Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(31)

“No problem,” he says, and ends the call.

I take it back to the web and look up Dan O’Reilly’s details, cross-referenced with the address.

He’s a registered sex offender. I feel sorry for the fictional wife, Frances. When I pay the fee to get his records, I find that Dan likes rape, and likes his girls young enough so they can’t fight back. It’s nauseating. I find the link; his brother, Farrell, is currently incarcerated in the same prison Melvin was in. And on death row for abduction and murder.

Child predators run in the family sometimes.

I’m guessing that one of Dan’s associates—if not Dan himself—will be on the visitor logs for Farrell; Melvin would have made lots of nasty friends while he was waiting his turn at the needle. He probably arranged for payments to Farrell, who smuggled things out of prison to his brother.

But then I pause. Because it’s too easy. It took me all of two hours to trace this back to Dan’s box. And why would Dan put his own address on the envelope in the first place?

Two answers. First: He didn’t. Someone else did, with the intention of throwing me off the trail.

Or second: He did, believing he was fully camouflaged by a PO box, because criminals generally aren’t genius masterminds. Dan’s despicable, and his younger brother being on the same death-row block as my ex . . . that’s persuasive. But maybe it’s meant to be.

Maybe someone wants Dan O’Reilly to take the fall for this. I need a deeper dive, but I can only do so much.

I call Kez. I give her all the information, and tell her my misgivings about it. It feels like Melvin would have done better at covering his tracks.

Of course she asks what was in the envelope. I hesitate, because I can’t turn over the diary. When I do, I look up. My daughter is standing in the office doorway, and she looks . . . strange. She’s watching me, and shifting from one foot to the other. I smile at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

“Come in, sweetie,” I tell her. She does, but just a reluctant step. It’d odd. I wonder if she’s had another crisis with Dahlia. “I’m on the phone with Kezia. I’ll be just a minute, okay?”

She nods.

“Gwen?” It’s Kez, reminding me she’s still waiting. “Contents of the envelope?”

I lie. I have to. I can’t ask Sam to give up the last piece of his sister’s life to be put in an evidence bag, maybe never see the light of day again. Melvin’s dead; he’ll never pay for the pain he’s caused. “It was a letter,” I say. I know that’s a dumb thing to say, because I’ve already turned over all the letters I got from him. Except the one I received right after coming back from Killman Creek, and that one is at the bottom of the lake.

“Mom,” Lanny says. I glance at her. Her eyes are wide.

“I’m going to need that letter,” Kezia is saying.

Lanny sucks in a breath, pulls back, and pulls something from the pocket of her hoodie.

It’s an envelope. An open envelope. And when I reach for it and turn it over, I almost drop it. It’s from Melvin. Addressed to me.

“How did you know? I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I . . . I thought . . .”

I instinctively mute the call with Kezia. I want to tell Lanny it’s okay. It’s not okay. I feel a wash of absolute despair, absolute horror. “Where did you—where did you get this?” My voice is almost as unsteady as hers.

“It was in the mail. Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I tell her. “I’m just . . . When did this come?”

“Yesterday,” she says. “I knew you wouldn’t let me . . .” Her voice fades out. So does the light in her eyes, and I know why. I’ve felt what she’s feeling. And I would have done anything, anything, for her to never feel that. “I just thought . . .” She wipes at her eyes. “Oh God, Mom. The things he said—”

I hug her as if I can protect her from everything, fold myself around her and take the pain of every cut, every vile word, away. But I can’t, and I know that. I kiss her forehead and whisper, “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Then I go back to the phone and unmute it and say, “Sorry about that, Kez. I have the letter.” I look at Lanny as I’m saying it. “Come get it.”

Then I hang up.

I put the letter and the manila envelope from Sam’s package on my desk. Lanny comes and sits next to my chair, leans her head against me, and cries quietly. I stroke her hair. We don’t talk.

After half an hour, I say, “Get up.” I pull her to her feet. “We’re going to run.”

She sniffles and looks at me with reddened eyes. Not quite believing what I just said.

“We need to run,” I tell her. “You need to run. Go get ready.”

She finally nods, throws herself into my arms again, and kisses me on the cheek. “I love you,” she says, and then she’s gone.

I sink down in my chair, staring after her.

I look down at the letter on my desk, the letter that has hurt my child so very much, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to scream, not to rip it to pieces and fling it into the lake and drown it, drown him, silence his voice forever.

I don’t do that. I stand up. I leave the room. I change clothes.

And we run.