Rebecca Frost

Henry felt, vaguely, as though he should have volunteered to do the dangerous part rather than simply pulling some clothes on and gingerly slipping into a pair of shoes. That was what people in movies did after they’d been revealed to be double agents or worse: risked their lives for the people they’d betrayed. Except that was movies, not real life, Besides, he might be morally gray, but that didn’t mean he was the bad guy. He hadn’t wronged anyone. Even though he’d made Alyssa, perfect customer service Alyssa, want to claw his eyes out with her bare hands. It was a good thing Truman’s reflexes were so fast, although it also seemed to indicate that Alyssa was telling the truth or that Alyssa had already told Truman the same lie.

Right now he couldn’t think of why Alyssa would tell him that specific lie, though, or why the hell Gladieux needed to pay for a cabin if she was actually working here all summer. Although … Henry turned to Alyssa, but she was at the door, watching, so he focused on Jane instead. “She said Emily’s not Annabeth Deschain.”

Jane blinked a very cold, reptilian blink. “Correct.”

“But she didn’t say Agatha isn’t.” He said it carefully, like a pronouncement.

This blink was suddenly hot and flashing. “Are you kidding me?”

“Gladieux’s paying for a cabin,” he insisted. “I’ve got a copy of the receipt back home. He’s paying for one, she said it’s not Emily, so unless you’re telling me it’s you …”

“You’re unbelievable.” She wouldn’t even look at him.

“All I’m saying is—”

Her hand went to his mouth in a rather violent shushing gesture, since Alyssa slipped out the door. Jane pointed that way with a sharp gesture of her head, telling Henry to go next.

Any protests about women first were useless. Let her stay back if she wanted. Henry went up to the door, took the edge of it from Truman, and really couldn’t get over the fact that Edgar acting as lookout really was like Edgar playing lookout in any number of costumes, with varying facial hair. It felt like a movie. Percy held a gun on him this morning and it all still felt like a movie.

Henry couldn’t see Alyssa’s door from where he stood, but apparently Edgar could, because his hand came up again and he beckoned without looking back at Henry’s cabin. Feeling a bit like an elephant that failed the audition for Fantasia, Henry left his cabin at a quick walk, trying to see and hear absolutely everything around him while not tripping on anything at his feet. The door to Alyssa’s cabin looked closed, but she opened it as he approached and he went straight to the telephone.

Alyssa glanced back at him, but she kept hold of the door so it wouldn’t shut, like the click would be loud enough for an unseen Percy to hear. “And?”

The cord looked fine, so he picked up the handset and realized he was holding his breath. “Nothing.”

She sighed, slouching a little even as her eyes stayed vigilant. “He cut off the main switchboard.”

“Would Percy know how to do that?” Shoot, that was more accusatory than calm.

“Jonathan and Lydia do.” Alyssa made a vague gesture before she opened the door again and Jane came in.

She beelined toward the phone, too, like she thought it wouldn’t have occurred to Henry. “Dead.”

“Yeah, I already tried.” He tried not to sound smug, but he didn’t try very hard.

“Well, it doesn’t seem very smart to have a whole phone system that can be shut off at the lodge,” she sniffed.

Alyssa shook her head. “Cut off, not shut off. We haven’t tried the lights, either. It could be a whole generator outage.”

Jane looked at the switch on the wall, but at least Henry didn’t have to stop her from trying it. She probably would’ve fought him, for her own sake as much as Alyssa’s, and done what damage she could with her sensible nails.

Truman came in, followed shortly by Edgar, and Alyssa locked the door. At least the shades were down, although Henry realized that he was slow in noticing that. Truman raised his eyebrows at Jane, possibly since she was still closest to the phone, and she shook her head.

Edgar looked around the room. “How many seats in your car?”

“Five, if three people squish in the back.” Alyssa opened a drawer in one of the end tables and grabbed her keys, holding them out to Truman. “061720. That unlocks my phone.”

Truman just looked at the keys. “You’re coming, too.”

“Agatha and Emily might not even know something’s going on.” Her tone didn’t change.

He took a step closer to Alyssa but still didn’t touch the keys. “You’re coming, too.”

Alyssa shook her head. “Get them through the woods and drive on out of here. Jane?”

“Yeah?” She was alert, but no longer a deer. There was something predatory. This Jane was a meat-eater.

“My phone’s in the glove box,” Alyssa explained calmly and clearly. “It’s probably still got some juice, but plug it in. 061720. Wait until you have bars. It’ll be a couple miles at least before it can support a call.”

She nodded. “061720.”

Henry cleared his throat. “Maybe I should stay—”

“No.” Alyssa didn’t even shake her head. “You get the fuck out of my sight.”

“Me?” Edgar offered and then, at her frown: “There are two of them. Emily and Agatha. They might not be together.”

“Stay,” Truman agreed with a nod. “If you’re willing.”

Edgar shrugged. “I’ve faced guns before.”

Sure, Henry thought. The same kinds you’ve handled: ones without real bullets in them. Except he wasn’t entirely convinced that this was what Edgar meant.

Alyssa turned back to Jane. “Tell them to come without sirens. If Percy hears them, I don’t know what he’d do, but he’d be warned.”

She nodded and looked at Truman. “Shall we?”

He hesitated, slowly reaching for the keys, but once he had them, he grabbed Alyssa’s shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss. Very action movie. All of it felt fake: the idea of danger. Splitting up, some of them going for help while others stayed.

If Henry was sure of the genre, he’d be able to figure out which course of action was safer, but there wasn’t time for that. Action movie kisses only lasted ages when they were shot in slow motion with an explosion behind them, and Truman gave Alyssa a long, hard look, nodded, and started toward the back door of the cabin. “Come on.”

“Hope you’ve got a good compass in your head,” Henry murmured.

Truman didn’t turn around. “You could always go back to your cabin. You’d probably be fine there.” The gun flashed into his mind again. It was possible that, once Percy had the information he wanted, he’d come back. Henry shut his mouth and ordered himself to keep it that way, no matter what.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Agatha (3), coming August 10

I grab for Truman’s hand, or maybe he grabs for mine, but I’m gripping his hard and feel like I could pounce on Henry and take him to the floor. “What do you mean, Aaron Gladiuex’s paid for her cabin?”

He shrugs, like of course an employee of Loon Lake would be concerned about an information leak. “Look, I’m a reporter, okay? I found the receipt. Aaron Gladieux paid for a cabin for July, for a single person, and basically it’s confirming he’s having an affair with Deschain.”

“You’re a reporter?” Jane snarls, although at least she doesn’t resist when Edgar takes the scissors from her and sets them aside.

