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

often in the last two and a half weeks that death silenced people. They worried about saying the wrong thing, so they said nothing, which made her feel even worse. Like the thing ripping her apart wasn’t worth mentioning.

She and Nic had been so open with each other back in college. Though the last half hour had made painfully obvious that the relationships between the four of them had shifted. The other three still seemed close, while Sarah, once the ringleader, had become the outsider.

What was she going to do about that?

Or about her kids. Or her mother and the lodge.

And the letter. They had to call Leo. She could not lose sight of one simple fact: Lucas Erickson was dead, and Janine was the obvious suspect. Although surely there were others—an a-hole like that had to have rubbed plenty of people the wrong way, starting with his ex-wife. What leads was Leo pursuing? Who was he talking to? She knew squat about murder investigations, but she did remember the investigation into the car wreck. The road had been closed for hours while sheriff’s deputies and highway patrolmen took pictures from every angle and measured barely visible marks on the road, all while Jeremy’s once-beautiful red car had sat, impossibly crumpled, tangled with the body of the dead moose. Peggy and JP had come out. Mary Mac, thank goodness, had been traveling with friends, though the news deeply upset her when she returned. The sheriff—Sarah didn’t remember his name—had insisted on interviewing the girls alone. He hadn’t told her he wouldn’t pursue the assault charges; no, he had never been that blatant. But she’d understood the message, and she’d gone along.

Once when Noah was four or five, he’d been playing with a set of toy cars and smashed the red one into a dump truck with a gleeful little-boy shrill and Jeremy had nearly lost it. She’d managed to drag him out of the room, where Noah couldn’t see him, and the boy had never known there was a problem, but the man. Oh, the man. Jeremy had gone sheet-white, sitting on the edge of their bed with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

When she thought about that terrible day twenty-five years ago, it was the sounds she remembered most. But if she closed her eyes and peered into her memory, it was all there. And the clearest image, the one she could still see in living color, hear, smell, touch as if it were unfolding in front of her right now was when the EMT jumped into the back of the ambulance and pulled the door shut behind him, and his partner flicked on the lights and drove off, rushing Jeremy to the hospital. Had she honestly, truly known in that moment that she and Jeremy were meant to be together, that he had to survive so they could build a future?

Yes, she had.

“Oh, Jeremy,” she said out loud, her hands steepled against her lips. “What am I going to do?”

 WEDNESDAY

Nineteen Days

 9

The wind worked at the corners of the shutters on the front windows, picking them up and slapping them down. Picking them up and slapping them down. Pick, slap. Pick, slap. Slap, slap, slap.

Sarah struggled to sit up, the wool blanket slipping on the leather couch. Too dark to see the clock on the fireplace mantel, so she grabbed her phone, good for something. Half past twelve. That made it Wednesday, nineteen days since Jeremy’s death.

She’d have sworn she hadn’t slept a wink, if not for the dream. Even with her eyes open, she could picture the woman running along the lakeshore, silhouetted against the night sky, a bit of moon, a tree whipping in the wind. Who was it? Surely not herself—she was watching the dream unfurl. And the woman was light-haired. Or, in the way of dreams, had she been both watcher and watched?

No sign of the cat. She unwound the blanket and stood, then made her way quietly through the dark to the powder room. Holly had taken the other couch. Nic and Janine were sleeping in the cabin where Janine had holed up that first night—ever the Girl Scout, Nic had brought sleeping bags. More cleaning tomorrow. The dust clung to these old logs as if it wouldn’t have a life without them. Where did dust go when you wiped it up? She remembered Abby asking her that once while the cleaning woman was working, the two adults having no answer and trying not to laugh.

Finished, she turned off the light before opening the door, and was surprised to see a soft light glowing in the tiny windows of the kitchen doors. She hadn’t noticed it a few minutes ago. She picked her way around the furniture and across the room, then pushed open one swinging door.

In the light coming from over the stove, she saw Holly sitting at the table, long legs outstretched, one hand resting on the Formica table next to a half-empty glass of red wine. The other hand cradled the cat, who raised her head, spotted the newcomer, and lowered it.

“At least one of us can sleep,” Sarah said, nodding at the cat. She gestured to the wine. “Leave any for me?” Her stomach growled. Janine’s mac and cheese dinner had smelled great, but Sarah had only taken a few bites, pushing it around on her plate.

She poured a glass and found the leftover pasta in the fridge. Scooped a mound onto an ironstone plate—this one bore the familiar green and gray mountain scene, with the Rocky Mountain goat silhouette—and sat across from her sister.

“Oh, give me that.” Holly snatched the plate and stuck it in the microwave. The motor whirred and Sarah took a long sip of the cab, letting the jammy red wine roll over her tongue and slide down the back of her throat.

Beep. Holly popped open the oven, made a “yeow—hot!” noise, and set the plate in front of her. “Just because