Rebecca Frost

It’s peak color season here in the U.P., so the roads are still crowded even though the temperature clearly says it’s not summer anymore. Truman and I went up Brockway Mountain a couple days ago so he could show off the view, and I was glad he drove, both because of how steep and twisty the road was, and how many other cars there were. After a summer at Loon Lake, I’m suddenly traffic shy.

We officially closed everything yesterday. That wasn’t part of my original contract, but since I wasn’t going very far, and since Jonathan considers Truman and me a package deal now, I helped make sure the water was shut off, and the linens taken to the van for winter storage, and the mattresses zipped up in plastic covers, and the windows shuttered. All these little things mean that, next May, we shouldn’t have to do too much to get things ready for the June residents. I didn’t have much of my own stuff to pack up, since I’d only come with the single car and for the season, anyway, but now the rest is arriving.

Truman’s inside, installing the shelves I helped him measure and cut and assemble and varnish. He’s dealing with it by keeping busy. I’m dealing with it by hovering out here, in the circular drive that covers more than just a single A-frame house. He winterized the one, but he owns them all. It’s a sort of Loon Lake in miniature, which at this point means that one’s his studio and slightly more survivable in the winter than the remaining two, which are good for storage, as long as what we’re storing doesn’t care about being below freezing. At least it means I don’t need to keep paying for the storage space downstate.

The U-Haul truck pulls in slowly and carefully, and I stand up from the outdoor bench, even though I’m already clearly visible. Dina waves from the passenger seat. She’s been keeping me updated with texts on their progress, but Dad’s concentrating too hard on driving for me to really get a first glimpse. She told me this was his suggestion, but the only time he reached out to me directly was a text to double-check the combination for the lock on the storage stall.

The way he pulled in means he’s on the far side of the truck, anyway, so she’s the one who pops out first and comes up to hug me, rocking me back and forth but not saying anything. Maybe she’s not entirely clear on Dad’s motivations, either, but I make sure to catch her left hand and raise my eyebrows at the ring. I knew it would be there, since she emailed me a photo and Truman and I already told Jonathan we need that weekend off next June, but it’s especially sparkly in person.

That’s what Dad catches: my expression, and her laugh, and then he’s here, too, hugging both of us. It might suck, because it’s not like I get my own hug, but it’s also the first Dad hug I’ve had in months.

The real test is when he squeezes us to tell us to let go and Truman’s here, too, in his carpenter jeans with the hammer actually stuck through the hammer loop. Dad holds out a hand for a shake, which Truman accepts, and I try not to cross my arms, but Dina’s already noticed. She’s having trouble controlling her eyebrows, which might be good, because at least it’s a sign I didn’t tell her about it. Maybe that’s what Dad notices first, because he frowns a little, and tries to follow her gaze and ends up reaching for my hand. My left hand.

Dad looks at my wedding ring and then my face, raising an eyebrow. “Alyssa Truman?”

I nod. I mean, I guess it’s big news, but come on. The man’s only asked for my lock combination in months, and the last time he left it wasn’t exactly on the best of terms.

“Couldn’t wait until May?” Dina teases, taking my hand from Dad so she can examine it, too. We got matching bands from a local—well, she’s still in the U.P., so that’s close enough to local—jeweler: a silver base with a horizon line and two conifer trees in copper.

“Actually, it was more based on when Edgar could come and be a witness,” Truman tells her. “But yeah, it was at Loon Lake.”

Dad blinks. “Wait, you actually have his autograph on a marriage license?”

“Pretty sure when it’s official it’s called a signature, but yeah.” I shrug. Edgar—seriously it’s hard for me to think of him any other way—and Truman have stayed in touch, and the three of us have even Facetimed.

Dad nods and slips an arm around my shoulders to give me a half-hug. “So, I don’t need to lecture you on having no legal standing on this property?”

“That’s the sole reason,” Truman agrees. I think he meant to make Dina laugh, but Dad surprises both of us.

“All right, come on,” he mock-orders, heading for the back of the truck. “All you young whippersnappers can do the unloading.”

Dina rolls her eyes and sighs like she’s supposed to, and Truman looks at me quickly for reassurance. Yes, Dad’s letting it go because we didn’t make a big deal of it and not because he wants to dismiss it. Then Truman raises his eyebrows and whistles once Dad rolls up the back of the truck. “This is, uh, really organized for you.” I don’t have a ton of larger items, since I was renting a partially furnished apartment, but the rest of my stuff is in neatly labeled, identically sized Rubbermaid bins.

“Yeah, you’ll notice the handwriting is Dina’s,” I point out, because she’s the one who insisted on organizing my packing. It didn’t really matter how the bins went into the storage space, since we figured all of it would come out in one go at the end of the season, but she made sure to be specific on the side of each one, to the point where any bins topped off with yarn have the weight and dyer listed on the side, too.

“I see I don’t get any credit for the tubs,” Dad pouts, climbing up into the truck despite his comments and starting to unstrap the ones on top.

“You didn’t sign the tubs,” Dina consoles him, reaching up for the first one. “You guys have beer waiting, right?”

“On ice,” Truman agrees.

Dad and Dina bicker, sort of, and make a game of it: how many bins unloaded equals how many beers. Whether Dina’s short tour of our house—short, because there’s really not much too it—counts as a break or not, because breaks can only be taken after a certain number of bins, too. But beer breaks don’t count as breaks, because that’s Dad stacking the deck in his favor. He’s counting every bin he hands out, but we only get to count the ones we individually carry inside.