“At this point I feel like it’s the least of our worries—” Henry starts in an absolutely aggravating just calm down tone.

“Emily isn’t Annabeth Deschain.” Truman’s hand shifts in mine to hold it more naturally, or maybe to ask me to stop trying to break his bones.

Henry blinks, then laughs. “You can’t know that. You don’t know who anyone is here.”

I take a deep breath, but fuck it. “I’m Alyssa Gladieux. Annabeth Deschain killed my baby sister. I’d know her anywhere.”

Edgar and Jane look at me with almost comically identical expressions: a raised eyebrow and then a sort of understanding nod, like it all falls into place. Henry, though, laughs again. “That doesn’t make any sense. You work here. Your dad wouldn’t need to pay for a month.”

“Wait, you came here specially because you thought one of us was Annabeth Deschain?” Jane counters. “You thought I could’ve killed a little girl?”

“No, of course not. I dismissed you straight off.” Henry’s still looking at me as he says it, which means he never even considered me in the first place. “You’re not really Alyssa Gladieux.”

“The point is, we have no idea why someone was trying to call Emily,” Edgar cuts in, “and why that phone call seems to have led to someone wanting all of our identities.”

“Or why Percy’s going around tying people up,” Jane adds, shaking her head. “Truman, do you always get such a bunch of law-breaking ruffians in the summer?”

“If we do, they hide it better. Lyss, your cabin phone’s probably still working, right?” he asks me.

I shrug. “I was in there most of the morning. Unless Percy’s broken in since.” It’s my turn to frown.

Truman groans. “Or done something to the main switchboard. I didn’t see anything, but that light was flashing, so we just took off for Jane’s.”

“Do we have any weapons?” Edgar wants to know before holding out his hands, palm up. “I’ve never fired real bullets. I’m just asking.”

“You’re not supposed to have any weapons,” Jane snaps. “It’s one of the things we signed.”

“Great, so Percy can get the rest of his stay revoked after he kills us,” Henry shoots back.

“Well, what did you bring that you’re not supposed to?” she retorts.

His hand goes to his chest before he realizes what he’s doing, but Edgar gets it first because he looks around and snatches up the pendant Henry usually wears. “Unbelievable,” he growls, examining it. “Recording device. Anything you’ve ever said to him is on the record.”

I slowly turn to look at Henry. “And you went after Emily.”

“What?” Honestly, he’s got such a dumb, blank look in his eyes.

“You zoomed in on Emily because you wanted to get her to confess it, didn’t you. Murdering Dani Jay.” I shake my head a little. “You just wanted to mine my family’s tragedy for even more headlines.”

“Alyssa—”

“She was a baby, Henry!” I’m almost vibrating. “Barely more than a baby, and they pulled her out of that hot tub—”

“Alyssa!” Truman’s arms go around me in a restraint, not a hug. “Not now!”

“Later,” Jane agrees, crossing her arms and keeping her eyes coolly fixed on Henry. “We’ll deal with him later.”

Truman doesn’t want to let me go. It’s like he knows I have half an eye on the scissors. “Your cabin, Lyss. We’ll stick together and all head to your cabin, okay?”

“And if her phone doesn’t work either?” Edgar asks.

He nods at me. “Her car keys are in her cabin, and her cell phone’s in her car.” And the parking lot’s quite a trek from my cabin if you take the path and the road, but if he can keep a straight line through the woods, he’ll get there quickly.

Well. If Truman decides to do that, he’s probably leaving the rest of us behind to barricade ourselves in and wait for the cavalry.

Edgar nods. “I’ll check and see if it’s clear.”

Um. Like it’s one of his roles?

He shakes his head at Truman when he tries to protest. “You’re the one who’ll have to go for the car if we need it, right? So we don’t want him picking you off if he’s out there.”

“I’m sorry, so you’re risking your life?” Jane counters, but Edgar shrugs and grins.

“I bet I’ve had more training than you.” But he frowns down at his brightly colored bathing suit. “Henry, I need to raid your closet.”

Henry doesn’t protest. He’s probably realized exactly how badly he’s outed himself. A reporter, really? Shouldn’t Jonathan have caught that? His real name’s got to be on a bunch of bylines. And the freaking necklace! I’ve seen him zoom in on Emily, engaging her in conversations, including …

It’s a good thing Truman’s right here, because I sort of sag against him. The dead kids conversation. The one I didn’t want Agatha walking in on. He used the dead kids to try to get Emily to confess to murdering Dani Jay. Dani Jay, who never got old enough to say my name right. She’d run to the door, somehow not falling despite being so tiny, little pudgy hands held out, yelling Yissa, Yissa! Christmases with her were the best since Mom died. Even that first year, when she was too young to have any clue what was going on. We all got together for it, and both of my brothers came home with their wives and kids, and it finally felt like family again.

This past Christmas was the epitome of hell on earth. Nobody came together. My brothers made excuses and didn’t even go with their wives’ families. They just didn’t want to come home. Dad and Dina separately told me it probably wasn’t a good idea to visit, and they never even got a tree.

Fucking Henry. We’re supposed to be figuring out how to heal around this wound that just won’t go away, and he came up here because he found out Dad paid for a cabin?

Wait. I look at Truman suddenly, because that part’s true. Dad paid for a cabin. It’s not just Percy and Jonathan and Lydia out there.

“We’ll call,” he says quietly in my ear, either reading it in my face or thinking of the same thing at the same time. “If your phone works, we’ll call.”

Except maybe we won’t, because if that call goes to 911, don’t they ask you to stay on the line until help arrives?

Edgar comes out in khakis that don’t quite fit, but he’ll blend in better. “I’ll signal for you to come if it’s clear,” he tells us, holding up his hand in the gesture he’ll use. “Alyssa first to unlock the door. One at a time. Don’t move until I say so.” He at least sounds like he knows what he’s doing, but Edgar’s used to knowing what everyone else around him is doing, too: hitting marks. Only shooting at the acceptable times. Not using real bullets. Truman nods, though, because apparently it sounds good to him. Edgar goes to the back door, opens it slowly, and makes sure I’ve got a hold of it and I’m watching before he slips out, trying to look everywhere at once.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Henry (3)

Dear Diary,

The lodge is quiet. Too quiet. I guess Lydia doesn’t always put more things out for lunch, and I’ve never looked back in the kitchen for her, so I don’t want to just go poke my head in because I’m feeling weird. And I don’t usually see Jonathan, since he’s more likely to be out picking up emails or grocery shopping or whatever.

