Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(60)

“I think that’s a little late,” I say, and I mean that for the dead girl and me both. We’re both lost and adrift now, exposed to the world without any hope of shelter. I’m instantly ashamed of myself for thinking of us as being in any way alike, though. I didn’t spend hours, maybe days, suffering at the hands of a sadist and then experience the horror of dying at his hands. I’d only been married to one. “I told Prester, but if you could just make sure he looks after Connor and Lanny—the word’s gotten out, Sam. About where we are. Did you do that?”

He snaps his attention to me with a suddenness that feels completely natural. I can see the pulse of surprise, the shift in the way he feels. “Did I what?”

“Did you dox me out on the Internet?”

“Of course I didn’t!” he blurts with a frown, and I believe him. “I wouldn’t do that, Gwen. No matter what. I wouldn’t put you or the kids at risk like that.”

I nod. I don’t really think it was him, though he’d be a logical suspect. No, I imagine some bright bulb in the Norton Police Department decided to get some righteous, anonymous justice on. Could even be a clerk. Anyone in the chain of discovery with knowledge of my old identity, ending with Detective Prester. I can’t even really blame them. Nobody’s forgotten Melvin Royal.

Nobody’s forgotten Melvin’s Little Helper, either. There’s a certain rabid, unhealthy fascination people have with male serial killers, but female accomplices are hated so much more. It’s a toxic stew of misogyny and self-righteous fury, and the simple, delicious fact that it’s okay to destroy this woman, where it’s not okay to destroy others.

I can never be forgiven for being innocent, because I’ll never be innocent.

Sam looks away again, and I think, somewhat irrationally, that he wants to tell me something. Confess something. He rocks back and forth some more, says nothing, and then he shakes his head and starts to walk away, toward my house.

Detective Prester says, without turning or shifting his attention, “Mr. Cade. I’ll be needing a word with you, too.”

“You can find me at Ms. Proctor’s house,” he says. “I’m going to make sure the kids are okay.”

I can see Prester debating whether or not to push it, but he clearly decides it can wait. He’s got his big fish on the line. No point in catching more than he can fillet at one time.

I text Lanny quickly that it’s okay to let Sam in, and when he gets to the door, she throws it open and flings herself into his hug. So does Connor. It’s surprising how easily they welcome him, and I admit I feel a little stab of hurt.

For the first time, I wonder if me continuing to be part of their lives is actively, constantly damaging them, and the question is so big, so awful, that it makes my breath catch and swell painfully in my throat. That question might be out of my hands now. My kids might be swept away into the Social Services system, and I might never see them again.

Stop. You’re thinking like HE wants you to think. Like a helpless victim. Don’t let him take away what you’ve achieved. Fight for it.

I let my eyes drift close and will myself to let go of the worry, the pain. My breath eases, and when I open my eyes, I find Detective Prester has finished with the two boaters who found the body. He’s coming my way.

I don’t wait; I turn and head for his sedan. I hear the slight scuffle of his shoes on the deck as he is caught off guard, but he doesn’t tell me that I’m wrong. I know that he wants to question me in private.

We get into the back seat, me on the passenger side, him behind the driver’s spot, and I sink into the warm, cheap upholstery with a slow sigh. I’m tired suddenly. Still scared, on some deep animal level, but I know that whatever’s happening now I can’t change.

“You said the information about you is on the Internet,” Prester says. “Before we get started, I want you to know that’s not my doing. If it was anybody in our shop, I’ll find out and tear them a new asshole.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But that doesn’t help now, does it?”

He knows it doesn’t and hesitates only a second before he pulls a digital recorder from his pocket and turns it on. “Detective Prester, Norton Police Department. Today’s date is—” He checks his watch, which I find funny, until I see he’s wearing a vintage one with a calendar built right in. “September twenty-third. The time is seven thirty-two. I’m interviewing Gwen Proctor, also known as Gina Royal. Ms. Proctor, I’m going to read you your rights; it’s just a formality.”

It isn’t, of course, and I quirk a smile at that. I listen as he lists them with the droning ease of a man who has a lot of practice at Mirandizing, and when he finishes, I tell him that I understand the rights he has explained. We’re both pleasant, getting the basics out of the way. Two old hands at this.

Prester’s voice changes to a low, quiet rumble. “Would you prefer I call you Gwen?”

“That’s my name.”

“Gwen, this morning a second body was found floating in the lake within sight of your front door. You have to understand this looks bad, given your―well, your history. Your husband is Melvin Royal, and he has a very specific kind of past. The first girl we found in the lake, that might have been a strange coincidence, I’ll allow that. But two of them? Two are a plan.”