The place I was renting had a bed frame but no mattress, so the mattress is the biggest item we have to get through the door. And Dad was smart about the size of the bins, which have built-in handles, so even the ones that are mostly books aren’t too bad to carry. Some things get stacked up inside the winter house, which makes it feel crowded, and others in the next A-frame over, but luckily I don’t have a ton of stuff. We don’t even double up on all that much. It’s mostly kitchen supplies, but that’s fine, because then we won’t have to wash plates that often. I wasn’t tiny house-ing it, but I was definitely internshipping it.

We’ve got the sliding door open for some air and Dad’s declared it time for a celebratory beer so the four of us are in the house, the two of them standing because they spent all day driving and the two of us standing because it would feel weird to sit when they’re not. Dad drinks most of his beer in a single pull and then starts admiring the new shelves. Dina gives me a boys will be boys look when he compliments them, and Truman says they just went in and they start discussing the finer points of carpentry as they apply to bookshelves.

It’s a little overenthusiastic on Dad’s part, maybe, but Tru’s not going to call him on it. They’re both negotiating how things stand when we’ve only known Dad was willing to do this for a little over a week, and Dad had no idea about the status of our relationship aside from me moving in.

Dina leans against the kitchen counter next to me. “So tell me more about the wedding.”

I snort and look down at my finger again. “There’s not much to tell. Edgar joked he could make it back, Jonathan said he knew a guy …” I had my birth certificate because I wasn’t just going to leave that in storage, so we went to the courthouse to make sure we’d have the license when Edgar could swing by, and bingo. “Edgar and Lydia witnessed.”

“And you had it where, exactly?” she wants to know.

“Okay, you realize legally you only need like two minutes, right?” I laugh. “We just stood by the water and said ‘I do’ when he told us to.”

“And exchanged rings,” she reminds me.

I nod at her engagement ring. “You picked yours out already?”

“Oh, you know your dad.” She fiddles with her stone. “He just wants something plain.”

Except his and Mom’s rings were yellow gold, and Dina’s engagement ring is white gold. Or maybe platinum. “And you?”

She moves her hand to watch the myriad little diamonds sparkle around the giant emerald. Neither she nor my dad was born in May, but it’s her favorite gem. “Probably plain. You’re not supposed to out-bling the engagement ring, are you?”

I shrug, because I don’t have an engagement ring. “Pretty sure you get to pick for yourself.” That is, of course, the reason I don’t have an engagement ring.

Dina nods slowly, still looking at it.

“Oh, on that subject.” Dad turns to Truman. “We’d like you to be an usher.”

Truman blinks, but I’m not entirely sure what’s going on in his head. “That’s going to involve a tux, isn’t it?”

“You have to dress up,” Dina argues, grinning and nudging my shoulder with her own. “Because you’re going to be a bridesmaid. I insist.”

“You know Truman wore shorts to his own wedding, right?” I point out, but I nod.

“Wait, do you have photos?” Dad asks. “I mean, Loon Lake?”

Truman nods. “Jonathan took them himself. Here.” He points them to the correct wall, since Jonathan used a film camera, and developed them in his own darkroom, just to make sure he wasn’t breaking any of his own rules.

There are a grand total of five. In the middle, as the biggest, is one of the wedding kiss. It’s the real one, nothing staged after. I didn’t realize Jonathan took it, but I’m glad he did. Then there’s one of Truman and Edgar, one of me and Lydia, one of all of us—including Jonathan, taken by the officiant—and a posed shot of Truman and me, so you can see our faces better.

Dina taps her chin. “I don’t know, Aaron.”

He sighs. “We’ve already put money down on the venue, the flowers, the food, and your dress. We can’t switch now.”

Truman slips his arm around my shoulders and kisses my temple. “I thought it was perfect.”

I smile and kiss him, then turn back to my dad. “You two probably want to get to the hotel and shower before dinner, hey?”

“Shower sounds good,” he agrees, finishing his beer and trading me the U-Haul keys for my own, since they’re just leaving that here and will take my car back into Calumet. “Hey, honey.” Dad pulls me into a hug, one just for me with both arms this time. “Congratulations, kiddo.”

I close my eyes and squeeze back. “Thanks, Dad.”

When he lets go, Truman’s arm slips around me again. This time when they drive off, it’s only for a few hours.

My husband kisses my temple. “Looks like we should start unpacking.”

I grin up at him. “Option B?”

He laughs and agrees: “Option B.”

---

THE END

It’s raining, so I’m out on the porch of the lodge, but not in one of the rocking chairs. I’m just on the boards, leaning against the side of the building, knees drawn up, sleeves down over my hands and hood pulled over my head.

When they said they wanted to ask us about Percy and Mary and Emily, they really meant they wanted to ask Jonathan. Basically, all my interactions with the residents get recorded, and that basically only applies because Agatha slash Dina came to my cabin a couple times. Everyone else comes to the lodge and looks to see who’s at the desk. It’s my job to do what the guests ask of me. It’s not my job to screen them or psychologically analyze them.

The door opens and someone steps out, but I’m kind of hidden down here, so …

It’s Truman. He’s not even surprised to see me like this. He just moves one of the rocking chairs out of the way so he can sit down next to me, arms resting on his own knees, and he sighs. I fully expect to hear the crack as his head drops back against the wall. “They told you?”

“They’re all dead.” He’s left a space between us, which means he hasn’t invaded mine.

Truman wrinkles his nose. “They tell you how?”

“No.” I flick my eyes over to him but otherwise don’t move. “How’d you find out?”

“Push notification.” He has to shift around to pull out his phone—carrying it while on Loon Lake property, tsk tsk—and opens up to photos. “Go through those.”