I did see Truman and Edgar come in, but I don’t think they saw me. I was in here, trying to read some fluffy romance novel, and I guess they saw a message on the desk or something because they took off right away, basically just passing through. I’ve got no idea what that could mean, but my stomach keeps twisting, and I don’t want to eat lunch. Maybe I’ll just wait here until someone comes back.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Alyssa (2)

Being duct taped to the chair wasn’t so bad, but the last thing Percy did before he left—if he did leave, and right now Henry doubted his own senses—was put Henry’s own sleep mask over his eyes. It was a very high-quality sleep mask, so not a single bit of light got through and, try as hard as he could, Henry couldn’t shift it. He was trapped, and he was blind, and both the front and back doors opened only to his thumb, so how long would it take for someone to notice he was missing?

At this point he wasn’t even entirely sure time was passing. He struggled but wasn’t able to see if the tape actually cut into his skin, so he couldn’t tell if it was blood or sweat on his wrists. Everything was a mess, a jumble inside his head, and had he been so focused on Annabeth Deschain that he’d missed an even bigger story? A more dangerous one.

Emily was self-medicating with alcohol, but still in enough control that she hadn’t confessed anything to him. Still in enough control that she felt shame for throwing herself at him. She wasn’t pathetic, exactly, but she also wasn’t living the high life and happy with her actions, which would’ve made the better story. Defiant young woman, laughing in the face of the death she either caused or didn’t stop, so on and so forth. If you wanted to find someone pathetic at Loon Lake, you had to look in the Longfellow cabin.

He couldn’t be sure that he’d heard Percy leave, because he didn’t think he’d heard the door shut. Every single thing he thought he heard was clearly Percy coming back for him, to shoot him or cut his throat or who knew what, for reasons Henry didn’t understand.

That was the worst part, really. He could’ve understood if Emily came after him, because hey, he’d gone after her in the first place. It made sense. It wouldn’t be good, but it wasn’t dying for no reason. This, though …

“Henry?”

He jerked, but couldn’t move too much because of the duct tape around his chest and his arms and his wrists. Was that Percy’s voice? And, if it was Percy’s voice, why was it so quiet?

Were those footfalls, or just the blood rushing in his ears? There were things said in low voices he couldn’t catch, but those were voices, plural, and then maybe the sound of a door snicking shut, and, closer: “Jesus, Henry.”

The light flooding in made his eyes water, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that except blink and let them run.

“Phone’s cut,” someone reported from behind him as he tried to focus on the face in front of him.

“You’re not going to want to use your scissors after this.”

“I look terrible with bangs, anyway.”

Henry couldn’t make sense of it. The “Hold still” seemed to be directed at him, and he’d laugh if he wasn’t struggling to breathe, but the dark shapes shifted and someone started tugging on his left arm.

The panic flared, because maybe the tape was tightening, except suddenly it was looser, and there was a ripping sound and his wrist was free. “Start at the one on your mouth,” someone too grown-up and businesslike to really be Jane told him, and the slowly sharpening blurs moved again, and the process was repeated with his right hand.

The tape was stuck, and of course he hadn’t shaved since yesterday morning, and it felt like he was waxing his entire face and doing some sort of chemical peel besides. He nearly had to scrape gouges into his cheek to even get the end of the tape to come up, and when his right hand was free, he started in on the other side of it, too, while they worked on the rest of the tape holding him to this freaking solid heavy chair.

He sucked in a deep breath through his barely-parted lips as soon as he could and yanked a good portion of the tape, and his skin, off when he started coughing and needed the airway. It made his eyes well up again, but at this point crying in front of other people seemed insignificant compared to slowly suffocating in front of them. “Percy,” he finally gasped when he could, although it was strange they hadn’t asked him any questions yet. “It was Percy.”

“Where did he go from here?” someone snapped.

Henry blinked and shielded his eyes, wincing at the hanging duct tape still attached to his arm, because yes, that was Jane. “Where …?”

“He got me and I told him you overheard that phone call. Then he came to you.” She shrugged and put one hand on her hip. “Where did he go next?”

“I …” That dangling tape was really annoying, but the part still on him was stuck to his arm hair. Henry shook his head and looked around, trying to identify the others: Edgar, Truman and then, at the end, Alyssa. “I told him I’d only heard what you said, but then you had Jonathan take the call.”

Alyssa looked immediately at Truman, who shook his head. “I didn’t see either Jonathan or Lydia at the lodge. Just the emergency light flashing for Austen.”

“He has a gun.” Henry cleared his throat and repeated it more intelligibly: “Percy has a gun.”

Jane let out a low whistle. “He didn’t use a gun on me.”

“How did he get into your cabin?” Truman all but demanded.

She shrugged. “He knocked. I opened the door.”

“Same.” Henry shifted and winced. “Anyone know how to get duct tape off?”

“Olive oil or WD-40,” Edgar said promptly.

He blinked and decided not to ask any of the dozen questions that came to mind. “I don’t have either of those.”

“We’ve got both up at the lodge.” Truman looked over to Alyssa, who frowned and rubbed nervously at her mouth.

“Was that call for Percy?” Henry demanded, because hey, the man was running around with a gun, cutting phone wires.

“No,” Jane answered. “Alyssa already told me that.”

“Who was it for?” Edgar asked, and it was his tone—calm, like he wanted to know if it was going to rain later—that made them all turn to Alyssa expectantly.

“If he finds out, he’ll probably go after that person next,” Truman added softly.

Alyssa took a deep breath, shook her head, and said it: “Emily.”

“Ah.” Henry hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud until they all looked at him.

“Do you know something about this?” Jane demanded, and Henry saw she still held the shiny pair of scissors.

“Well.” Henry cleared his throat, but he’d already put his foot in it, and there was a man running around out there with a gun. “I’m pretty sure Emily’s Annabeth Deschain, and Aaron Gladieux paid for her month here.” They all stared.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Agatha (2)

I’m restless. The hammock isn’t doing it for me today. I don’t want to drive anywhere, but I don’t really want to stay here, either. I don’t know what I want, which I guess is pretty par for the course, but it’s really the first time I’ve felt so out of sorts at Loon Lake. Mostly it’s fine, if not good, but this? I don’t even know.

I don’t really want to think that I just need to catch a glimpse of Truman and then I’ll feel better, but it’s also occurred to me, so it’s the lodge. I’ll head up to the lodge, and pick up some lunch instead of staying in here, and maybe look for another book. Hercule Poirot’s starting to wear on me.

