Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(23)

“You thinking about something?” I ask, and Mom shakes her head, digs in, and settles into a longer stride. I easily catch up. We round the next turn, shadows drifting over us, and have to veer around a day-tripper putting a crappy boat into the water, loaded down with a cooler that I doubt is for fish.

Mom doesn’t want to talk, obviously. We just run, matching strides. I’m already feeling the rush, my body working like it’s made to, my mind soaring on a flood of happy chemicals. Half an hour is a tough pace around the lake, but we keep it up . . . until I see Ezekiel Claremont sitting on his little makeshift lakefront deck, made out of some pallets he’s joined together. He’s an old man, fragile, with wrinkled skin that’s a still little darker than his daughter, Kezia’s. Short gray hair. He has a camp chair and footstool, and he comes out every day to use this spot if the weather allows, and if his bad hip isn’t acting up. Technically, it’s probably not legal to have all this out here lakeside, but nobody bothers him about it that I know of. Maybe that’s because he saved a girl’s life a few months back by calling 911 when her canoe overturned in choppy water and she decided—stupidly—to take off her life vest and swim for shore. If the local lake patrol hadn’t made it to her, she’d have vanished into the lake completely.

“Hey, Mr. C,” I say, and we ease down to a walk. “What’s going on?” I like Easy. I like his daughter, Kez, too. He’s not funny, exactly, but he’s sharp, and easy—like his nickname—to talk to when I feel like I need that. I come over here sometimes, and talk about my dad. He just listens and nods, mostly.

“Word is your mother got into some trouble on TV the other morning,” he says. “You all right, Gwen?”

“Sure,” she says. “Just another day in paradise, Easy.”

“You think so?” He studies her, then shakes his head. “That other woman, she said a lot of things. People might listen.”

“They might,” Mom agrees. “I’ve been through it before.”

“Not like this,” he says. “Those documentary people, they’re already here in town. Staying up at the Vagabond outside of Norton.”

I draw in a sharp breath. Documentaries mean cameras. People asking questions. People invading our lives. I’d thought maybe it would all just . . . go away after the Howie Hamlin Show; I’d thought maybe the blonde lady who’d been so vicious to Mom would stop what she was doing. I’ve seen her picture before. She’s the mother of one of Dad’s victims. And she’s got a lot of money to spend on making us miserable.

“They’re here?” Mom’s voice is sharp, and I blink. She sounds alarmed. She immediately changes that, but it’s too late—I caught it. “I mean, I didn’t expect them to be here for a while. If ever.”

“Been here two days,” Ezekiel says. “So says my daughter, and she ought to know. She keeps an eye on strangers.”

“Funny,” Mom says, “she didn’t bother to mention that to me when I talked to her this morning.”

“You went to see Kez?” I’m a little surprised. Mom didn’t say a thing to me. “Why?”

She ignores the question and focuses on Easy. “You’ve seen these film people?”

“They been out here today,” he says, and points a shaking, gnarled finger down to a nearby pull-in where visitors park. “Set up a camera and filmed the lake awhile.”

“That way?” Mom points. He nods. “The lake . . . and our house.” She sounds pissed off. I can’t blame her. “They were filming our house.”

I feel as shocked and invaded as she does. My bedroom faces the lake. Did they see me? Did I have my windows open? Oh my God, did I close the curtains before I changed into my running gear? I can’t remember. I always do, don’t I?

People watching us, again. That’s not new, I guess, but I was a kid for most of that time. Now I feel . . . vulnerable. And I don’t like it at all.

“Well, maybe,” Easy says. “Don’t think you were home then. You and Sam left before they got all set up; they were gone when you came back.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like he finds anything too funny. “Fools tried to ask me about you.”

“What did you say?” I ask, because Mom won’t. His light-brown eyes focus on me, and he blinks a couple of times.

“I told them I mind my business, Lanny, what do you think I told them? They want more, they can go fish for it.”

Mom looks frustrated. “Easy. You didn’t call me? Because I know you have a cell phone in your pocket.”

“Now, don’t make me tell a tired old joke nobody wants,” he says, and smiles slowly. “I didn’t call ’cause I didn’t want you and Sam charging out there and getting yourselves in trouble. The film people were here. Film people left. Satisfying as it might feel to beat the stupid out of them, you two’d get arrested, and they’d have even more to put in their damn film. Leave them alone. Best advice I got.”

He’s not mentioning that I might have come and kicked over a camera, but I sure would have. I will, next time they show up. And I won’t tell Mom before I do it, either, because he’s right: she and Sam would get arrested. If I do, no big deal. It’s not like I’d get jail time. I’m just a dumb kid.