Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(37)

I step aside. He washes things with efficient motions, takes on the batter bowl and the pan and spatula. I let the running water fill the silence, cross my arms, and wait until he shuts the tap off, slots items in the drain board, and picks up the dish towel to dry off. Then I say, “Fair enough. I’ll see you tomorrow about the roof. Nine in the morning all right?”

His expression, still calm and mobile and unreadable, doesn’t shift much when he smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Nine it is. Cash the end of every day until I’m done?”

“Sure.”

I nod. He doesn’t make an effort to shake my hand, so I don’t offer, and I let myself out. I walk down the steps of his cabin and pause on the downhill winding path to take in a slow breath of thick lake air. It’s muggy and heavy out here in the slow Tennessee heat. When I let my breath out, I still smell the pancakes.

He really is an amazing cook.



The kids only have another week of school left, which brings with it the stress of last-minute tests. Connor stresses, that is. Lanny doesn’t. I see them off on the bus at 8:00 a.m., and by nine I’ve made some coffee and put out a box of store-bought pastries, since I can’t hope to compete with Cade’s pancakes. He knocks promptly on the hour, and I let him in for coffee and crullers, and we work out what he’ll need to do the repairs. He takes cash up front to get supplies, and heads back up to his cabin; I see him go past fifteen minutes later in an old but powerfully built pickup whose primary color is Bondo gray, with patches of faded green.

I check the Sicko Patrol while he’s gone. Nothing new presents itself. I count the number of posts, and it’s down again . . . I keep a frequency chart in Excel, tracking the interest our names have online, and I’m pleased to find that as Melvin’s atrocities are outdone by others—by lust killers, spree killers, fanatics with a cause, jihadists—some of our stalkers seem to be losing interest. I hate to use the phrase getting a life, but it’s possible they are. That they’re moving on.

Maybe, someday, we can, too. It’s a faint hope, but any hope at all is a new feeling for me.

Cade returns just as I’m printing off the slender list of new stuff and filing it away; I have to leave a couple queued to the printer, which always worries me, but there’s no choice. I close and lock my office door and go out to meet him.

He’s already setting up a ladder against the roof, making sure it’s safely anchored in the grass. He’s got a load of tar paper, shingles, and a tool belt that he’s securing around his waist, dangling tack hammers and bags of nails. He’s even got a battered trucker hat on to keep the sun off, and a bandanna trailing out the back to cover his neck.

“Here.” I hand him a closed aluminum water bottle with a carabiner clip. “Ice water. You need any help?”

“Nope,” he says, looking up at the rise. “I should be able to get this side finished before dark. I’ll take a break around one.”

“I’ll have lunch for you,” I tell him. “Then . . . I’ll leave you to it?”

“Sounds good.” He clips the water bottle to his belt and picks up the first load, which he’s fitted with a rope carry that he fits over his shoulders like a bulky backpack. I hold the ladder as he swarms up it, moving as if he’s carrying a load of feathers, and step back to make sure he’s surefooted up there. He is. The pitch of the roof hardly seems to faze him at all.

Sam waves, and I wave back, and as I turn to go back inside I see a police car cruising by, moving slow with tires crunching gravel. It’s driven by Officer Graham, who nods to me when I lift a hand in greeting and speeds up to head up toward the Johansens’ cutoff, toward where his place sits farther back. I remember that he sort of half invited me to join him one evening for shooting practice, but I also think about the fact he’s going to have his kids with him . . . and I don’t want to bring mine. So I make myself a mental promise to drop by with a tin of cookies or something that makes me seem more . . . peaceful. But not interested.

By lunchtime, I’ve completed two client jobs and posted for more work; one pays by the time I’ve made the spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and Sam Cade comes down to eat with me over the small dinner table; the other client pays by the end of the day, which is a welcome change. I have to chase a lot of payments. The sound of Cade up on the roof is weirdly comforting once I get used to it.

I’m a little surprised when I hear the alarm sound its sharp repeated warning beeps, and the punching of the code to stop it. “We’re home!” yells Lanny from down the hall. “Don’t shoot!”

“That was mean,” Connor tells her, and then I hear an oof, as if she’s thrown a sharp elbow at him. “It was!”

“Shut up, Squirtle. Don’t you have nerd things to do?”

I leave the office and head down to greet them; Connor pushes by me without saying a word, face dark, and slams the door of his room firmly. Lanny shrugs when I meet halfway to her room. “Sensitive,” she says. “What? It’s my fault?”

“Squirtle?”

“It’s a Pokémon. They’re kind of adorable.”

“I know it’s a Pokémon,” I tell her. “Why are you calling him that?”

“Because he reminds me of one, with his hard shell and soft underbelly.” It’s a nonanswer, and she shrugs, all loose shoulders and rolling eyes. “He’s just pissed because he blew his test—”