I just don’t know what’s up with me. Maybe it’s Truman. Truman coming over again last night and the two of us kissing, finally kissing, until he said he really should go and not rush things. Like we’re rushing things. I told him I don’t feel like we are, but he shook his head and then kissed my forehead. I don’t know if he escaped or slunk out or what. He left when I thought he could’ve stayed, but if he didn’t want to stay …

Pulling on a hoodie, I head out of my cabin and up the path toward the lodge. I’m off-duty, but habit is habit, and that means glancing up the little trails toward each cabin as I pass them in case I need to greet a resident or something. Jane’s door is ajar. It’s not open all the way, and it shouldn’t be, anyway, because there’s no screen door to cover the opening. The front door has a screen, but not this one.

I stop and look up and down the path, but there’s nobody. Henry’s cabin is back there, behind me, and Edgar’s is up ahead, but Edgar’s probably still out on the water and Henry should be knitting in his rocking chair. Jane hasn’t really shown a regular sort of schedule, but she also doesn’t strike me as the sort of person to be casual about her possessions. The doors have locks for a reason, and those locks mean only the cabin’s resident can get in.

Well. Unless someone lets them in. I look around again, more of a hesitation than making sure, and go up to knock on the door. “Jane?”

I tilt my head and listen, not opening the door any further just yet. I don’t really know why. I just wait, and straighten up a little when I think I might hear something. The sound someone makes when just awakened from a heavy sleep? “Jane?”

It’s a little louder this time, almost a moan, or the stifled sort of noise you might make if someone had a hand pressed over your mouth, either consensually or non. If it’s consensually, then I feel like I’d also hear other noises.

I put my thumb on the scanner on Jane’s cabin door and check my watch. I have ten minutes to thumb it again and stop the alert from going off at the lodge, which could be an eternity if something’s really wrong, but it’s supposed to give us enough time to check on the resident and be able to decide on an all-clear.

The light on the lock flashes yellow, so it’s logged, and I push the door open slowly.

It’s dark in the cabin. The lights aren’t on, and the blinds are down across the front windows. The noise comes again, and a squeak that’s almost what I half-expect, but the bedroom door’s mostly shut and it’s not a repeated creaking. I knock, because it’s a delay, and say her name again: “Jane?”

There’s that same muffled sound, but it’s not words. No go away, and no come in, but I push open the door and drop back half a step, because okay, this doesn’t look consensual. “Shit, just …” I’m in the main room before I can say anything else, reaching for the phone and one of the buttons, but my brain doesn’t have to pick between the lodge and 911 because the phone cord’s been cut.

My heart slams into my throat as implications jam up along my neural pathways, because that’s not going to help right now. Am I going to help right now? Hell if I know. I make sure the front door’s locked, and do a quick sweep of the big front room, and go back to close the back door and check the bathroom and the bedroom, but it’s just Jane on her side, eyes huge above the duct tape over her mouth, awkwardly bent because her hands and feet are tied to each other and secured to something that’s kept her from sliding off the bed.

“We’re alone,” I tell her. We are, but God, I’m useless. “I can’t call the lodge because the phone cord’s cut. I don’t want to just rip that off your mouth”—I have visions of it coming away with her lips attached, leaving her teeth bare and gleaming—“so I need a knife.” Except I don’t have a knife. It’s not something I carry with me.

Jane’s not struggling, and she waits for me to catch her eyes before twitching.

“The bathroom?” I guess, because it looks like she’s trying to gesture that way, and she nods. Okay, looking for a knife in the bathroom.

I check the medicine cabinet first, then the drawer under the sink, and bingo: not a knife, but some wicked-looking shears she probably brought in case she wanted to give herself bangs. I’d guess, at any rate, because why else would you have scissors in the bathroom? It doesn’t matter, because they’re sharp, and now it also doesn’t matter that she’s been struggling and the knots in the rope—who brought all this rope with them?—have tightened, because I can cut through it.

First I get the part somehow tied to the bed frame, and then the part keeping her ankles and her wrists close together. It’s digging into the flesh around her wrists, but thank God she actually seems calm. “Hang on,” I tell her, or maybe tell myself. “It’s really tight.”

She might chuckle. I probably didn’t have to tell her that part.

It occurs to me that this is seriously awkward and personal, but Jane’s not thinking about how I’m bent over her or any of the rest. I get the scissors between her wrists enough to snip through a strand of the rope, and she groans, pulling her wrists apart so she can roll onto her back. She holds up her right hand, which still has rope around it, and starts gently working at a corner of the duct tape with her left hand.

Once her wrist is free, albeit red and puffy, with marks of the rope on it, she uses both hands and I get the rope off her ankles, too. They maybe fared better than her wrists, but she’s in shorts so it’s still bare skin.

“Percy,” Jane manages, duct tape still clinging to her upper lip like a mustache, but she steels herself and slowly peels the rest of it off. She flings it onto the floor and wipes her mouth on her forearm, because she must’ve been drooling into the duct tape for a while and her chin’s shiny with spit. “It’s Percy.”

“Percy.” I realize I’m still holding the scary shiny scissors and put them on the nightstand. “When? Any idea?”

She nods at the bedside clock. “Just after nine.”

And it’s almost noon. “Okay.” It’s not okay. “Your phone wire’s been cut.”

“My phone wire?”

“We can’t call the lodge, but they should try to call us in …” I check my watch. “Three minutes. When they can’t, someone—Jonathan or Truman—will come down here.”

Jane blinks. “Why would someone try to call us?”

“I thumbed your lock,” I explain. “The system won’t let me in, but it sets up an alert at the main desk, and if I don’t thumb it again in ten minutes, they come check.”

She has to blink a couple more times. “That seems oddly specific. Do they expect you to get hurt?”

“Truman’s had to start giving a resident CPR.” I shrug, because he said it so offhandedly and I didn’t ask for many details.

Now she’s fully into a frown. “How in the world did he know …?”

“The resident wasn’t answering his phone, so he went down to do a wellness check.” Is this really what we should be concentrating on right now?

Shivering, she crosses her arms and quickly looks away from the rope. “And how did you know …?”

“Your door was left open.” No, I guess she wouldn’t know that, but it still feels like a delay.

Jane swallows. It looks painful. “I think he went to Henry’s next.”

“Henry’s?” I look in that direction.

“Yeah.”  Her cheeks flush and she stares at the floor. “I told him Henry overheard your conversation. On the phone. With the person after our names.”

Now it’s mine turn to blink, because I didn’t say anything that would’ve told him who the person was, or who he was after.