Those happen to be screenshots of an article explaining how Ferguson and Sype were traced to an abandoned house near Champion, wherever that is. It doesn’t explain how police got there, because the focus is on the firefight that happened as soon as they arrived, with Ferguson opening up and the police responding in kind.

There’s a video, but these are screenshots. “Did you watch the video?” I ask, swiping to the next photo.

Truman nods.

“And?” I prompt.

He licks his lips. “The window blows out, and they start shooting back, but Mary tries to come out of the door and you can see her hands are up and empty. No bandages over her face.”

I shudder. The comparisons to Bonnie and Clyde seem too apt. “Emily?”

“Not in the video. Found dead inside.” He swallows. “It says her corpse was riddled with police bullets.”

I frown and skim further, looking for a detail. “She was dead for hours.”

Truman nods once. “Yeah.”

“Did they find any of the money?” Is there actually any evidence that yes, it was them?

Truman nods slowly. “About half. They figure it was one of their stashes, just in case.”

“And now.” I hit the home button to get out of the photos. “They’re just dead.”

He frowns. “What are you doing?”

I shrug one shoulder. “You don’t have my cell phone number.”

Truman watches me put it in. “Why do I need your cell phone number?”

“Jonathan gave me one of those ‘If there’s anything I can do’ offers. I figure we need a day off together, and I might lose you in Walmart.” I hold it out so he can take it back.

“Uh.” He accepts his phone. “You think I’m going to Walmart?

Yeah, this is all just a distraction. “What did you want to tell me before you saw that push notification?”

Truman blinks a few times and settles back in, looking out at the rain but not quite as far away from me as he used to be. “Okay, there’s kind of a list.”

I nod.

“I’m intimidated by your dad, which I shouldn’t be, because you so clearly put your foot down and chose me over him. Which Camille tried to argue, because she said maybe you chose staying here over going home, but I told her no, I heard the whole thing, and that was clear.”

I nod again.

Truman takes a slow breath. “I keep going back and forth between living in the moment and getting freaked out by planning for the future, except I can’t not plan for the future, because then this is temporary, and I can’t handle that.”

This nod means I’ve heard him, not that he’s right.

“I can’t not compare your family to my family, except they’re different, except they can also reject me because they’re still alive, except if they do that, then you’re cut off, too, and that’s not fair, but it’s your own choice, and you’re clearly an adult, and you can walk out of here at any time.”

I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder.

“And we’re both stressed, and we don’t know what Henry’s going to do, even if we’ve got some sort of ending for the Percy, Mary, and Emily thing, except that’s not going to really be over, either.” He sighs and gently tilts his head over to lean against mine. “So we get to work on our communication skills and figuring out what the other person needs and not just what we need, and me believing you when you say you want to stay.”

“How long have you been seeing Camille?” I ask.

“Actually, not for a while. We agreed to end the weekly sessions a couple years ago, but I called her up again at the start of the season when, uh.” He chuckles a little. “When I realized maybe Jonathan and Lydia finally found someone I wouldn’t be fine saying goodbye to come October 1.”

I carefully pull away so I don’t jar his skull. “And how long did it take you to come to that conclusion?”

“Forty-eight hours, give or take.” He shrugs, blushing, but he holds my gaze. “Normally I’m fine being on my own after eight, or all day on my days off, but it was just so obvious to me when you weren’t there.”

I bite my lip, but he’s said it right to my face. “I’ve had some of those same thoughts myself.”

He leans in to kiss my forehead before tucking me under his arm and holding me close. “I can’t see me being enough for you when I know how much I miss my family.”

I’m more or less okay until his voice breaks, and I close my eyes and hold his arms so he won’t let me go. I can’t tell him I don’t miss them, because that’s not true, or that the ones I miss the most can’t come back to me anyway. “I love you.”

He kisses my hair and holds me tighter. “I love you, too.”

We sit here for a while just out of the drizzle, holding onto each other and not saying anything, until the back door bangs open and boots clomp out. “Mr. Truman? Miss, uh …”

“Gladieux.” I sit up and sigh. “Like ‘Glad you could be here today.’” That’s what my dad always says, which is part of the reason I don’t particularly want to say it, but also I’m not really glad they could be here today. I could do a day without police in my life, thanks.

“We have a few questions for you, if you’d just come inside?” he invites, except of course it’s not really a request. To be fair, I’m cold and damp and would like to come inside, but not because he’s asking. Truman nods and gets up first, offering me his hand, and I delay by putting the rocking chair back in line before we do indeed head inside, where these strangers want to ask us more questions we can’t answer.

---

Cold Comfort: Saturday, October 5, 2024 – Alyssa

Dear Diary,

I tried calling Alyssa, but I got an answering machine. I didn’t even know Loon Lake had an answering machine. There’s usually someone at the desk, especially during normal phone call hours, but I guess I’m not overly surprised. With the news breaking, the police will want to go back and ask more questions, and even Alyssa and Truman will be part of that.

Wait, it’s Monday. Truman’s off on Mondays. They’ll have to wait for him, I guess.

It’s nice having my cell phone back because it means I can make calls without worrying that someone’s listening in. I wrote that meaning Loon Lake, but I guess I also mean Aaron. He’s very sweet, came home and everything, but I insisted he go make his phone calls in the den and do his own thing for at least an hour, because I just needed some time to myself. Which I did, but I also tried calling Alyssa, too.

Diary, I’m going to have to figure out how to negotiate sneaking around behind his back with loving Alyssa. Honestly, I hope it doesn’t take him that long, but I have to be realistic. Aaron either gets over things surprisingly quickly or he dwells on them. Wallows in them.

Dani Jay was something he had to get over. Alyssa might be something that makes him wallow. Neither one can be entirely healthy. He either tries to skip the grief process entirely, at least outwardly, or he gets stuck in one of the first stages until someone comes along with a backhoe and yanks him out.

