,one of those.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right lake if you’re looking for a mystery,” she says. “I mean, we don’t just have one missing person—we have two.” The spark in her eyes dims. “And if Fiona doesn’t come back soon, that’ll be number three—all women who have gone missingexactlythirty years apart from each other.”
I shudder as if cold fingers are tickling the back of my neck.
“It’s always women,” I answer, feeling a lump in my throat and a pang in my heart for all the wives, mothers, and daughters who woke up one day not knowing it would be their last. “And it’s not because we’re weaker than men,” I’m compelled to add. “It’s because we intimidate them. They can’t control us, so they demean, punish, and sometimes kill us out of fear. They’re afraid of our power, so they try to extinguish it.”
Taylor meets my gaze, and something passes between us. We’re both at that in-between stage of our womanhood, awakening to the reality that life isn’t always fair, equitable, or even safe.