Jane keeps sneaking looks at me. “Was it someone calling for Percy?” I shake my head, because it’s the truth, but now there’s this new part. Percy went over to Henry’s. How much could Henry have overheard? And why, exactly, is Percy so paranoid that it was someone calling for him?

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Henry (2)

Dear Diary,

Things are oddly quiet today. I went up to the lodge to see if there was anything going on, or just to see, I guess, and it was kind of a ghost town. Edgar and Truman were out on the water, and Alyssa’s off again, but I didn’t see Jane, and Henry wasn’t knitting in his rocking chair. Actually, I didn’t see anybody, but I wasn’t really hoping to see Emily or Henry.

Or Percy. I kind of forget about him. He looks like the sort of guy who works on Wall Street, only maybe that’s just because I don’t know what people actually look like when they work on Wall Street. Something that means you wear a suit in a city, maybe. Accountant, or lawyer, or I don’t know. The kind of guy who doesn’t even have a pair of jeans for weekend grubs, and who didn’t think of buying any for this summer. A clueless sort of guy out of touch with the real world, I guess.

And seriously, nobody’s seen Mary since the 1st? Assuming, of course, that Jonathan saw Mary and this isn’t some sort of fake. Could that happen? Is there any reason why a man would pay Jonathan to pretend he had a wife?

Is there any reason Jonathan would agree?

He values our privacy. And he values privacy enough to have bought this place, and to run it, and keep it up year after year after year. People come for a month, learn to answer to the name he gives them, and go away again. Maybe he doesn’t even know if he actually helped any of them.

I’d say “Maybe he never helps anyone” but I don’t think that’s true. At the very least, Edgar looks like he’s doing better. One in six, huh, Agatha? Well, one in seven, if Mary’s both real and not dead.

Do you know what Loon Lake’s done for me so far? Made me both incredibly creative and paranoid.

Seriously, it’s dead around here. That’s not the best word, but it’s the right word. There’s just nobody, and it’s the first time I’ve really kind of wished there’d be somebody. Is that healing or boredom?

I guess I could call someone, because even if there’s nobody at the desk, it would have to be routed through to Jonathan or Lydia or someone, right? But it’s not Monday. He calls on Monday, and I’ll be damned if I call him twice before then. Once right after the whole panic, okay, maybe, but twice? This time because I just want to talk to someone?

Not even him. It could be anyone. Jane or Percy, whatever. Even Henry or Emily. Probably not Truman, because we both look at each other a little sideways, but if that’s my only shot …

Truman’s figured out who I am. I’m not sure how, because I really don’t look like any of the public photographs of myself anymore, or maybe I just don’t see it. But Alyssa told him her name, and he realized who I am, so he knows our connection. Why I’d be a little skeptical, or protective, or something. Why it matters how I look at him, I guess.

Alyssa’s a grown up. She’s not all that much younger than I am. She finished college and did her paid internship and opted for this, or maybe felt like she was forced into this, because the internship people didn’t offer her a job and her other applications didn’t pan out. Not that she ever really told me that much herself, but I got it second-hand. Which is why the Truman thing is so awkward, because first I’m not someone she’d tell, but I’m connected to someone she probably should tell, if it’s the real deal.

Jonathan talked about a wedding in May, but I’m not sure if Truman’s thinking that far ahead yet. Hell, I don’t even know Alyssa well enough to say if she’s the sort of person to jump with her whole heart or if the idea’s ridiculous, and I’m not going to ask someone who does know. We knew July had the potential to be awkward, but I told her we’d stick to professional during her working hours, and if I really needed her for something personal, I’d come by her cabin after 8.

How long has Truman been coming to her cabin after 8? Does he wake up there, too?

He’s almost got a California surfer dude vibe about him. It’s not just the kayaks and always being on the water. He’s tanned, and blonde, and lean, and easy-going. He’s not my type, but he’s definitely a type. A yeah I’m kind of surprised he’s single type.

Except he’s not single. He’s with Alyssa. Okay, I need to get out of my own head. I’ll do another circuit up to the lodge and pick up a book and take it out onto the porch if it’s not too bright to read. I’ll stay inside if it is, but I’ll at least be out in a public space. See if anyone comes to me.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Alyssa (1)

The pounding on Henry’s door jerked him out of a sound sleep five minutes before his alarm went off. Instead of the little jazzy tune from his phone, there was that insistent banging. He sat up in bed, the covers twisted around his legs, and tried to figure out where he was and what he was supposed to do. It didn’t stop, a constant thump, thump, thump that was just out of sync enough not to be a metronome.

Loon Lake Retreat. The cabin. And the pounding meant he should get up and go see who it was.

Henry looked down because he honestly couldn’t remember what he usually wore to bed: a T-shirt and boxers. Hell. The knocking meant he didn’t have time to put anything else on, so if Emily wanted to talk to him so damn badly—

The door swung into him as soon as he turned the knob enough for the tongue of the latch to clear, and Henry swore as the bottom caught his foot and tore one of his toenails. At first he didn’t even notice that he’d been shoved back against the wall, even though his head rebounded off the sheetrock, and there was a hand balled around the front of his T-shirt. “Who the fuck called here on Tuesday?” someone snarled.

Henry tried blinking. “Percy?”

The fist pushed into his chest, not a punch, but then only because the knuckles were already digging into his sternum. “Who … the fuck … called here … on Tuesday?”

The question didn’t make sense.

Percy took a slow breath through flared nostrils. “Jane heard you tell Truman you overheard the call. Alyssa’s not here for me to ask, so who the fuck called here on Tuesday?”

Tuesday? Was that Tuesday? And wait, Jane heard him say that? What, lurked outside the linen closet? And why hadn’t he seen her?

Well, okay, that last one was answerable: he’d stormed his way out of there without looking around. Maybe he could’ve bowled her over, or pushed her into the wall the way Percy—

Percy drew his arm back this time, pulling Henry up so he could slam him into the wall again. “Do I really need to repeat the question?”

Um. Okay. The phone with its two buttons, either of which might help him out, was in the main room. The two of them were in the little hallway separating the bathroom from the bedroom. The cabin door hadn’t closed all the way, but it wasn’t like Henry could make a run for it. At this point he was up on his tiptoes, and one of those toes felt like it was on fire. “I don’t know who Alyssa was talking to.”

Percy sighed and dropped his head, shaking it regretfully, but the pressure on Henry’s chest didn’t change. “Listen, Henry. Buddy.”

“I was in the chair by the fireplace, the thing was roaring, and I couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the phone,” Henry insisted, forcing himself to speak slowly not because he sounded more confident but because this conversation needed to be brought down a peg. “I know she kept saying ‘sir,’ and I think she said the resident he was trying to contact was also a guy, but mostly she just kept saying sir, leave me your contact information and she’d pass it on so the resident could correct the pass phrase.”

