Bitterroot Lake, Alicia Beckman [good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

said, “is suggesting there’s something you didn’t say.”

“There isn’t,” Janine said, leaning forward, biting off the words. “There isn’t. We told them everything.”

No, they hadn’t, Sarah knew, but it wasn’t Janine keeping the secret. Secrets, plural. Did Nic and Janine know Holly had invited the boys to the lake so she could cozy up to Jeremy? Did they know how much Holly hated her, envied everything she had? Not that her sister didn’t have a good life, with a great job and a trendy urban condo. Let it go, her therapist had said. He didn’t reciprocate, never even knew. If you want a relationship with her, you have to let it go. The memory of the admonition started the stupid song playing in her head. Abby had been eleven or twelve when Frozen came out, too old to put on her favorite princess dress when they went to the movie theater, but not too old for a tiara. Sarah had worn one, too, borrowed for the occasion. Abby’s tiara sat on a shelf in her bedroom, not part of the ridiculously large wardrobe she’d taken to college. The image of that tiara, shining into the silence in the house in Seattle, tore at Sarah’s heart.

At this rate, she would have no heart left, the muscles and arteries ripped to shreds for the birds to pick.

Deep breaths, her therapist would say. She inhaled, heard how thin and ragged her breath was, how short the exhale. Focus. In, out, in, out.

As for the rest—well, Holly knew part and Jeremy had known part. But no one had known it all, not even her therapist. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything now.

“Sarah? Sarah.” The sound of her name brought her back to the room, to Nic pressing a hand on her arm.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She shook Nic off, tried to shake off their concern. She was tired of everyone’s concern, at the same time that she craved it. What a mess she was.

“Okay,” Nic echoed, not sounding convinced. “The question is, what does the letter writer want? Or what did he want, if it was Lucas?”

“You don’t seriously think it wasn’t him?” Holly said.

Nic held out both hands. “I’m saying we’ll never get to the bottom of this if we don’t consider every possibility. We can’t start with a conclusion and get anywhere.”

Across the table, Janine closed her eyes. Though she was forty-seven, she looked like a teenager right now, younger than Abby, and scared as hell. Sarah ached to comfort her. But that wouldn’t help them get at the truth, would it?

Janine opened her eyes, exhaling heavily. “Okay. Every possibility, right? No matter how unlikely. No matter what other—issues it might create.”

All for one and one for all, Sarah thought. She stifled the urge to squirm. Any movement more substantial than the flicker of an eyelash and the fragile peace would shatter.

Janine took another deep breath before speaking. “What if the letter isn’t referring to the wreck? What if it’s referring to my mother?”

“Oh, God,” Sarah said. “But what would that have to do with Lucas?”

“Or with me?” Holly asked.

“Nothing, as far as I know. But you said”—Janine glanced at Nic—“every possibility.”

“Go on.”

“That was the year my mother died. Sarah had already moved to Seattle when the shooting happened,” Janine said, “but you two, you were my rock. I’m not sure I’d have made it through without you.”

“Yes, you would have,” Nic said. “You’d have found the strength.”

The bare facts were brutal. Sue Nielsen had fought with her boyfriend and kicked him out. He’d come back later to get his stuff but she’d been drunk and mistook him for a burglar. She’d shot and killed him. The hard life had ruined her health, and later that fall, in jail awaiting trial, she’d developed pneumonia. The end had been mercifully quick. Sarah was focused on her new job and interior design classes, and on helping Jeremy get back on his feet, literally, though she’d have come home if there’d been a service. But Janine had decided against it. No one would come, she’d told Sarah, except out of pity, and she was probably right.

“I never told anyone that my mother called me,” Janine said. “After the fight, but before he came back. I was too ashamed to admit that I didn’t take the time to listen to her.”

They were silent, making sure they listened now, as she told the story. Finally, Sarah spoke. “I’m so sorry. But would it really have made a difference?”

“Maybe,” Janine said. “Maybe it would have.”

If not then, if not that, some other tragedy would have struck. Sue Nielsen had been a magnet for bad luck and bad choices. But Sarah could see how Janine might have blamed herself, especially after the attack and the crash, and spun out of control. Hadn’t she married Roger Chapman, a poor choice of her own, not long after her mother’s death?

“I don’t see how that could be connected to the letter,” Nic said. “Since Holly got one, too. Do you?”

But no one did.

As if by unspoken agreement, they all stood, Holly heading for the powder room, Nic and Janine for the kitchen. Sarah took her phone out to the deck, the display alight but the bars flat.

Must be some kind of gadget that would solve the problem. She’d ask the repair guy when they picked up Janine’s phone. Though overgrown as the trees around here were, she’d probably need to call NASA.

Who would ever have imagined she’d give an eyetooth for a landline?

What a mess they all were. Blaming themselves for the past, for what they hadn’t done. Except Nic, who’d called when Jeremy died, and made a generous donation to hospice in his name.

But when Sarah had asked about Kim, Nic’s wife, and their daughter, Nic had said they were fine without elaborating. Were they fine? Not fine? Should Sarah have asked more questions? Nic had never been one to avoid difficult conversations. But she’d seen too