Stranger in the Lake(31)

Diana chatters away, popping open the tin and rummaging through the drawer for the infuser, which it takes her three tries to pry open. The loose tea doesn’t want to cooperate, either. It comes out in a surge, raining down over the infuser and onto the counter. She swipes it with a palm into the sink. Not for nothing, but Lipton is a whole lot simpler.

“Charlotte, did you hear a single word I just said?”

I snap back to the conversation, trying to inventory the words I missed, but it’s like grabbing a handful of water. I come up empty.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I said it’s just so strange. I can’t get over it. A body floating under the dock. I mean, what are the odds?”

If Paul were here, he could work the numbers. He’d know how many houses are lined up along the shore, and he’d use it to calculate the likelihood of the lake sending her to our yard instead of Micah’s or grumpy old Mr. Guthrie’s on the other side.

“I bet the odds are a lot higher than you’d think.”

“It’s a saying, dear.” A quick pause, her nails, a light baby doll pink, tapping on the counter. “I heard she was staying at the Crosby Shores, which means she wasn’t from around here.”

“She was a tourist.” Diana looks surprised, so I add, “Micah was here most of the day with the divers, and—”

“There were divers?” She presses a palm to her chest, fingertips fluttering over a bony clavicle. “How many? What did they find? Where were they looking?”

“A whole bunch of them, and under the dock, mostly. But it didn’t look like they had much luck. Micah said whatever evidence was on her probably washed off long before she ended up here.”

“But people don’t just fall into the lake in the middle of the night, not in this weather. Did somebody push her or, I don’t know, whack her over the head? Do they think she was murdered?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what they think.”

Diana blanches. She reaches for the teapot, settling it under the hot water tap by the stove, twisting the valve to gushing.

“Doesn’t it freak you out?” I ask. “Another woman under the dock, I mean. Because you know what people are going to say. You know who they’ll suspect.”

She scowls, her gaze whipping to mine.

“I didn’t say they’re right, just that everybody will think it. And now Micah’s saying I should keep the doors locked and the alarm on all the time, which doesn’t make me feel any better. He makes it sound like whoever did this might do it again. It could be a serial killer, for all we know.”

My gaze wanders to the windows and beyond, to the shadows shifting in the darkness on the other side, and I wonder what’s out there besides the trees. It makes me want to shut the lights off so I’m not so exposed. It makes me wish there were curtains.

Diana’s voice pulls me back into the room. “Who are they talking to? Who are they questioning?”

Chief Hunt’s words bark in my head: no comment. He and Diana are friendly—as friendly as someone can be with that man. She puts up with him because of his son, even inviting the Hunt family over for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m still waiting for her permission to bring along Chet.

“You should probably ask Micah. I’m sure he knows more.”

Diana glances over her shoulder, steam dancing around her head like smoke. “I’m talking to you, Charlotte. You just said they were here all day. I’m asking you.”

I try not to be offended by her words, her snappish tone, the way she’s looking at me like I’m a bug she’d like to squash. I lift my hands, let them fall to the marble with a slap.

“Diana, honestly. I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“Well, it’s not very much.” She shuts the tap with a flick of her wrist, grabbing the pot and swinging it around onto the island. A steaming glug of water sloshes out the spout and onto the kitchen floor.

Why do conversations with Diana always make me feel so inadequate?

“I’m only repeating what I heard, and Micah was pretty specific. I’m not supposed to go spreading anything around. He said the police are holding back details on purpose.”

“What kind of details?”

I open my mouth to respond, but a rattling starts up underneath us, a slow and subtle beat I feel in the soles of my feet. I turn to the stairs and scream, “Chet, turn it down!”

The noise builds steadily, a coal train rumbling through the hills, gaining speed and moving closer, swelling into a deafening roar.

“Chet’s here?”

For sure I caught that bitter note that crept into her voice, the way the skin around her eyes went tight, but I don’t have time to deal with it. The panel just inside the mudroom is beeping—the loud music tripping the glass break sensor on the alarm. I pop out of my chair.

I rush to the mudroom and tap in the code, then ping-pong from room to room, retracing my steps from earlier. I check under the magazines on the coffee table, the cushions of the chair across from the couch, the breakfast table and the kitchen charger. I look everywhere I can think of.

“What are you looking for?”

“My cell phone. The alarm company’s about to call and ask me for the secret word, but of course Paul told me it forever ago and he just left me here to deal with everything all by myself. There was another dead woman in the lake and he left.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud, and they come out angry and acidic, like the way I feel.