I don’t know which way it was with Eileen. He knew she was dying, even if he didn’t really admit it to himself. When it comes to dire, undeniable things he can be surprisingly stubborn. If he says something often enough, it simply becomes true, because he wears everyone else down and they stop arguing with him.

You know, diary, it just occurred to me that he must have been pissed as hell at Eileen for dying when he didn’t want her to. She disobeyed him, went against his wishes, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. Nothing anyone could do. He even saw that one coming, but Dani Jay …

I suppose, if nothing else, Loon Lake has helped me be more reflective, which can translate into “empathetic.”

I’ll try not to worry if Alyssa doesn’t call back today, because she’s busy and because she’s got Truman, so she’s not entirely alone, but I don’t think I’ll be able to simply not worry at all. She’s not my daughter, but even though we’re close in age, I’m dating her dad so she’s not entirely my friend, but I worry.

I guess Aaron worries, too, but his looks different. He’s worried because Truman’s there, and I’m worried despite the fact that Truman’s there. Maybe I really do need to try to take a nap.

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 15, 2024 – Alyssa (2)

Henry’s cell pulled him out of his writing, and he cursed. It was a phone call, and he’d only let a few specific numbers ring through, so he had to answer. He hit save and checked the caller ID to see how pissed he should be, took a deep breath, and swiped to answer as though he couldn’t think of anything better at this very moment than a chat. “Hello?”

“Dougie!” she greeted him with a trill. “We’ve just hit best-case scenario!”

“Uh.” He’d gone over a lot of best-case scenarios lately, with a lot of different people. Francine was only one of them.

“Been writing, huh?” she chuckled, which was grating, because yes, he’d been writing, and it was going well, but now he’d never get back to that without a couple hours to decompress and recover. “Check the news, hun.”

They’d had one Zoom and a couple emails and she’d already moved to calling him hun. “Hang on.” He switched to speakerphone, set it down, and Googled about the only thing he had to Google: Ferguson Sy and it popped in the rest. Oh. That best-case scenario. “They’re dead.”

“All of them!” Francine crowed, victorious, presumably from some high-rise in New York City. “They can’t contest any private conversations you may have had, and our lawsuits just dropped significantly!”

Like they weren’t real people who were now dead. Sure, he’d never met Mary, and he hadn’t really liked Percy, but … Emily. Someone who’d made out with him, however briefly, was dead.

“Does it say how she died?” he asked, scrolling and trying to skim, but there was a disconnect between his brain and his eyes just now. “Kimberlee?”

Francine laughed again, because this was all good news to her. “Not yet. I’m sure we’ll find out.” Then her voice dropped like other people were listening on her end. “Is she the really juicy one? Do you have some good stuff about her?”

Well, for certain definitions of good, yes. But Henry swallowed and stopped himself from clearing his throat. “She’s the one I know the best.”

Knew. Past tense. Headline-making past tense.

This chuckle sounded knowing. “All right, Dougie. I can hear you want to get back to work. Keep it up. You wouldn’t believe the traffic we’ve already gotten.”

“Okay, yeah.” He wondered how she’d respond if he called her Francie instead of, you know, her actual name. “You should have more by tomorrow.” Not that they’d rush this one to publication. They’d already pissed on the fencepost and established themselves as the site of insider information for the Loon Lake story, and now, without the three people truly at the center of it, there was no direct competition.

She laughed—again, seriously—and bid him “Toodle-oo,” for God’s sake. Chuckles and Dougie and toodle-oo because three people were dead.

He went back to Google and took his time choosing which news article to click, forcing himself to then actually read it, each and every line. There was a video, and he bet the video was probably everywhere the news was, but he didn’t click on it. What he wanted to know was what everyone else in the world wanted to know: why Emily? Henry hadn’t been told what happened to any of the others from Loon Lake, but none of them were reported dead. Even Jonathan should’ve had some sort of something, because Henry had seen Percy in the shotgun seat and Jonathan in the driver’s seat with his own eyes. Kidnapping, surely, unless someone wanted to argue that Jonathan was actually in on it.

Now there was an idea. He scribbled it down, mostly just to have someone else check, but they could drop it in if Francine thought it would help the clicks. Others were already speculating why the couple had chosen Loon Lake in the first place, so why not add to the questions with his own twist?

Henry paused and considered for a moment whether it could be true, then dismissed it. Jonathan was all about privacy and NDAs, but he struck Henry as being too upright and somehow rural to be part of a bank robbery. Not that farmers and such couldn’t rob banks, but he couldn’t make it work.

The article didn’t have any answers, so Henry pushed back from his desk, twisted to crack his back, and decided he might as well take a shower and figure out something to eat. Let the other publications carry the story for now, because they’d just increase interest. He’d have this piece to Francine soon enough, and his next task was outlining the book, which was daunting and intriguing and, because the other three were dead, just that much easier now. It was too bad Emily was dead, but it wasn’t like the world lost much, honestly. An alcoholic mistress, really, and those were practically a dime a dozen. Someone with the ability to turn her death into a memorable story, however, and keep her in the public consciousness long after her passing … well. Honestly, she was lucky Henry had been there.

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 15, 2024 – Agatha (2)

I have a restless night, but I should be used to that by now. I don’t want to keep thinking about what happened the past couple days, but hey, my control over my own thoughts is basically nil. I’d try to meditate again, but that makes me think of Truman, and nothing’s good right now. It’s solitaire and hot cocoa with the last of the marshmallows at 3 a.m., and a long hot shower to try to wake myself up and dressing a little better than usual like it’s going to fool anyone.