Percy’s eyebrow—why hadn’t he noticed before that Percy only had one eyebrow?—lowered in a scowl. “Then why did you tell Truman you knew who it was?”

“I didn’t tell Truman I knew who it was. I told him Alyssa knew who it was, but I don’t think he knew even that much. He said …” Henry shook his head a little. “He said she shouldn’t tell him. But.”

There wasn’t much space between them, but Percy leaned in all the same. “But?”

“Jonathan took the call.” Henry cleared his throat. “Alyssa told him it was a number, some sort of code, and he took it on the phone in the kitchen.”

Percy blinked and his eyes unfocused slightly, going to one side. “In the kitchen.”

“Yes.” Why was that the part that mattered? Jonathan knew who was on the other end of the phone. And hey, they didn’t actually have any proof that the whole revealing of their real names thing was because of that phone call. It came after, and honestly right now Henry couldn’t think of any other explanation for it.

Slowly Percy’s eyes came back to Henry’s face. “What did Alyssa say?”

“What—?”

Percy slammed him back again. “What did Alyssa say?”

“She didn’t have a chance to say much! She said hello, and asked for the pass phrase, and tried to tell the guy it was the wrong pass phrase so she’d have to give his name to the resident so he could get the right pass phrase, and she picked up a sticky note or something, but she never wrote anything down. I guess the guy raised a stink, because that’s when—no, wait.” Henry shook his head again, hating how he recoiled in anticipation of another blow. “The guy, the caller, probably asked to talk to a manager, because she said something like certainly, sir, and put him on hold, and then Jonathan came out and she told him the code and he took the call in the kitchen.”

Even though he wasn’t moving, Percy’s chest heaved like he couldn’t catch his breath. “What happened then?”

“Then?” Henry blinked, but that wasn’t him being stupid or stalling. It was his brain struggling to keep up, and that brain was going to suffer another collision if Percy thought otherwise. “Then you came in.”

“I came in?” Percy repeated, and he really should’ve brushed his teeth this morning.

“Wait, no—Jonathan called Alyssa into the kitchen. That’s when you came in. To get your email,” Henry explained, trying not to babble.

“To get my email.” He echoed the words slowly, like he wanted to give Henry a chance to correct them.

So it was fine when Percy was the one repeating everything? “You came in, and told me they usually leave a radio at the desk when it’s empty, and that’s when Jonathan came out and got you your email. And you left again.”

Percy’s breath came in little gasps. “I left again.”

“And then Jonathan left, and Alyssa went back to the desk,” Henry rushed.

“Right after I left again,” he mused.

“Yes.” That was it. That was all he knew. If he relaxed even slightly, it would be into Percy, and he really, really didn’t want that.

This time his eyes drifted to the other side. “And they called us all together … hours later.”

“Yes.” Hours later. Hours in which something else might’ve happened to make Jonathan call them together and tell them the news. Or hours in which Jonathan might’ve been contacting his lawyer and figuring out if he needed to call them together.

This time Percy looked down and, after trying to figure out if this was a bad idea, Henry did, too. The nail seemed to be completely gone from the big toe on his right foot. If there was any of it left, it was under all that blood. Percy shifted his own foot back, away from the chance of getting it wet, and took a steadying breath that seemed to pull in more evenly. “Okay.”

This was not exactly a situation that seemed to be okay.

“Okay.” Percy’s other hand—why hadn’t Henry realized that he hadn’t seen Percy’s other hand?—came out from behind his back and pointed a gun at Henry’s head. “Okay.” Yeah, this was very much not okay.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Agatha (1)

Aloysuis Manoah Truman was eight years older than his younger brother, Absalom Moses Truman. The older brother went by Al; Truman’s used his last name since he was old enough to talk. And I’m pretty sure Truman idolized Al. Basically everyone idolized Al, until suddenly they couldn’t.

The articles I Google wallow in the details because of the stark contrast: Eagle Scout, church volunteer, worked at a non-profit … and then one day, for apparently no reason, killed his wife and her twin sons.

It doesn’t make for an easy read. Even his Wikipedia page sinks to yellow journalism. The bare facts alone are bad enough. The two boys were bled dry, cleaned and swaddled and placed together in the same bed. Crystal had far more wounds because she fought back, and she was left in a heap on the kitchen floor with a red-checkered tablecloth thrown indifferently over her body.

There’s a tablecloth like that here. Emily’s borrowed it for lunch.

The story Al told the police, without a lawyer present, was that one of the twins was the antichrist, because their father was the devil, and Crystal was the devil’s whore. No, he didn’t know that when he married her, but such things always came out. There were ways of telling.

Al told them he knew that they thought what he did was wrong, even though he knew it was right. He was ready to accept the punishment man’s law set forth for him.

I scroll a little further, wanting at least the full overview if not the specifics, because the more I know, the less I have to ask Truman. He told me his full name, and how he’s never used it, and his brother’s name, and that’s enough. That’s plenty. I’m at the library Googling it and not exactly working up an appetite for lunch.

The speculation is that, if Al hadn’t killed himself, he would’ve been found not guilty by reason of insanity and then confined to an institution for the rest of his life. He very calmly laid out what he did and why, and told the police that he knew they wouldn’t understand. There are recordings, because police tape statements so they can catch you in a lie later. I ignore them.

Once I’ve read to the bottom of Al Truman’s Wikipedia article, I click the address and do a search for Annabeth Deschain instead. I don’t want the Wikipedia article this time, so I opt for the news.

There’s nothing within the past couple weeks, which is good. They tried to drag it out after it was announced she wasn’t going to trial, but there aren’t even any photos of her, so they couldn’t keep posting those and writing new things around them. She’s disappeared from the public eye, and maybe a couple reporters tried to get interest back up again by saying we have no idea if it’s her decision or if something’s happened to her, but nobody really cares if something happens to Annabeth Deschain. There wasn’t enough evidence for a trial, but the public court totally returned a verdict of guilty.

It’s not time to think about lunch yet, so I sit here wondering if there’s anything else to Google. Not even necessarily something more uplifting. I’d take anything. Something to tie me to the real world, except I’ve been drifting for a while, thanks. I don’t even have Snapchat, and it seems like everyone my age has Snapchat.

Or maybe we’re just a little too old for Snapchat. Too young for Facebook. Heaven forbid we exchange phone numbers.

