Stranger in the Lake(6)

I look out the window. The sky is brighter now, daylight lighting up tree branches sifted with snow, even though it’s dry for now. But if some of that snow made its way onto those drawings, Gwen is going to have a fit.

I set my coffee cup on the counter and rush to the mudroom—a space I never knew existed before I started dating Paul. And honestly, what’s the point? A whole room specifically for muddy shoes and jackets—is that really necessary? Ours is a rectangular space with a slate floor, a wall of custom cabinets and cubbies, and exactly zero mud. No Keller Architecture house comes without one.

I shove my feet into a pair of snow boots, faux fur–lined and with a steady, deep tread, and pluck my coat from the hook.

Outside on the upper deck, the wind hits me, and I duck my head and hurry down the stairs to the lower level. Icy currents billow my robe around my legs, skating up my bare skin and prickling in my nose with the scent of moss and pine.

I think of Paul, conquering the hills on the other side of our house, and shiver. A hundred bucks says he didn’t think to take his gloves.

I’m careful navigating the hill’s steep steps, pressed gravel held together with reclaimed railroad ties. The treads are uneven, and the snow has coated the ties in slick patches, making the descent slow going.

Above my head, a hawk calls out, and I look up to see him tracing lazy figure eights just above the tree line. There must be something dead nearby, because an animal with any sort of sense would be hunkered down somewhere warm.

The dock is a skating rink, and it doesn’t help my balance any that it’s floating, the waters here too deep to drive in stakes. I grip the posts and move across it with cautious, steady steps. There’s good fishing under this dock, but things that fall in here don’t always come back up, not until much later. It’s called Skeleton Cove for a reason.

My teeth are chattering and my fingers numb by the time I lower myself onto the boat. Paul left the keys dangling in the ignition, and I jiggle them loose and drop them into my pocket. The drawings are right where I left them, a little damp but not soggy, thank God.

I feel around the bottom of the cubby until my fingers connect with a smooth, icy object. My cell phone. I pull it out and poke at the screen, but nothing happens. The battery is dead, probably frozen to death. I slip it in my pocket with the keys, grab the drawings and step to the bow.

I’m hoisting myself onto the dock when I see it. Something long and white in the water below me, drifting like seaweed on the surface.

I lower one foot back onto the leather seat, then the other. Bend down and look again.

I shriek and scramble backward.

Not seaweed. Hair. Human hair. It fans out from the back of a blond head, twisting and swirling in the water like smoke.

I take another step backward, putting some space between me and the corpse, but there’s nothing behind me but air. My body pitches off the seat and onto the carpet of the bow’s cockpit, my back slamming into the opposite seat. I land on my right hip with a thud. Automatically, my hand goes to my belly.

Don’t you come unstuck, little guy. Don’t you dare.

I pause, waiting for what comes next. A dull cramping, a searing pain. I wait, not moving for the span of five full breaths, but there’s nothing but a throbbing in my upper back where I hit the hard edge of the seat.

Carefully, I push to my feet. I step to the starboard side and lean my entire upper body over the side of the boat.

It’s a woman, floating facedown in the water. I can tell from her hair, her slim shoulders and slight build, the designer jeans and thin black sweater. Her arms and legs are spread wide like motionless spider legs, her hands and feet disappearing into the murky water. It’s a stance that’s instantly familiar.

Dead man’s float.

The urge to vomit comes on hard and fast, and sweat breaks out on my skin, even though I’m still freezing. I swallow the sick down and tell myself this is not the first time I’ve seen a dead body. When I was twelve, my grandma dropped dead right next to me, right in the middle of ordering from the Home Shopping Channel. She was a bit of a hoarder, her trailer crammed full with crap she didn’t need and probably couldn’t afford, but the point is, I didn’t panic. I pried the phone out of her hand and called 9-1-1 without producing a tear, even though afterward I cried for days.

But this is different. This time it feels like watching a horror movie, like seeing something forbidden and monstrous. Another faceless, lifeless woman bobbing in the reeds under our dock, only this time... Is it an accident? Or something worse? I watch her hair swirl in a gust of water and it’s like staring into the sun—painful but impossible to look away.

Not here, under Paul’s dock. Not again.

My blood runs hot and I glance up the hill, the world shifting back into focus. Should I flip her over? Drag her into the boat and perform CPR?

Then again, I’m probably not strong enough to lift her out, and it’s too deep under the dock to wade in, not to mention too late. I’m no expert, but it looks like she’s been there a while. The skin that I can see—the tops of her ears, a sliver at the back of her neck—is waxy and luridly white, gleaming like it’s coated in frost.

I decide to leave her be. I can’t help her, and as far as the lake is concerned, this is the end of the line. The currents that live in these waters, powerful undertows and swift updrafts that swirl up muck from the depths, burp everything up here, in the reeds under our dock. Whoever this woman is, she’s not going anywhere.