Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(26)

I’m not sure I can even answer her. I hear her try the door. I manage to clear my throat and say, “Changing!” I hope my voice doesn’t shake. I hope she hasn’t heard me screaming into the pillow.

“Okay,” she says. I know her Mom radar is kicking in. “Lanny? Are you okay?”

“Go away!” I shout, and make myself be angry, because it’s the only way I can deal with this right now.

She doesn’t go away. I imagine her standing there, concerned, hand pressed against my door. Not understanding what brought this on.

Then she says, “Is it Dahlia?”

Oh, thank God. I choke back a sob and gather up the pages and shove them back in the envelope. “Yeah,” I lie. Is Dad really alive? I want to ask, but if I do, how do I know if she’s telling the truth?

“Can we talk about it?”

“No!” I put the envelope in my top drawer, underneath the liner paper, and slam it hard. “Leave me alone!”

She finally does. I hear her footsteps as she leaves.

I huddle into as tight a ball as I can, pull the covers up, and scream into my pillow again and again and again until my head hurts and my whole body aches like I’m running a fever. He’s made me sick.

I tell myself that Sam wouldn’t have lied about Dad being dead even if Mom would. No, Dad’s dead. For sure.

I still imagine him standing by my bed when I close my eyes.

And he’s smiling.

I have to give this to Mom, I know that. I have to confess to her that I read it. But I can’t, not right now. It’s taking everything I have just to . . . just to breathe.

When Mom comes to tell me dinner’s ready, it takes even more to pretend like the world’s still normal.

Like I’m normal.

But like my dad . . . I’m good at pretending.





5

GWEN

I’ve been expecting a fracture in the all-too-close Dahlia/Lanny love affair; they’ve been burning too hot, and that doesn’t last. But at her age, what crush does? I’m afraid that a breakup on top of the stress we’re about to be put under may trigger some real problems in my daughter. She’s tough, but she’s not invulnerable, any more than I am.

If this documentary bullshit is real, if they’re here, then I need to think very seriously about our future in Stillhouse Lake. It’d be nice if our neighbors banded together in a united front against them, but I can’t see that happening; too many of them didn’t like me from the beginning, and more of them didn’t like how the thing with local cop Lancel Graham ended, though he definitely deserved it. Having microphones in their faces might just give them the chance to vent their grudges.

I can’t have my kids in the cross fire, not again.

Teriyaki chicken’s well underway, and Connor, Sam, and I enjoy the kitchen time together, even though it’s close quarters. Sam manages to steal a kiss when I slide by him to put the rice on, and I return the favor on the way back.

My son just rolls his eyes as he finishes chopping cabbage for the sweet-and-sour salad.

“Lanny should be doing this,” he gripes.

“She’s having a hard time,” I tell him. “You don’t mind, right?”

He says he doesn’t, but he does.

Sam says, “I checked with Javier. No new faces at the range over the past couple of months, other than the usual day-trippers. Nobody asking for long-range practice other than the hunters he already knows.” He means there’s no evidence that a sniper’s come to town and is training to take us out. Of course, if there is, there’s also no reason a sniper would have to go to Javier’s range if he’s a hired gun; he could practice somewhere else, far from here, come in and do the job, and drive away. There’s not much comfort we can take from a negative, and we both know that.

While the chicken cooks, Sam leaves the kitchen, spots the mail that Lanny left on the counter, and shuffles through it. He takes out a large manila envelope and opens it up, peers inside, and pulls out a slim black-bound journal. He opens the first page.

Then he just . . . stops. It’s his utter stillness that draws my gaze, and when he shifts, I see something in his eyes. Something I don’t want Connor to see. So I force a smile and say, “Hey, Connor? Five more minutes on the rice. Sam?” I gesture to him, and he unfreezes enough to follow. He’s still holding the manila envelope and journal.

I shut the office door once he’s inside, and lean against it.

“What is it?”

“A diary,” he says. “I recognize the handwriting. It’s Callie’s.”

It’s his sister’s. I catch my breath and ask, “Did the prosecutor’s office release it?” I pick up the envelope from him and check the return address. It’s a post office box. No name. I feel gooseflesh start to rise on the back of my neck. Something’s wrong here.

“I never heard of them even finding one,” he says. “I suppose someone must have found it and sent it to me as next of kin?” He opens it and flips pages. Stops. “Here’s where she talks about tracking me down and finding out I was on deployment. I have her first letter somewhere. I kept all of them.” I can hear how this unmoors him. I can’t imagine, seeing these glimpses into a life that was full of bright promise, and so brutally and suddenly gone.