Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(22)

I will never, ever do that to my children. I will defend them with complete devotion. None of this is their fault.

My own mother has always blamed me. Well, she told me at one point, you wanted to marry that man.

The reason the trolls are so viciously devoted to my pursuit is that they really believe that I’m guilty. I’m a vicious, predatory killer who managed to evade justice, and now they’re the ones who can administer the punishment.

On some level I understand it. Mel swept me off my feet with romantic gestures. He took me to beautiful dinners. Bought me roses. Always opened doors for me. Sent me love letters and cards. I really did love him, or at least I thought I did. The proposal was thrilling. The wedding was fairy-tale perfect. In a few months, we were pregnant with Lily, and I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world, someone whose husband earned enough to let her stay home and lavish her children with love and care.

And then, gradually, his hobby had crept in.

Mel’s workshop had started small: a workbench in the garage, then more tools, more space, until there wasn’t room for even one car, much less two, and he’d built the carport and taken the entire garage as his space. I hadn’t loved it, especially in the winter, but by then Mel had taken out the garage door, built a back wall, and added a door that he kept padlocked and dead bolted. Expensive tools.

I’d never noticed anything that had sounded odd, except once. It would have been around the death of his next-to-last victim—he’d told me that a raccoon had gotten into the workshop from the attic and died in the corner, and it would take a while for the smell to air out. He used lots of bleach and cleaners.

I believed every word of it. Why wouldn’t I?

But I still think I should have known, and in that, I understand the trolls’ anger.

My mother is saying something that, by the tone, is directed again to me. I open my eyes and say, “Sorry, what?”

“I said, are you making sure the kids are getting swimming lessons? I worry that you’re not, given the . . . the problems you have.” My mother adores the water—lakes, pools, the sea. She’s half mermaid. It was especially horrifying to her that Melvin disposed of his victims in water. It’s especially horrifying to me, too. My stomach clenches when I even think of dipping a toe in the lake that I admire so much from a distance. I can’t even take a boat out on that calm surface without thinking of my ex-husband’s victims, weighted down and chained to the bottom. A silent, rotting garden, swaying in the slow currents. Even drinking tap water makes me gag.

“The kids aren’t really interested in swimming,” I tell my mom, without the slightest inflection of dismay that she brought up the subject at all. “We do run pretty often, though.”

“Yeah, the path around—” Lanny starts, and lightning-fast, I reach out and hit the mute button. She realizes her mistake in the next instant. She’d been about to say the lake . . . And even though there are thousands of lakes in the country, it’s a clue. We can’t afford even that much. “Sorry.”

I unmute.

“I mean, we run outside a lot,” Lanny says. “It’s nice.” It’s hard for her not to be able to provide any details—the temperature, the trees, the lake—but she leaves it at that. Generic. My mother knows enough not to push. It’s a sad fact of life.

I’ve wondered before what their life was like without me; my own experience behind bars was hell, constantly burning with fear for my kids. I thought from the glad way they always greeted these phone calls that Grandma represented something peaceful in their lives—a vacation from the awful reality they’ve been shoved into. At least, I hope that’s what it is.

I hope that my kids aren’t that good at lying, because that, too, is a Melvin Royal signature trait.

Mom spins tales of Newport and the coming summer, and we can’t reciprocate with what the weather will be like near us; she knows that, and the conversation is mostly one-sided. I wonder if she gets anything out of these calls, really, or if it’s a duty for her. She might not have bothered if it had only been me, but she truly does love my kids, and they love her back.

The kids’ faces dim a little when I end the call and put the phone away until next time. Lanny says, “I wish we could Skype or something, so we could see her.”

Connor immediately frowns at her. “You know we can’t,” he says. “They’d figure stuff out from Skype. I see it on cop shows and things.”

“Cop shows aren’t reality, dumb-ass,” Lanny shoots back. “You think CSI is a documentary?”

“Easy, you two,” I say. “I wish we could see her, too. But this is good, right? We’re good?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “We’re good.” Lanny says nothing.



Sicko Patrol the next day yields nothing much new, but then again, I’ve grown so accustomed to the general horror of it that I’m not sure if I’d recognize new if it bit me. I do some freelance editing work, then some freelance web design work, and I’m deep into an especially demanding piece of coding when a brisk knock strikes the front door. Despite my startled flinch, the sound reminds me of the way Officer Graham knocks, so I am cheerful when I head to answer it. Sure enough, as I check to see who it is, I see Lancel Graham’s face.

After the first rush of relief, I hope he hasn’t misunderstood my warm welcome the other night, or seen it as an opportunity. I’m not in a place that needs romance. I had enough of that with Mel’s letter-perfect seduction, his model-husband performance art. I don’t trust myself that way anymore, and I can’t bring myself to allow the lowering of barriers that comes with even the most casual of relationships.