The House Across the Lake(56)

“Hillier’s,” the girl says. “It’s the best.”

She’s not wrong. Len and I went to Hillier’s, a quaint little dairy farm a mile down the road, several times last summer. We’d get our favorites and eat them on the wooden bench out front. Pistachio in a waffle cone for me. A cup of rum raisin for him. I can’t remember the last time we were there, which seems like a thing someone would want to remember. The last ice cream cone with your husband before he died.

I look at Megan’s sister and wonder if she has a similar problem. Unable to remember so many last moments because she was blithely unaware of their finality. Last sisterly chat. Last sibling spat. Last ice cream cone and family dinner and wave goodbye.

Thinking about it makes my heart ache. As does wondering if Toni Burnett and Sue Ellen Stryker also have sisters who miss them and mourn them and wish, deep down in dark parts of their hearts they don’t tell anyone about, that someone would just find their bodies and put them out of their misery.

“Thanks,” I say, giving her a smile that in all likelihood looks more sad than grateful.

“I’m not sure they’re open right now, though. It’s the off-season.”

“Do you sell ice cream?”

Megan’s sister points to the frozen food section. “We have gallon containers, quarts, and a couple of individual novelty cones.”

“That’ll do just fine.”

I grab Boone by the elbow and pull him to the ice cream case. As we look at our options, he leans in and whispers, “Boyfriend, huh?”

Warmth spreads across my cheeks. I pull open one of the freezer doors, hoping a blast of frigid air will cool them down, and snag a red, white, and blue Bomb Pop. “Sorry. It’s all I could come up with on short notice.”

“Interesting,” Boone says as he picks out a chocolate-covered Drumstick. “And just so you know, there’s no need to be sorry. But I do think we’re going to have to keep up the ruse until we’re out of the store.”

With a wink, he takes my hand, his palm hot against mine. It feels strange to have something so cold in one hand and so warmly alive in the other. As we return to the cash register, my body doesn’t know if it should sweat or shiver.

Megan’s sister rings up our order, and Boone releases my hand just long enough to pull out his wallet and pay. As soon as the wallet’s back in his pocket, he reaches for my hand again. I grasp it and let myself be led out of the store.

“Thanks for your help,” Boone says over his shoulder to Megan’s sister.

“Anytime,” she says. “Have a nice day.”

Before stepping outside, I take one last look at the girl at the register. She’s got her elbow on the counter and her head resting dreamily in a cupped hand. She watches as we go out the door, looking past us to the road and the trees and the mountains in the distance. Even though she might be focused on any of those things, I can’t help but think that she’s really gazing beyond them, eyes on some distant, unseen place where her sister might have run off to and is still, waiting for the right moment to come home.





We eat the ice cream in the back of Boone’s pickup truck, our legs dangling from the lowered tailgate. I regret choosing the Bomb Pop the moment it touches my lips. It’s far too sweet and artificial tasting, and it colors my tongue a garish red. I lower the popsicle and say, “So this was all for nothing.”

Boone chomps down on his Drumstick, the chocolate shell on top breaking with a loud crunch. “I don’t see it that way.”

“You heard what she said. Tom Royce never came to the store.”

“That she knows of. Which doesn’t surprise me. If we’re right about this, Tom came to the store while Megan was working. Not her sister. It probably happened several times. He came in, chatted with her, flirted, maybe asked her out on a date. Then he killed her.”

“You sound pretty certain.”

“That’s because I am. I’ve still got a cop’s instinct.”

“Then why did you quit?”

Boone gives me a sidelong glance. “Who said I quit?”

“You did,” I say. “You told me that you used to be a cop, which I took to mean you quit.”

“Or it meant I was suspended without pay for six months and never returned when my punishment was up.”

“Oh, shit.”

“That about sums it up,” Boone says before taking another bite.

I look at my popsicle. It’s starting to melt a little. Rainbow-colored drips spatter the ground like blood in a horror movie.

“What happened?” I say.

“A few months after my wife died, I was drunk on duty,” Boone says. “Not the worst thing a cop’s done, obviously. But bad. Especially when I responded to a call. Suspected burglary. Turns out it was just a neighbor using the spare key to borrow the owner’s lawn mower. But I didn’t know that until after I discharged my weapon, barely missing the guy and getting my drunk ass put on leave.”

“Is that why you decided to get sober?”

Boone looks up from his ice cream. “Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

It is, which I should have realized before asking.

“Now that you’re sober, why don’t you go back to being a cop?”