When I get to the desk, there’s something in my mailbox.

Alyssa—

I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake in the middle of the night or what so I didn’t even try. I’m conflating your family and mine, and that’s not any sort of excuse. Yeah, your dad kind of freaked me out, but that’s not an excuse either. I should’ve put my own shit aside and been there for you, but I didn’t. That’s something I need to work on.

If you’re at work when you see this, I’m out. My therapy session is always 9-10:30 on Mondays, and then I usually go home for a few hours to try to deal with it. I know Camille’s good because she makes me think, and she makes me work, and she gives me homework I don’t want to do.

There’s cell service at my place. I should be there by 11. If you need me before I show up again, call.

Love, Tru

He’s got two numbers underneath it, because maybe his little house has a landline, too. It’s only just after 8, so maybe he’s driving—I have no idea how local Camille is—but I’m not going to call now. Not when I’m feeling whiplash between I-don’t-even-know-what-that-was last night and then this: I’m sorry. Love.

I can’t deal with that before breakfast. Right now, it’s time for a microwave burrito and a latte with an extra shot, because I’m at work, and we’re keeping on keeping on, even though we’re down to two residents. Three are missing, one fled in disgrace, and one went home. What the hell. I guess this is usually where Jonathan would call up the hopefuls on the waiting list, but who’s going to want to come after all this? Nobody who belongs here, that’s for certain. More Henrys. And I don’t even know if we’ve got the Shelley and Dickinson cabins back, or if they’re still strung with yellow police tape.

If I get a call from someone inquiring about the rest of the month, or basically anyone doing anything but calling for Jane or Edgar with the right pass phrases, I ask them to hold and put it through to the Meyers’ cabin. If Jonathan’s not there, he’ll check the messages when he gets back. He doesn’t want me, Truman, or Lydia dealing with anything. “It all goes through me, and then it doesn’t get confused.” It sounds to me like an excuse we might all listen to so we don’t try to protect him from it or handle something on our own.

If things get too complicated, Jonathan’s showed me how to roll things over so that all calls go to an initial message that he recorded, informing callers that regrettably Loon Lake has begun screening calls, so please leave all relevant information in the message. People trying to call Jane or Edgar should already know that all relevant information means the resident’s name, the pass phrase, and a number to be called back.

At least the phones are working. Percy made Jonathan cut a cord, but he replaced it himself, because that’s the kind of guy Jonathan is. He can replace electrical cords, and he can give us a very professional reason to avoid difficult phone conversations. I don’t see myself ever being Jonathan. Lydia, to an extent, but Truman can take Jonathan’s—

I forcibly stop that line of thought and get out my deck of cards.

Edgar comes in to grab some breakfast and today he looks at the latte art and grins. Jonathan comes in while he’s still here, and Edgar asks him if he’s seen the forecast. He wants to know if it’s going to rain this morning. Jonathan shakes his head as he hands Edgar a couple of envelopes and tells him it’s maybe a ten percent chance over the next couple of hours. Edgar accepts the envelopes and says he’ll take a kayak out, then.

Edgar leaves. Jonathan goes into the kitchen. I deal out another round of solitaire.

I’ve got my knitting, and I guess I don’t even need to keep it in the drawer anymore because Henry’s gone. He’s not going to see it and try to start a conversation that’s really a competition, and did his mom really teach him how to knit, or was that one of his lies? That’s what he told Emily, but he also thought Emily was Annabeth, so the M word could’ve been him trying to push a button.

Annabeth is dead. Henry didn’t get that scoop.

The kitchen door opens, and Jonathan comes out, smiling but sort of subdued. “Lydia’s making pumpkin pie today. I got her the stuff.”

“Yeah?” I can’t help my own smile. “Does anyone else here eat pumpkin pie?”

“I have full faith you can manage the whole thing by yourself.” But he pauses and shifts awkwardly. “Tru …”

Ah, right. Here we go. Defense of the non-biological son.

Jonathan does the sort of nod that means he’s rewinding and starting over. “He doesn’t need me to make excuses for him. If there’s anything you need …”

“The pumpkin pie sounds great.” Honestly, it does. I love Lydia’s pumpkin pie.

“Well.” He tilts his head. “Anything else.”

I can’t think of a reply, but the phone rings before I draw enough breath to say so, and Jonathan straightens up and reaches over to answer, like it’s something he can do for me. “Loon Lake Retreat. This is Jonathan.”

I start to scoot back a little to at least give him the impression of space, but then he frowns. “Tru, slow down.”

My eyes dart around like I’ve forgotten where the clock is. 10:42. He should be somewhere between therapy and his house by now.

I can’t hear his words, but I catch his cadence, and if this is Truman speaking more slowly, how fast was he talking before? Fast, and long, with Jonathan only making an occasional “Uh-huh” as his eyes drift away. Can you go mad from hearing half a conversation that’s only listening noises?

The lodge door opens, and two police officers walk in. One of them hooks his thumbs over his belt and just plants his feet in the slightly too wide stance that’s supposed to mean business, and the other gestures for Jonathan to end his call.

“Tru—yeah, they’re here right now, so …” Jonathan listens a moment. “You don’t have to rush back. Drive safe, okay?” He hangs up without saying goodbye, but he doesn’t even get a chance to look at me before the second policeman starts talking.

“Well, they’ve been found,” he announces, chewing something loudly and tucking his thumbs in his belt, too. “And they’re all dead. So. We’ve got a few more questions for everyone.”

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 15, 2024 – Henry (2)

Dear Diary,

I don’t know how to write this.

I watched the video. I shouldn’t have. I agree Mary was trying to surrender. Percy shot back. Emily was already dead.

