Page 9 of The Souls of Lost Lake
Jipsy caught Ava’s eye and gave a quick shake of her head. Silence. It’d serve them all best. Jipsy may not be her friend, but she wasn’t keen on Frisk’s attention toward Ava. It was a jealous dislike, not a protective one. Either way, Ava had learned to listen to Jipsy. It’d saved her more than once.
“I’ll watch her.”
The voice was low. So low, it was a miracle anyone heard him. He took two steps toward Ava, toward Chuck, and toward the circle of fire that was the accusations of everyone in the room.
“Reverend Pritchard?” Even Chuck’s voice rose an octave in surprise.
Pritchard was new to town and the reverend at its one and only church. The thrumming of voices lowered to nonexistence. Sheer respect and utter shock had lulled them to rest.
Ava didn’t dare raise her eyes. She’d never even seen Preacher Pritchard before. He’d only been in Tempter’s Creek for all of a month, and she wasn’t keen on Jesus or God or Mother Mary or whatever saint he was pushing. She just thought his name was funny and had bantered wisecracks about him with Ned.“Preacher Pritchard prayed a prayer to pitch apart a pulpit.”It made little sense, but it had been fun ... at the moment.
“I said, I’ll watch her.”
He had an even voice. Confident but not harsh. Gentle but not weak.
“Reverend, can’t let you do that.” Officer Larson clicked his tongue. “It shouldn’t be necessary”—he leveled a look on Chuck—“not to mention, you know how unseemly that’d be? She’d have to be under your roof, and you’re not married yourself and ... well, I don’t need more women passing out on me for the sheer scandal of it.”
“I have Hanny nearby,” the preacher offered.
“Hanny?” Chuck shouted with laughter. “Old woman is as loony as a bird.”
“She’s my neighbor.”
“Yeah, well, she ain’tunderyour roof, now, is she?” Officer Larson shook his head. “Fact is, Miss Coons doesn’t need watching out for. Sheisn’ta suspect.” He spit the last words at Chuck and the rest of the room.
“You willing to take the liability for her if something happens?” Mr. Sanderson inserted.
Officer Larson stiffened to attention and leveled a narrow-eyed glare at the man. “Are you threatening Miss Coons?”
“No.” Mr. Sanderson remained placid. “But I’d place a hefty wager there’s several in this room who aren’t keen on the idea of her being free to roam, and they’re willing to do something about it.”
“Fine kettle of fish,” Councilman Pitford muttered.
Ava tried to breathe through her nose, but her breaths were coming in shorter sniffs now. She could feel the panic rising in her.There was no way out. None. She was trapped—in danger herself—and they thoughtshewas capable of murder!
“I’ll watch her,” Preacher Pritchard stated again. “I’m sure Hanny will provide the properchaperoningyou’re concerned about.”
“I’m concerned foryou,” Officer Larson retorted. “Don’t need the preacher gettin’ the boot a month into his pulpit here just ’cause he housed a young woman with a questionable past and dubious intentions.”
“Dubious intentions.” There was a tiny laugh in the preacher’s voice as he repeated the officer’s big words. “I’m sure we’ll manage, sir.”
“Fine.” Larson shook his head and blew out a sigh so large it was akin to the wolf trying to blow down the little pig’s house. “It’s your pile of—well, it’s yours to manage. Hear that, y’all? Ava Coons is under the watchful guardianship of the Reverend Pritchard for now. Go home! Lock your doors if you feel the need. Heck, yeah, actuallydothat. ’Cause Matthew’s killer is still out there, and I’m telling you all, you’re off your rockers if you think Miss Coons hacked a man to death with a logger’s ax.”
Ava lifted her eyes then. She had to. The compulsion to look at her guardian was too strong. Especially with the shock of Officer Larson’s verbal imagery. If the preacher was going to back out, now would be the time.
Her gaze slammed into his. Dark. Bottomless. Deep. The preacher was younger than she’d expected. But his eyes. His eyes told stories that rivaled her own and held secrets that could wound a thousand souls.
5
Wren
Deer Lake Bible Camp was nestled along Deer Lake in the middle of a large piece of acreage bought in 1952 by the camp’s founders, Bill and Alice Westphal. It never failed to bring contentment to Wren when she pulled her pickup truck onto its mile-long entrance drive, bordered by thick woods that shut out the sky. In 1952, the camp had been lucky enough to welcome fifteen campers the first summer it opened, and now it hosted programs throughout the year that entertained thousands of guests. The farthest border of its property melded into 225,000 acres of federal land. The forest that had swallowed little Jasmine alive.
The suspension on her truck was nothing to envy as Wren hit a rut and bounced on the seat. The main lodge came into view, its log exterior boasting triangular windows and potted evergreens at the main entrance. The second-floor windows were the staff offices. Somewhere up there was her father. Tristan Blythe. She would avoid him today. Not because they didn’t get along, but because a missing child would likely turn him into the wild version ofThe Hobbit’s Bilbo Baggins when he went all crazy-eyed under the influence of the Ring. He was absolutely right to be incensed about a missing child, but being the dry professor-type that he was, his reactions would be more eccentric than helpful.
Wren pulled the truck into a parking spot and wrestled the gearshift into park. Shutting off the engine, she spotted Troy trudging up the path from the east side of camp, where the horse stables and mini farm sprawled across ten acres. He looked exhausted. His longish dark hair was shoved back under a stocking cap. His face looked drawn, tired, and while it was remarkably attractive, Wren didn’t allow herself to even give that idea the time of day.
She hopped out of her truck and slammed the door. “Troy!”
