Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(87)

And what came back into our house could have been a different phone. A phone that could listen to us. A camera that could see us when left out. I thought about that phone sitting next to Connor’s bed, learning about our habits, our patterns, what time Connor got up and went to bed. It might have been able to record the tones and figure out our passcode.

Though maybe that one had been the easiest of all. Maybe Officer Graham had simply watched me enter it that night when he first came over.

Something cracks inside me, just a little. I feel the first, violent pulse of panic as the shock begins to let go, as the bleeding starts. I close my eyes and try to keep thinking, because this?

This is the most important moment of my life.

The silence is heavy in the SUV; the excellent noise canceling dims the roar of the rain to a dull, monotonous hiss, like the screaming of distant stars. There are no other cars behind us on the road, no friendly, glaring headlights approaching. We might be the only two people alive in the world.

My phone buzzes again. I position the coat so it covers my phone, and read the second text. We are at NPD where r u.

It’s from Sam Cade. He’s not on the mountain, searching. This whole trip has been a lie.

My phone is on silent, so it makes no noise as I carefully, slowly, type my reply. Graham has me.

I am hitting “Send” when the truck lurches wildly sideways, and next thing I know, I’m being knocked hard against the passenger door. My phone goes flying, and from the last glimpse I have, I can’t tell if the text sent or not. I grab for it.

Graham reaches for it at the same time, and as he does, he deliberately—I think—smashes it hard against one of the metal struts under the seat. The glass stars, obscuring the screen. The power sputters out.

“Shit!” he says, holding it up. Shakes it, as if he can magically reset it. It’s excellent theater. He even looks concerned, and if I wasn’t so terrified now, so angry, I’d have believed that, too. I try to slow the pounding of adrenaline into my bloodstream, because I don’t need it now; I need to think. I need to plan before I can act. Let him think he’s got me.

I have to kill this man. But first, I have to find out where he’s taken my kids. So slowly, very slowly, I pull the weight of my backpack up. The hiss of the rain and road noise may disguise the sound of the zipper pulling. My hands are shaking badly from the terror and the rapid-fire pulse of my heart. I feel around inside the opening and touch fingers to the pebbled plastic of the gun case.

It’s turned the wrong way. I need to move it to get access to the lock.

Lancel Graham is looking mournfully at the broken phone. “Goddamn it, I’m sorry about that. Look, they probably are getting copies of the calls at the station. Want me to check?” He doesn’t wait for a response. He takes out his own cell phone and seems to make a call; the screen lights up. It looks legitimate, but for all I know, he’s talking to a recording. “Hey, Kez—I just fucked up Ms. Proctor’s cell phone. Yeah, I know. Dropped it like an idiot, it’s busted all to hell. Listen, are her calls being intercepted? Recorded?” He glances at me and smiles in what looks like real relief. “Good. That’s good. Thanks, Kez.” He thumbs it off. “No worries. They’re monitoring the calls. Kez will call me if there’s any news about your kids, okay?”

It’s all pure theater. He damn sure hasn’t called the police station.

The gun case is heavy inside the backpack. If I make too obvious a move, he’ll punch me, and one solid hit from a man this size in close quarters might put me down. I have to control my fear. I have to.

I work to inch the case up and turn it sideways. It seems to take forever. I’m praying that Graham can’t tell what I’m doing; the gloom’s heavy in the car, and we’re on a very dark road. But I can see him glancing over.

I’ve managed to turn the case, but this side is the hinges. I need two more turns to get to the lock, and I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to take the backpack and slam it into the side of his head, but there’s no advantage to this, not now. Not here, on this deserted road, on this rainy night. I’m sure he’s armed.

I’m sure his gun is far easier to reach than mine. If I don’t keep control, if I react with pure emotion, I will lose.

I have to be better at this than a psychopath.

We make the turn for Stillhouse Lake. There are no boats out tonight; lights blaze in almost every house to keep away the dark, the monsters, as we pass. At the turnoff that leads to the Johansens’ house, he takes a left up the hill. We pass their driveway, and I see the couple standing in their kitchen, glasses of red wine in their hands, talking as they carry plates to a dinner table. The cozy life of total strangers. That eerie postcard of normality is gone in the next instant.

We keep driving. I see Graham’s house off to the right. It’s genuinely country, a sprawling ranch house with no pretentions to elegance like the Johansens’ modern, sharp-cornered glass monstrosity down the way. It’s something generations have built onto, and you can see the differences in brick colors.

There’s another SUV parked up front and a couple of trail bikes and one ATV. A medium-size boat on a tow, ready to be taken down to the lake. All the necessary trappings for a man living the lakefront dream.

We keep going past his house. Now the trail gets rough, the suspension bouncing and sloughing in mud as the gravel begins to run out. I’ve missed my shot. Somehow, I really thought he’d stop at his house, and my plans were to bail out, lose myself in the dark, and fire a shot or two into the Johansens’ plate-glass windows. That would damn sure get them to call 911, even if they wouldn’t let me in.