They’re all dead.

I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense. I thought I’d given up on the world making sense when I saw my daughter dead, but I guess I’m still looking for answers. Continuity, or just the thinnest thread.

It doesn’t make any sense, and I shouldn’t have watched it.

I emailed it to Alyssa. Maybe she already knows. Jonathan can’t print out the video, but they can pass it around and just try to make it make sense.

Aaron’s coming home. I wasn’t going to say anything, but he saw the news and that’s what he texted: I’m coming home. It just doesn’t make any sense.

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 15, 2024 – Alyssa (1)

Henry didn’t really want to answer the door, but when he looked through the peephole, it was the mailman. He held out a cease-and-desist order, for which he needed a signature. There was no reason to debate or refuse. He signed where indicated and called the number his editor gave him, neatly passing the problem down the line.

It didn’t matter. They told him not to worry. They’d take care of it, and he should just concentrate on writing, first the initial article, and then the expansion, and then the book. It was all lined up, and they’d be getting him a list of deadlines later today, for blog posts and interviews and that kind of thing. Oh, and the money. Of course he’d be getting the money. Far more than a reimbursement for the month at Loon Lake.

They didn’t even mind his social media post. They were lawyers, and probably should have, but worked for people who made money off clicks, so they got it. He’d just upped his own worth, putting enough out there to let everyone know where the golden goose could be direct-messaged. All offers, be they for interviews or posts or anything else, were forwarded to his new team. He now had a team of more than just lawyers, thank you very much. He was a hot commodity, and he wasn’t going to cool down anytime soon.

Henry sat back down at his laptop and reviewed what he’d written there. No confession to recording anything, and no direct quotes, at least not in this first piece. That was easy to agree to, and the lawyers figured they’d settle with the Meyers early on, maybe by putting some pressure on them. Hey, they were the ones who let both a couple of bank robbers and a freelance reporter into their little haven. At this point they figured Henry’s presence and recordings wouldn’t be much of an issue, because of everything else that happened, so they’d push buttons until they found a tender spot, and bam. Feel free to continue with the book deal.

Okay but he hoped that the working title Henry: Two Weeks at Loon Lake was just a working title. There had to be something better. His real name would be there as the author, but it just wasn’t sexy enough. It put Loon Lake to the end of the title, for one thing, and depended on the whole Henry part being at the forefront when the book came out. Not that he wanted it named after Percy and Mary, but still.

For now he turned back to “Hasty Retreat: The Twenty-First Century Bonnie and Clyde” and reviewed what he’d written about his conversation—practically his only conversation—with Percy. Henry called him Percy, because that was something new he could offer, and readers would eat it up: Percy and Mary Shelley and their parallels to the real-life Ferguson and Sype. There was nothing better than speculation to spark a million page views, and it would give people something to argue over in the comments.

Plus it wasn’t even all that controversial. All he was sharing was the random names assigned to the robbers by the Meyers, who gave all their clients literary names. His own, Henry of Longfellow cabin, came first, and they were the only three he was mentioning in this piece. That was part of the carefully scaffolded reveal of information, and it allowed his lawyers to argue that he was only exposing details about himself and two people who’d already been connected to Loon Lake, and who were looking guiltier by the hour.

It wouldn’t get published until everyone who needed to had a chance to look at it, and approve it, and made changes or delete things if they thought he crossed the line, but Henry was pleased. As a first account, it gave just enough for verisimilitude while hinting that there was oh so much more.

And at this point he was damn grateful that he hadn’t told anyone why he was going to Loon Lake, or anyone but his brother that he was going in the first place. Sure, he told that police officer up in Nowhere Harbor, BFE, that he had evidence, but who cared about Aaron Gladieux anymore? His daughter worked there, yawn. It didn’t matter if she’d had a fling with Truman or Jonathan or even Edgar. That wasn’t news. Seriously, even Edgar wasn’t news.

Henry was news. His notifications told him he was news. Once they reached three digits, they just turned into a red dot, no numbers, and it didn’t matter how often he checked. His freaking tweets or whatever the fuck you were supposed to call them now were news, quoted in one article after another as those same people tried desperately to get a hold of him. That was why he was sitting here and writing his first three thousand words, to be submitted soon and published shortly after that. His stock was on its way up.

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 15, 2024 – Agatha (1)

Jonathan didn’t get his bonfire on Friday, so I guess it’s more important that he has one than that it’s specifically on Friday. The world outside’s a freaking manhunt for Percy and Mary, and hopefully Emily. There were more people in the Shelley cabin today, and Jonathan let them into Dickinson, too, in case that helps them get some of their answers. All sorts of rumors are flying about the three of them, and possible connections, and probable connections, but as far as the police have told us, no real connections. Just speculations and attempts to get this all to make sense.

Sometimes life doesn’t make sense and it’s just completely unfair and there’s nothing you can do about it, because it’s already done. That’s something these officers haven’t had to deal with yet, I guess. Maybe they solve everything, so they figure they’ll solve this, too. The way people assume they’ll get through every day in the future simply because they’ve gotten through every day in the past, without factoring in exactly how bad those future days can be.

I never figured I’d have to live through Dani Jay’s death. Truman had to get through his brother, and then his mother, and that doesn’t even factor in his dad leaving when he was a kid. Honestly there’s just no limit to how bad our days can be, but we want to put a limit on our imaginations.

I lean against Truman and rest my hand on his knee, staring into the fire. “Higher,” he murmurs and kisses my hair.

Jonathan’s still totally sitting across the fire from us. I choose to pretend Truman’s joking. “What happens if they never find them?”

