Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(34)

That is almost certainly true.

It’s your fault I’m where I am, though.

That was completely true. Mel would have been convicted of one murder, of course. But it was my fault his true depth of evil had been finally unmasked. Everything in our house had been gone over by the police, of course; they’d missed nothing. But what they hadn’t known about, and I hadn’t either, was that Mel had taken out a storage locker in the name of my long-dead brother. I only found out about it because the preloaded credit card associated with the account had run out after Mel’s arrest, and I’d gotten a call from the storage unit. Apparently—ironically—he’d put the home phone number on the account.

That voice mail had led me to the storage locker, and I’d opened it up to find a bewildering array of folded women’s clothing, purses, shoes. Small plastic bins, neatly labeled with victims’ names, that contained the contents of their purses and pockets and backpacks.

And the journal.

It was a three-ring notebook, a leather presentation binder. It was filled with lined notebook paper densely covered in his neat, angular writing . . . with printed photographs. Each victim had a section.

I’d only taken one single look before I’d dropped the book on the floor and rushed to call the police. I couldn’t bear even what I’d learned from that glance.

Mel’s charges went from a single count of abduction, torture, and murder to multiple counts. The clerk’s voice had gone hoarse before it was over, or so the newspaper accounts read. By that time, I was back in jail awaiting my own trial. In a rare display of spite, Mel had refused to exonerate me from his crimes, and a zealous, fame-hungry neighbor had claimed she saw me carrying something she thought might have been a body . . . though my attorney had picked that apart and gotten me an acquittal. Eventually.

This man will kill again, Mel’s voice says in my mind, and I shiver to reject it, reject him. When he does, you think they won’t look at you? Won’t investigate? Take your picture? This ain’t the old days, Gina. Reverse image search can bring the wolves right to your door.

I know that voice isn’t really Mel, and I also know it’s right. The longer we stay here, the more we risk being pulled into Detective Prester’s investigation, and that’s a sure, slow fuse to blow up our semisettled life.

But taking this home away from Connor now would make his bitterness, his self-protective, guarded anger, that much worse. He’s only just begun to relax, to feel part of something. Taking that away because we might be found out is cruel.

Still. Having the van ready isn’t a bad idea.

I take a deep breath and call Javier. I tell him I’ll make time soon to make the swap, Jeep for van, but there’s no real hurry. He’s okay with that.

It feels like a plan.

But some part of me also knows that it’s really not enough.





4


I have learned not to trust anyone. Ever. I spend the night at the computer, turning up everything I can about Sam Cade—who is, indeed, an Afghanistan air force vet. He’s not on any sex offender registry, has no criminal record, and even has a good credit rating. I check the popular ancestry sites; often somebody’s name pops up in a family tree, and it’s a good way to check out their history. But his family isn’t enrolled.

Cade’s got a couple of social media accounts and a sort of boring dating profile on a match service, though it’s several years out of date. I doubt he’s even checked it for a long time. His posts are the normal kind of wry observations clever people make, with a support-the-military bent, but in a mostly nonpolitical way, which is a bit of a miracle. He doesn’t seem rabidly fanatical about anything.

I’m looking for dirt, and I don’t find any.

I could contact Absalom and have him deep-dive it, but the fact is, I rely on him for very specific services, the ones strictly to do with Mel and the stalker posse. If I abuse our fragile, faceless relationship, I could lose a vital resource. Checking out a neighbor probably isn’t a good use of Absalom’s time. Probably. Until I have some better reason to suspect Cade beyond my normal garden-variety paranoia, I can leave it. As long as he avoids me, I’ll avoid him.

Still, it’s a little disquieting that when I step outside my front door, I realize that I can see his front porch from here. I’ve noticed it before, of course, but when we moved in, the cabin was empty, and I’d never found anyone at home when I’d come around the lake on my runs. We’re in direct eyeline, though his cabin’s modest and tucked in among the trees by the road. I can see the glow of lights in the front windows through red curtains.

Sam Cade, like me, is a night owl.

I sit in the quiet, listening to the owls and distant rustling of the trees. The lake ripples quietly and reflects shattered moonlight. It’s beautiful.

It’s also very late, and I finish my drink and go to bed.



I take Connor to the doctor to get his x-rays. He has bruises, but nothing’s broken, and I’m supremely grateful for that. Lanny goes with us, though she’s in silent mutiny the entire time, glowering at me and anyone who gives her a second look with equal displeasure. I ask Connor again if he’ll talk about the person who hit him, but he’s a well of silence. I let it go. When he’s ready to tell me, he will. I think about making the offer to both of them for more self-defense classes; Javier does teach one at the local gym. I make sure, as we pass the gym, to mention it. Neither of them says a word.