I Google Absalom Moses Truman because I don’t know what name he uses for his art, and I get nothing. Well, nothing that directs me to his work, or tells me what medium I’m looking for. Oil paintings? Ceramics? I don’t even know what they sell around here.

I know he’s in that one gallery up in Calumet, on fifth street, so I search that instead and learn it’s called Gallery on Fifth. Excellent. It’s actually right near a coffee shop so I might as well start a slow trek back up the Keweenaw, hitting up the gallery and Keweenaw Coffee Works, and there’s a cat at the florist a block or so over, so I can stop in and pet her, too.

The weird part about these days off is how long they seem to stretch. Am I bored? Have I gotten in most of my relaxation already, even being on call behind that desk? Or is it because it’s a whole day without Truman?

Mondays and Tuesdays are pretty bad, too, come to think of it. And not even for the usual Monday reason, since Saturday’s really my Monday. It’s the lack of Truman.

Okay, Alyssa, be smart, I lecture myself as I sign out of the computer and get up to head to my car. You meet someone in a stressful yet isolated situation, who seems to be going through his own stress, and you form connections simply because it’s the only connection there for you to form.

Except Truman’s been at Loon Lake for years, and it’s not entirely a joke about Jonathan and Lydia trying to fix him up with a coworker. For most people, one season’s all they can take … which probably at least partly explains why Truman’s never latched on to any of them. Tiny house in the U.P. year-round, huh? I can’t say I’m entirely surprised, from what I know of him. Wait, how much do I know of him?

More than I’ve known of other coworkers, honestly. You do the banter at work, maybe talk about meeting up for drinks, and never actually do. Then they’re relieved because it’s just something you say without having to follow up on it, like when they ask How are you? and you have to say something like Fine, even when you’re obviously not fine.

Truman calls me out on pretending to be fine around him. Around the residents it’s a different story, because you do the act: the customer is always right, in all matters, forever and ever amen. But when it’s just the two of us he stresses honesty, in emotion if not full-on confession of the past. Like the residents, we can choose to share as much as we please. Apparently this is the first summer Truman’s ever actually wanted to share anything.

He walked me back to my cabin the first night after orientation, and we sat on the stoop because it was pretty nice out, and I really didn’t know anything about this guy, and there weren’t any residents to walk by and see us. Conversation was easy, and I wasn’t used to how late the sun set, so it went on for a while. The next evening he suggested we grab a game, and that really set the tone for the whole summer: the two of us, hanging out and talking about almost everything. Now we’ve shared our names, and while that’s not everything, it’s pretty darn close. Our names come with recognizable backstories, and those backstories are full of trauma, and maybe we’ve Googled each other now but he still comes by and I’m not going to turn him away tonight. I’m going to kiss him tonight. The thought makes me smile and blush like I’m back in middle school and it’s my first kiss, and that’s probably a good sign, because it’s been a long, long time since I’ve had something to really make me smile.

---

Cold Comfort: Friday, July 12, 2024 – Henry (1)

Dear Diary,

I think Emily has a drinking problem.

Isn’t that something you’re supposed to see sooner than this, especially if it’s chronic? And, if she does have a drinking problem, shouldn’t she have picked a retreat that limits her access to alcohol? Here any of us can walk in at any hour of the day and take what we want. Hell, we started by requesting what we wanted, with the understanding that Jonathan will buy us more and top up the supplies as needed. It’s not like she’s driving, and I’ve never seen her out in a boat, but …

She’s upset today. She’s having a bad one, and we all know it, so it means any of the rest of us not having such a good time can’t break down and try to take some of it for ourselves. Do you think I’m being cynical, diary? Because that’s a large part of how this past year or so has made me feel: first one to cry claims the day. Maybe that’s also how Aaron feels. He’s just never the first one to cry.

Loon Lake is definitely not set up to run an intervention on a resident who could really use one. We all just met eleven days ago, so we’re not going to be able to convince each other to put the bottle down or any of the other things people need interventions for. Seriously, has she been drunk all this time?

Aaron would call me naïve, I think, for being this shocked. He’d say I have a sheltered view of alcoholics. They’re all old people, probably homeless, and definitely in need of a shower and a laundromat. They think they’re hiding a bottle when everyone can see it and ignores it. And they’re also probably white male writers, while I’m at it. My only exposure to alcoholism has been the college classroom, and how’s that for naïve?

The age gap isn’t always a big deal, but when it is, it’s the Grand Canyon. He used to joke that nothing bad had ever happened to me, so I didn’t have to grow up, but … well. The entire world knows how that ended.

I’m not sure that Aaron really had anything bad happen in his life until Eileen died. They met young (when they were both young) and married young and she worked to support his MBA so then of course it was fine for her to quit when he made enough to support all of them (they had kids young, too) because she’d been there from the beginning. She did the whole “believing in him when no one else would” thing, so it was fine. Eileen never got accused of gold-digging.

They didn’t have a nanny when their three were young, either. By the time they could’ve afforded one, the last kid was already in school, and Eileen quit so she was there for them over the summers.

I’ve often wondered how much those kids saw their dad when they were little. They had to juggle them between Aaron and Eileen when one was working or studying or whatnot, but there were babysitters and church summer camps. Aaron said it gave them time, but not always time to be together. So that’s one thing he wanted to change: making sure we had time to be together, as grownups, so we could refresh and refuel.

Does that sound cruel? Like he didn’t want to be in Dani Jay’s life any more than he’d been in the other three? They’re all adults now (Ken’s older than I am) and they seem to have an okay relationship with him, but he’s always put down any gaps to Eileen’s death. The cancer. The guys are married, starting their own families and all, but his youngest …

I’ve wandered far off the point because I don’t really want to stay on the point. I tried mentioning it to Jane, but she’s done with Emily. Snubbed for the last time, I guess. And I can’t just say something to Henry, because I’m pretty sure something weird happened with Henry. The sort of thing that means she drank, what, even more than usual?

You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. It’s cruel to force yourself on people who don’t want any part of you. That’s the gospel according to Aaron, but hey, I’ve already wondered if maybe he didn’t offer himself enough at first, so his kids weren’t used to having a dad-shaped space in their lives, anyway.

Maybe I’ll tell Jonathan. About my concerns, not about the rest of this. Heaven knows I can’t even keep my own life together so, what, now I’m trying to keep Emily’s together? God help me, I need a drink.

---

Cold Comfort: Thursday, July 11, 2024 – Alyssa

Henry hadn’t had a chance to put his necklace back on at any point yesterday, but at least it was in his cabin, and that’s where he and Emily went. He got it off the charger before she saw it while the two of them were still discussing Stephen King. Man, he’d faked his way through that conversation like a gold medalist. He’d hit the button to start recording, and she hadn’t asked what he was doing.

