I realize too late that I should have been watching where I was going. My foot strikes something hard. At first I’m not sure what happened. All I know is I’m unexpectedly flying through the air. The next instant, I land hard on the ground. Pain rockets up my arm, butmy ankle takes the brunt of it. It swells almost immediately, like an inflating balloon.
I try to stand, but when I put weight on my foot, a sharp, stabbing sensation shoots through my leg. I brave a step and it’s not pretty. The pain is intense enough to make my eyes water. I have to sit down. My ankle continues to swell.
I want to scream at myself for all the terrible decisions I’ve made. Coming to the lake, visiting the site of old bones, opening my big mouth to the police, lying to Rick so I could be alone with the boy who’s abandoned me.
What now?
Tears, that’s what. They streak down my face, gracing my lips with their salty aftertaste.
Irrational fears arise—or maybe not so irrational. What will my parents think if I don’t return? How would my disappearance alter their lives? I’m not ready to become anybody’s ghost. I have too much to do, and now I’m getting angry. I won’t let Lucas beat me, but I can’t walk, and I worry what will happen when night falls.
So I do what any smart, levelheaded, partially college-educated young woman would do in my predicament. I scream—as loud as I can. My throat turns raw from the effort, but I don’t let up.
I’m howling like a madwoman when I hear something rustling in the trees. My heart swells more than my injured ankle, filling with relief. But fear coats me anew as I worry I’ve summoned nothing more than a creature, perhaps a bear with teeth and claws that will tear me to pieces. Or worse… a predator who preys on young women… whoever or whatever is at the heart of the lake lore.
It’s moving toward me and causing too much of a disturbance to be a small animal. I brace myself, holding my breath, worried that giving myself away would be the worst thing I can do. But it’s too late. Something is heading this way quickly. I grab a nearby stick; it’s a flimsy weapon, but it’s all I have. I’m ready to scream again, this time to scare it off.
As I brace for the end, to my delighted surprise, an old woman appears from behind a thicket of bushes. She’s dressed in a brightteal fleece and dark jeans. Her face is heavily lined, and despite the protection of a lavender adventure hat, her skin is deeply sun-kissed, as though she’s seldom indoors. She appears as comfortable in this landscape as any animal living in the forest. Her long, flowing gray hair, coarse and silvery like a horse’s mane, makes me think of the legendary wisewomen. As she moves closer, I see concern in her wide, luminous blue eyes. She carries a walking stick in each hand, her knuckles gnarled like the knots of a tree branch.
A sob escapes my throat as she lowers herself to my level.
“You’re hurt,” she says in a raspy, age-worn voice. “Are you lost as well, dear?”
I nod, over and over, unable to muster any words. She brushes my cheek, her touch filled with kindness. “Well, you’re not lost anymore. I’ll fix you a splint and we’ll get you out of here. Are you staying at the lake?”
I nod again, my voice still locked somewhere inside.
“Well, you’re in luck. I live there as well. My name is Grace Olsen. What’s your name?”
I smile slightly as I answer her question. Fate is a funny thing.
Chapter 21
Julia
Julia felt a dozen emotions in a matter of seconds. Anger. Sorrow. Disbelief. Then the rush of feelings gave way to pure shock.
While the amber tones of the liquid in front of Christian looked like maple syrup, the Maker’s Mark label made it evident the contents weren’t for pancakes and waffles.
Where Christian got his hands on a bottle of whiskey was a question for later. She never kept anything stronger than wine in the house, and that only after years of Christian’s sobriety, when she could finally believe his assurances that he was comfortable having alcohol around. Which raised the more pressing question: Why would he throw his sobriety out the window after all they’d been through?
An electric current coursed through her body and out of her mouth in one panicked, disbelieving yell: “Christian, what in God’s name are you doing?”
He barely moved. For a moment, Julia feared the worst—had he swallowed a handful of pills with his drink? Eventually, though, his hand went to the bottle, and she watched him pour another splash into his glass without so much as a glance in her direction.
Was this about the bank accounts—the passwords he had changed without informing her? Was there more going on than she realized? She never had the chance to confront him because of the chaos with Fiona. Now she was afraid to learn the truth.
“Christian!” she cried. “Answer me, what are you doing? You’re drinking!”
Finally, he looked at her, his eyes so red they were glowing. “Yeah, no shit. Do you want some?” The words slurred together—doyawannsum—as he teetered on his chair.
Julia stormed across the room and grabbed the bottle off the table, barely resisting the urge to club him over the head with it. Instead, she poured the contents into their ancient kitchen sink. She saw her life going down the drain along with the alcohol.
“I take that as no,” he slurred. “But you gonna regret that.”
Bad grammar. Barely able to hold his head up. He was blotto.
Julia thought she might pass out from the adrenaline rush, but collected herself enough to sit beside her husband.