He sighs, but he was probably already thinking about it, too. “The story dies down, unless it doesn’t. Unless Henry …”

We’ll find out his real name then, I guess. Although of course Jonathan already knows it, so his lawyer probably has an alert programmed. “You know Henry’s totally going to do his damnedest.”

“Sure, with no mention that he thought Emily was Annabeth Deschain.” He shifts a little, probably because he didn’t quite realize what he was going to say.

Four to six weeks. She was killed four to six weeks ago, and I’ve been at Loon Lake for eight weeks or so now. They even said closer to four.

“I know you said your dad and Agatha didn’t do it, but …” Truman can’t even finish that thought.

But. That but. I sit up so I can look at him. “Is it easier to think about my dad if you say that he did it?”

Truman blinks. “Lyss.”

“I mean with him rejecting you,” I clarify, and yeah, maybe I want to needle him back. “The wood sprite thing.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been called far worse than that.”

It isn’t really an answer to my question.

“I just …” Truman reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. “He’s your dad. She’s … I don’t know how you think of her, but you’re not going to want either of them to be guilty.”

“When you got the news about your brother, did you think he couldn’t have done it?” Except shoot, maybe that crosses the line.

He winces but nods before I can apologize, because yeah, he’s been poking me, so I poked back. Then he looks away, and slips his arm around me again, and sighs. “No. I guess we knew. Even as distant as I was. Mom and I knew something was weird. She told me she asked Crystal, though, and Crystal brushed it off, so we just chalked it up to stress, or the kids.” He sighs again and rests his head against mine. “We made our excuses while Crystal and the kids were alive, but not after. And then he just confessed it all in this long, confusing ramble.”

“Did you listen to it?” I want to know the answer, but I also don’t.

I can feel him nod. “It was a mistake. I thought I needed to, especially after Mom died, but nobody needs to listen to that. It’s like …”

I have no idea what listening to a brother confess to murder would be like, so I just wait.

“It’s like the Jonestown tapes, maybe. I’d say the Ted Bundy tapes, but those are so public now. So popular.” He nods again. “The Jonestown tapes.”

“You’ve listened to the Jonestown tapes?” I start to pull away, but he adds his other arm to keep me close.

“I haven’t. I just know they exist and they’re on Wikipedia, too, so you can, and people do.” He clucks his tongue. “Maybe at three a.m., when nobody should be making any big decisions after the sun sets.”

That’s an interesting boundary I haven’t considered.

“When I got the news about Al, I thought oh, shit, that explains it. And …” He gives a little rueful chuckle. “I’m with the cops there, I guess: if it was your dad or Agatha, then that explains it.”

“Explains it, or excuses it?” Okay maybe I don’t really want to know the answer to that question.

This sound is less humorous. “Us wood sprites aren’t really big on the eye for an eye thing. That’s more of a Christian concept.” But he only pauses for a moment before adding, “Like you told the cops. It’s just more pain.”

I do pull away this time, resisting his arms so I can look him in the face, at least as much as possible in the flickering light. “It is just more pain, but I don’t really like uncertainty.”

“You wanted her to confess,” he presses.

I did, yeah.

“You wanted a suicide note that spells everything out, in no uncertain terms,” he continues, still pushing.

“Or she could finally break down and tell someone and surrender herself,” I agree. “Strangers on a Train style.”

Tru shakes his head. “Never read that one.”

Guess I’ve spoiled it, then. “The point is, dead is an ending, but it’s not the best ending.”

“You wanted her to suffer in this life?” he asks in a tone that means yeah, he’s ready to judge me.

“What, because she made my family suffer?” I snap. “Because she killed this child, this small, trusting child, and didn’t even blink? That’s before we get into whatever her obsession with Dad was, okay? There were problems there, and people don’t get to dodge consequences just because they have problems.” Except, shit, we’re kind of back onto his brother again, but Al killed himself in jail.

Truman nods once and stands up. “I’m going to sleep in my own cabin tonight.”

Right. Of course. Why not? It’s just another shitty day in a run of shitty days, when I’ve clearly chosen Truman, or at least Loon Lake, over my family, and he’s up and gone and out of sight, beyond the light of the fire, and Jonathan just adds another log like he hasn’t heard a thing. Sounds about par for the course to me. I slip down off the log and lie on my back on the rocks, looking up and trying to find the stars.

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 13, 2024 – Henry (1)

Dear Diary,

I wasn’t sure whether to keep going in this book or start a new one already, but I’ll probably be writing about Loon Lake for quite a while, and I don’t want to ruin two fancy blank books for it. I’ll keep going until I’m ready to stop, or until this one’s full, and then have the ceremonial fire.

That’s a joke. It’ll just be me and the matches, either in the fire pit out back or the fireplace, depending on the weather and the season, but I’ll make sure all of it goes up. The covers don’t matter, but I don’t want to leave any scraps. And maybe the physical activity will help clue my brain into the fact that I am indeed ready to move on from something.

We’re home. He ended up driving, so starting in Hancock he complained about the tiny airplanes and the lack of available flights, rather than concentrating on how his rental contract could be shifted for a return downstate instead of here. And it helped him get a lot of his frustrations out, at least, before he got around to Alyssa.

First, she tricked him, but the longer he talked, the more it got to “she tricked him into telling the truth.” Yes, of course she can come home any time she wants to! Except for Aaron it means home home, to stay. The place where she can hole up and be protected from the world.

And it’s true. Any of his kids can come home any time they want. It’s just that Ken and Jim don’t really want. This is the house where the child died, after all. It’s where she lived, but that’s harder to remember these days.