The problem, of course, was that they’d moved far past Pet Sematary and exhausted Emily’s recitation of dead kids. He couldn’t exactly ask her to repeat the gems, so all he got was useless. After she’d left—after she’d found the vodka, laughed at him for not drinking any of the orange juice, had a strong drink, started making out with him, and suddenly turned embarrassed and excused herself—he listened to it, anyway, but there was nothing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had an interview subject’s tongue in his mouth, but it was the first time when she didn’t know she was an interview subject. And … well. It wasn’t good. He had to wonder if maybe she should be in AA, and how much she’d been drinking before she made it to his cabin, and if she’d remember any of that when she woke up this morning.

Her voice wasn’t slurred. That was part of what had him going. She seemed in control, and witty, and basically the same sort of Emily he’d seen every other time, whether or not she admitted there was alcohol in her cup. But maybe that was a mask, and it cracked, and she fled.

Henry didn’t exactly feel good about things just now. He’d made her crack, at least a little, but he didn’t have enough yet. He had to keep going. Keep pushing. Even what she’d said, the things he hadn’t gotten recorded, weren’t enough, so there was at least that small consolation. He didn’t have to try to recreate something that was perfect, and maybe he knew a few more buttons to push, and he’d be better prepared to stop her from fleeing.

Nobody knew why he was here. He hadn’t told a soul what he was after. He didn’t want anyone to get in ahead of him and get the scoop, but that also meant he hadn’t actually run the idea by anyone, either to see if it sounded like a good idea or for another point of view as far as ethics. Henry didn’t want to think about ethics.

Look, once you decided to drown a toddler, the ethics skewed. Just because the court couldn’t get enough evidence to put you on trial didn’t change your actual guilt. There was a dead child, not one of Stephen King’s fictional children but one with flesh and blood, and once you decided to murder, you didn’t deserve the same care and consideration of someone who’d never killed a child.

None of his other interview subjects had committed murder. And none of the ones who’d kissed him had stopped until the deed was done, sometimes more than once. Usually, by the time the make-out session started, he was through with them.

He’d opted to pick up a sandwich before normal dinner time, not because he wanted to avoid Emily in case she showed, he reminded himself, but just because he wanted a nice, calm evening without worrying about timing or leaving his cabin. Now it was morning. It wasn’t raining. And this was the latest he’d stayed in his cabin since coming to Loon Lake. Was he in too deep? Not deep enough? How much did Emily want from him before she gave anything back?

He was almost out of coffee. If he went to the lodge to knit some more, like usual, he could also pick some up. When Henry found himself eyeballing how much was left and trying to argue that he really didn’t need any more for tomorrow, he grabbed his knitting bag and stalked out of the cabin, leaning into a wind that didn’t exist and stomping his way up toward the lodge.

Alyssa wasn’t at the desk, and it threw him. She should be there, and maybe she wouldn’t comment on his general attitude, but he could try to start up a conversation or at least mention the coffee or just engage with a human being, instead of looking at one half of a walkie-talkie set like he’d never seen one before.

It was Thursday. Alyssa didn’t work Thursdays and Fridays. Truman did, but it was still morning, so he was probably out on the water with Edgar, even though Edgar knew his way around the lake already and didn’t really need a guide anymore. If he needed a lifeguard, then fine, but the weather was clear, the lake was glass, and there was a walkie-talkie instead of a human being at the desk.

Why did that bother him so much? Of course she needed a weekend. The residents didn’t get weekends, because the whole month was supposed to be a weekend.

“Henry.” Jonathan came out of the laundry room, wiping his hands on a towel. At Henry’s frown, he nodded at the webcam above the door. “You have mail. Anything else I can help you with?”

“Mail?” His brother wouldn’t email him. There was just no way—

The paper Jonathan handed him was torn from a notebook, folded over, and handwritten. It wasn’t an email that was printed out. It was, he learned as he opened it and looked at the end of the short message, from Emily.

Jonathan waited with a slight smile on his face and it took Henry a moment to realize there was a second part to what he’d said. “Coffee. For my cabin. I’m almost out.”

With a nod Jonathan gestured to the linen closet. “Right in here.”

That was how Henry found himself alone in the linen closet, next to the shelf with the coffee, reading Emily’s note. Henry: I really must apologize for how I acted yesterday. I don’t think we should see each other again in any capacity. I hope you understand. Emily

That was it. Short and sweet. It wasn’t quite the long-term girlfriend who broke up with him in a text message, but what else could he expect? There wasn’t going to be any sort of explanation for her behavior, because an explanation would involve her past and the kinds of things she came here to hide. His scoop.

If she stopped talking to him, he had nothing. But, if he kept trying to get her to talk, he’d be a predator. He didn’t have enough. That’s why Henry stood here in the freaking linen closet, next to the coffee, with Emily’s note in his hand: he didn’t have enough. He was close, so close, but he might as well have nothing. He might as well have saved his money and stayed home.

The door opened and a startled Truman stepped back. “Oh, sorry,” he said automatically, before frowning, because Henry stood in a freaking linen closet by himself.

“Did Alyssa tell you who called right before we got told someone’s after our real names?” It was out before Henry meant to ask it.

Truman blinked.

“She answered the phone,” Henry continued, “all professional, and she kept repeating something about how the caller had the pass phrase wrong, so if she could just have his name she’d let the resident know to tell him the correct one, but then Jonathan took the call and then we’re all being summoned because someone’s after our real names.”

Truman licked his lips.

“And I figured she told you,” he added, trying to make it offhand, but he’d seen them together even before the kiss he figured he’d interrupted. Although until now Henry just assumed they were keeping it cool and distant in front of the residents, and not that it was new and tenuous.

Truman shook his head. “I don’t think you understand how seriously we take our responsibilities here.”

“You’re just the summer help!” he protested.

“And Loon Lake is a summer retreat.” God, that was just flat and calm.

“That’s not …” Henry slashed one hand through the air. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“And maybe we hold ourselves to higher standards than you do,” he said quietly.

Well, that was a given.

Sighing, Truman reached past him to grab two clean towels. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“You didn’t help me with anything,” Henry pouted before he could stop himself.

Truman paused, cocking his head. “Have you tried helping yourself first?” Henry stuffed the note from Emily in his pocket and grabbed for a package of his coffee before shoving his way out, ignoring whatever Jonathan tried to say to him as he left the lodge and headed straight back to his cabin.

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Cold Comfort: Thursday, July 11, 2024 – Agatha