I’ve heard about generational trauma, where post-traumatic stress disorder can actually be passed from parent to child through DNA. I think that’s what happened to me. It’s why I keep seeing the children wandering off into the lake. Perhaps my suspicion that David is a predator is simply my fear response kicking into overdrive. My nervous system is always on high alert, and that’s probably at the root of my impulsivity. Whenever I feel out ofcontrol, or want to fix something, I react too intensely and make rash decisions.
I’m sure as time goes on, I’ll become just like my mother, where all risks are to be avoided, and romantic relationships are just an invitation to disaster. I know in my bones that I must solve the mysteries of the lake or I’ll spend my life worrying when the next shoe will drop and mistrusting kindness when I see it in a man. No matter who I meet, I’ll always be looking for the darkness.
Taylor texts Lucas’s contact info to my phone. “Just be careful with him,” she says.
“After the shit he pulled in the woods, he should be careful with me,” I reassure her.
As soon as Taylor leaves, I grab my phone to message Lucas, but I write to my mom first. I’ve been terrible about staying in touch. I don’t want to cause her more stress, so I don’t tell her about my ankle. At this point, I’m so far from the truth that I don’t know how I’ll ever make my way back. But I stick to my story and send a bland message that simply says:Love you, miss you! Having a great time and learning a ton. Let’s talk soon!I add a heart emoji so she knows I care.
It takes her all of twenty seconds to write back—she’s probably been checking her phone obsessively and trying not to bother me. My mom doesn’t want to be stifling. She just can’t help herself. One day without a message, and she’ll think I’m in a hospital; two days, I’m in a morgue.
Miss you SO much!she sends.It gets lonely here, but I’m happy you’re having fun and learning. Call when you can so we can really catch up. XO. Mom
She always signs her messages like I won’t know who they’re from. Gen X. They do the silliest things.
When this is over, and I break open the cold cases of Lake Timmeny, Mom will understand and forgive my deception. She will have the closure she needs and the healing she deserves. I’m counting on that to justify my lies.
I text Lucas and ask him to meet me upstairs in my room.Hopefully, I won’t regret that decision. I need to stay off my ankle, and I also want to prove that I’m not afraid of him.
It’s not long before I hear footsteps approaching. Lucas pokes his head through the door.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
This attitude is way better than the cocky bullshit he was pulling in the woods.
“I’m fine, no thanks to you,” I grumble.
He looks appropriately contrite as he enters, carrying a plastic tool kit in his right hand, like a doctor paying a house call. He’s got that same lock of hair falling in front of his eyes that I’ve come to consider the signature Lucas look. He might seem all innocent in his Henley T-shirt and dock shorts, but he’s not fooling me.
“You left me for dead out there!” I glare at him hard, though I doubt I’m very threatening.
I move to the edge of the bed, wincing when I turn my injured ankle. I want easy access to the crutch leaning against a wall, which I can easily convert into a weapon if Lucas decides he wants to finish the job.
“Left you for dead?” He looks and sounds wounded. “What on earth are you talking about? Did you hit your head when you fell? I spent ages searching for you. You walked off the trail, Izzy. You must have. I don’t know where you ended up, but it wasn’t anywhere near our meeting spot.”
Here’s wheremymemory isn’t so clear. I have a sudden nagging suspicion that I might not have accurately retraced my steps. It seemed to take a lot longer than it should have, and I recall being disoriented. Perhaps I confused one rock for another. I mean, really, I’m no geologist. But I’m also not ready to give Lucas the satisfaction of being right.
“I kept screaming your name at the top of my lungs,” he continues. He sounds sincere and highly charged, like he’s still upset about it. “When I couldn’t find you, I ran the whole way back to get help. We searched all over, but couldn’t find a trace of you.”
I now feel compelled to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I still have many unanswered questions. Did he assault Taylor? What went down with Fiona after I stopped spying? And why did he lie to me about not kissing her back?
Since we’re being candid, I try the straightforward approach. “Taylor won’t talk to you. I’ve seen it myself, and I want to know why. What did you do to her?”
Lucas’s eyes go wide. He looks more confused than angry. “What didIdo?” The high pitch of his voice is rife with indignation. “What the hell do you think of me? First, you interrogated me about Fiona, and now you’re accusing me of doing something to Taylor? Why? Do you think that because I’m aguy,I must be guilty of something? I mean, have you ever stopped to think that maybe I’m hurting, too? Like, maybe I didn’t want Fiona to come on to me, and I don’t understand what’s up with Taylor? Did you ever once consider, even for a second, that I might not be such an asshole?”
That gives me pause. Sadly, the answer is no. It hadn’t crossed my mind that Lucas could be a good guy.
I shift my attention to the box on the bed. Here I am, wanting his help and accusing him simultaneously. That has to feel shitty.
“You never did anything to Taylor?” I ask.
A murky sorrow clouds his eyes. He’s protecting something, but what?
“Why don’t you go askher,” he says testily. He moves to go. He’ll leave, take his tools with him, and I’ll be stuck with a broken box and no way to fix it.
I soften my expression. “I’m sorry,” I say. “For accusing you. Maybe it was an accident and you did try to help find me.”
“Maybe? I broke down when I thought I’d lost you. I was convinced something awful had happened.”
