It doesn’t help that the clouds are spitting snow again, or the whole time I was clambering up the slippery staircase, I was hollering for our neighbor Micah when I saw that the light above his back deck had popped on. I pictured him sipping a cup of coffee on the back deck, but then just as suddenly, the light faded and I realized it was a motion sensor. A bird, maybe, or an opossum scrounging for food set it off. I ducked my head and kept climbing.
I bust through the door and race into Paul’s study, the closest room with a landline.
I fall into the chair at his desk, a giant slab of walnut and brushed steel, with nothing on it but a lamp and a phone. Its surface is spotless, a gleaming example of Paul’s clean-desk policy that applies both at work and at home.
I pick up the receiver and dial with freezing, fumbling fingers. Micah’s cell rings four eternal times, then flips me to voice mail. At the end of the beep, I start talking.
“Micah, it’s Charlotte. I was just down at the dock, and there’s a body under it. A real body, a woman. I don’t know who she is or how she got there, but she’s clearly dead, so I didn’t dare touch her.” Saying the words out loud makes my stomach go eely with morning sickness, with shock. “Anyway, get over here as soon as you hear this, will you? I’m hanging up and calling 9-1-1 now. Bye.”
Micah is our neighbor and friend, but also son of the police chief and badass diver specializing in underwater investigations and evidence recovery. Whoever I talk to at emergency services will be calling him next anyway. I hang up and dial 9-1-1.
Though...I suppose it’s not technically an emergency—not anymore since she’s obviously dead. But the sooner the police know, the better chances are they can retrieve whatever evidence she might still be carrying. Micah told me once that the lake’s currents work like a washing machine, agitating everything in it. If there’s evidence on her body and the fabric of her clothes—skin under her fingernails, a hair that’s not from her head stuck in her sweater—it’s probably already been knocked loose.
The line connects, and I give the operator my name and address, describe the scene down at the dock. I sound remarkably calm, if not a little out of breath still. He tells me the police are on the way and asks me to stay on the line, but I tell him I have to go. Paul will be home from his run soon, and he’ll need my support. I think of him out there, jogging around the hills in blissful ignorance, and I hang up the phone.
There’s nothing I can do now but wait.
4
June 12, 1999
4:45 p.m.
Jax Edwards tromped through the woods behind his house, his rifle slung carelessly over a shoulder. Thanks to a week of nonstop rain, the air was so thick it had a weight to it, solid and sticky in his lungs. The damp brought out the bugs and turned the path into a tangled mass of branches and undergrowth, new shoots slapping at the bare skin of his legs with clammy fronds.
He probably should have changed into jeans. Better shoes, too, instead of these ancient sneakers, a holdout from his high school track days. He kept stepping out of them, kept having to double back to rescue one from where it got suction-cupped to a muddy spot in the path. Like most things these days, it really pissed him off.
The backs of his thighs burned, but it was a good kind of pain. The kind that came after hours of trekking through the forest, scaling trees and clambering up mountainsides. In his seventeen years, he’d explored every inch of these woods, looked behind every log and under every rock. He’d watched beavers chew bushes down to tiny nubs for their dam and almost stepped on two copperheads mating. Yesterday a deer let him come so close he could see the veins in its ears. Funny, when he first started coming out here, he thought it was because he wanted to be alone, but somehow, being out here with all these animals, with the wilderness...well, he never minded the company.
The dense path gave way, opening up to a patch of velvet grass an army of gardeners mowed and raked and fertilized into perfection every Tuesday afternoon, blinding green against the glittering lake. The house in the middle was a faded gray shingle, big and square with shiny black shutters on the windows. It sat on the water, so close you could drive the boat right into the attached garage, a yawning hole carved into an extension of the house that stuck out over the lake like a long finger. When they were younger, his mom had installed a slide to the deck up top, and all summer long you could hear squeals and splashes as he and his sister, Pamela, took turns skidding down. Jax had never lived anywhere else.
Now home was the last place on earth he wanted to be.
He banged through the back door into the kitchen, where Pamela was preparing dinner. “Where have you been? Dad’s home, and he’s been calling all over for you.”
Jax could hear him on the other end of the house, yelling at some poor sucker through the phone, ruining his Saturday afternoon. That call had nothing to do with Jax. It was a business call, and an angry one at that. It was the one thing he and his father had in common, this constant, all-consuming rage.
Jax leaned his rifle against the wall. “Hasn’t anybody ever told you? Lyin’s a sin, Pammy.”
“I’m not lying. And what are you doing out there in the woods all day, anyway?”
A year ago he would have brushed her off with Why do you care? You’re not my mother, but even Jax wasn’t that much of an asshole. Their mother was a sensitive subject these days. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He pushed past her for the stairs, and she skittered after him. “‘The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’ Pastor Williams says if we keep that verse in mind, we won’t feel so alone.”
She was always doing that, flinging Bible verses at anybody who was close enough, waving them around like some magic potion for whatever ailed you. It was maddening, especially since up until a few years ago they’d been twice-a-year churchgoers at best—sunrise service on Easter morning and candlelight worship on Christmas Eve. Mom never hung crosses on the walls, never taught them to pray before meals or bedtimes. He’d lost count of how many times he’d heard his dad say goddamn.
And then the diagnosis came—ALS, the quick kind—and his sister discovered the Lord. She let some pastor dunk her in a muddy cove of Lake Crosby, and then she wanted everybody else to do the same. To be “saved.” Mom humored her, even though she was in a wheelchair by then and probably could have drowned. He and his father watched from the shoreline, both of them stewing in a combination of frustration and hope even though every doctor, every specialist and quack they’d talked to told them his mom couldn’t be saved.
At night, Pamela would huddle by their mother’s bedside for hours at a time, eyes screwed shut, lips moving in silent prayer like a chant. Mom might have had ALS but Pamela was diseased, consumed with what she swore was the healing power of prayer. For a while there, Jax had believed his sister’s nonsense in that way that if you wish for something hard enough, you become convinced it should happen. A miracle. It happened all the time in the Bible, right? That’s what Pamela promised, but his mom only got weaker.