Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(24)

“What’s in the cooler?” I ask Easy. It’s sitting beside his chair, small enough for him to manage on the way up and down the hill.

“Why, you want a beer, girl?”

“I know you’re not offering, and she isn’t taking,” Mom says. Easy pulls out a small bottled water and pitches it to me, then hands one to my mother.

“Have a little faith,” he says. “And keep your cool, Gwen. Gonna be a long, hot summer around here.”

We drink our water up fast, and chat some more; it’s worth breaking up a run to talk to Mr. Claremont. He’s an interesting man, and I like him a lot.

My mom finally eyes the horizon and checks her watch. “Sorry. Got to get home and make dinner. You going to be okay out here? It’s going to get dark in the next hour.”

“I know. Kez is coming home in a bit. She’ll help me on up the hill.”

“All right. You call if you need us.”

“Much appreciated,” he says. “You watch your step, ladies.”

“Thank you, Mr. C,” I say. As we set off, I hear him pop the top on a bottle that doesn’t have water in it, and when I glance back, he’s sipping a beer and lost in the view of the lake. As we ramp back up to speed, I say, “Mom? Did you know he used to be famous?”

“What?”

“Mr. Claremont. Used to be famous.”

“Famous for what?”

“He won a bunch of medals back in the Vietnam War,” I say. “He testified to Congress about some of the bad stuff that went on. Lots of people hated him for that. Lots of people loved him, too, but I think he understands what it’s like to be hounded. Like us.”

I can tell she didn’t know, and I admit, I’m surprised. If background checking was an Olympic event, she’d have more gold than Michael Phelps. My brother, the nerd, would definitely be going for the silver. I feel kind of good that I surprised her. And for a change, it isn’t a bad surprise.

From Easy’s lakeside mini-resort, we kick it hard and race each other the last quarter of the way around the curve; I feel the burn building in my calves and thighs as the road begins to slope and we pull close to home. Mom’s exhausted, I can see it; I wonder if she slept much. She’s so exhausted, in fact, that she forgets the mail, or maybe she expects Sam to get it today, I don’t know.

When she realizes I’m not coming with, she stops and looks back.

“Go on,” I tell her. “I want to talk to Dahlia.”

“Five minutes,” she says.

I nod. As Mom heads up the incline to the house, I perch on a rock on the other side of the road, next to the lake, and hit FaceTime.

It rings. And rings.

Dahlia doesn’t pick up. Again. This is the third time in a row, and it’s killing me. Why isn’t she talking to me? What’s she doing? What did I do wrong? Oh God, is she with somebody else?

I’m so preoccupied with that, I forget that I’m not supposed to open the mailbox. I’m pulling down the door when I remember, and then it’s too late, and I jump backward in case there’s a snake inside.

There isn’t. I check with my phone light and everything. Mom’s going to kill me, though. She’d just said not to do this.

Too late now. I restlessly pick through the mail. Junk, junk, political junk. Some bills. And two other things: a flat manila mailer addressed with a printed label to SAMUEL CADE. It has a return address out of Richmond, Virginia, and a bunch of stamps on it. And a plain white letter, also stamped, no return address, with Mom’s name on it.

I freeze, because I recognize the handwriting. It’s my father’s.

Dad’s dead.

How can he possibly be writing to Mom? I feel sick and dizzy for a second, and I’m in danger of dropping mail all over the place . . . but then I take some deep breaths and shove the letter down the side of my leggings.

I know I should give it to Mom, but . . . for years, she kept his letters away from us. From me. She took all of that on herself. I’ve seen one of them, just a glance, really. Mom’s trying to forget about Dad, and this will hurt her, I know it will. Whatever’s in this letter, he means it to hurt.

I’m not letting him keep on abusing her. She took so much and never let us know what it cost her; I do know now.

I’m old enough. I can do this for her, especially after seeing what that stupid TV show did to her. I hate that people keep hurting her. She wouldn’t like it, but . . . I’m strong enough.

I’ll just tear it up and throw it away. She’ll never even know.



I put the rest of the mail on the counter and tell Mom, who’s talking to Connor, that I’m going to hit the shower. She tells me not to hog all the hot water, she’s sweaty too, and Connor says something I don’t pay attention to because the letter I’ve hidden in my leggings feels like it’s burning my skin. I hear the pickup truck outside as I shut and lock my bedroom door. Sam’s back. I take the letter out and put it on my bed, then step back to stare at it.

I didn’t imagine it. There’s a letter there, an envelope with Dad’s handwriting on it. So either I’m full-on crazy, or my dead serial-killer dad has got writing materials in hell.

And stamps.

I pace back and forth. I check my curtains—closed—and strip off my sweaty running clothes and dump them in the laundry basket. I change to soft cotton pants and a sweatshirt. It happens to have skulls on it. Sort of appropriate, I guess.