And the thing is, Alyssa’s always been the one most likely to come home. She’s the one I could message if Aaron was having a particularly bad week, and then I’d hear from him at dinner that she’d texted him to ask if it was okay for her to pop in for the weekend. And of course he always said yes, and I don’t think he’s ever figured out that it’s a tag-team thing to get her to show up when he needs her most.

Well then, diary: I’m not sure he’s figured out that he needs her, probably more than she needs him. I’m also not sure he’d realize we do what we do out of love, and not as a sort of trick. The way she “tricked” him into basically admitting that he’ll love her no matter what.

He tried to talk himself out of that for the rest of the drive, off and on. He’d punch between radio stations and turn it up, then turn it down to reiterate an argument, then turn it back up again. At one point he told me to Google Truman’s brother, which I did, because otherwise he’d stop, turn the car over to me, and find it himself. So basically I repeated what Alyssa already told us. It’s not good, but maybe it could be worse. Annabeth acted coldly, in her right mind. Truman’s brother clearly had something wrong with him, and I’d bet that both Truman and Alyssa will be on their guard against it. I could see them choosing never to have children.

Not that I said that to Aaron. He doesn’t want to think this is more than a touch of summer madness on her part, and it will be good for him (for all of us) to let him figure out how to live with it incrementally: for the rest of the summer. Just for this winter. Until he has to realize that no, it’s not actually incremental, after all.

I’ll be hearing about it for a while, but it’s new. It’s something different for us to talk about, or for him to worry about, or for us to live with, I guess. Something new for us to make it through together, even if maybe this one will feel a bit sneaky until he gets over himself enough to contact her again.

He’s threatened not to. That she’ll have to come crawling back if she wants to come at all. Conditional home, I guess, but I’m not going to point that out to him. He’ll get over it, because he’ll miss her, and he needs her. That doesn’t mean she has to take him back in a flash. I won’t try to talk her out of it if she does, but I won’t fault her if she doesn’t. She’s allowed to have feelings about his angry departure, and he needs to take responsibility for his actions.

Look at me all emotionally intelligent about other peoples’ problems. Let’s keep working on expanding that to my own life, shall we, diary?

I’m glad to be home. I don’t really want to fully take Aaron’s side in this, two against one, but it’s nice to be two again. It’s nice to be in my own bed, with my own pillows (yes, diary, that’s plural) and fresh sheets. Aaron’s in his office, making some phone calls because these past couple days interrupted his business as usual, and soon he’ll be done with that and we’ll talk about dinner, or maybe he’ll want a shower first, and we’ll get back to being us. One step at a time. One day at a time. But today I’m home, and it is home, and that’s good.

---

Cold Comfort: Sunday, July 14, 2024 – Alyssa (2)

There wasn’t a pile of mail waiting for Henry when he came home, because that was being held at the post office, but he dropped his bags in the entryway and beelined for the drawer where he’d put his cell phone. It was of course dead, so he got that on his fast charger, pulled his laptop out of his bag and plugged it in on his desk, hesitated, and then dismissed the idea of getting some laundry started. There’d be time for that later. He did at least get in the shower long enough to wash his hair, and in front of the mirror long enough to shave. There wasn’t anything he could do about the shadows under his eyes, but hey, those were authentic. Almost professional. Mostly he just hoped one of his scheduled meetings wouldn’t take the full time so he’d be able to make coffee.

Despite the exhaustion, it was the best type of afternoon. Everyone he talked to, plus everyone who’d left a voice mail on his phone, desperately wanted to hear what he had to say. They needed him to prove he’d been where he said he was, of course, but even then they were desperate for any little detail he’d accidentally let slip.

Henry didn’t let anything slip. He was a professional, a businessman who had to know what was on offer so he could carefully weigh his options and choose the best one for him. Not for the story, although of course the better the story did, the more he’d get out of it, but the best option for him. Some of his notes included the words book deal.

He really needed sleep, but he couldn’t just yet. He had all these pages from today, plus more phone messages to get through, and everything from the past couple of weeks to print and reread and organize. Plus he needed to catch up on the news itself: the things the public was learning right now, whether or not it ended up actually being true, and the timeline of when it was revealed. On top of this he had his mental notes of what wasn’t yet revealed.

Seriously, this was gold. Everyone seemed to be discussing it: was Tammy a whore or a victim? Was Kimberlee really a victim, or was she in on it? Was Kyle sleeping with either or both of them? And did he know about Youngren? Were they now on an exotic island somewhere, sipping drinks and having a threesome … or was one of the women murdered? Or both of them? Or one of them and Kyle Ferguson?

Pure gold. And it had simply fallen into his lap. He’d gone north to find Annabeth Deschain, but she was gone and out of the headlines. Instead, he had this absolute once-in-a-lifetime story that he needed to claim as soon as possible, in case other people lied about it.

Henry decided on a short post to his socials. I’d like to address the rumors before they get out of hand: yes, I’ve been at Loon Lake Retreat these past couple of weeks. Yes, I’ve already spoken to the police. I hope everyone involved is safe and this gets resolved soon.

Okay, that last part was a lie, and so was the first, but he wasn’t just going to say Hey y’all what’s up, did you miss me? Addressing rumors was a much better way to go. It would boost engagement. The proliferation of social media sites these days was ridiculous, with everyone trying to be Twitter since Twitter was no longer Twitter, but by the time he got the last one posted, the first was already blowing up.

This wasn’t going to get resolved soon, even if everyone was found and brought into custody, because Henry would make sure of it. Everyone would know he’d found himself smack-dab in the middle of this, and even the police would play into his hands. He’d wait a while to reveal the whole duct tape detail, out of respect for the legal case but really because drawing things out meant more clicks and more discussion. More rumors he could fail to address and therefore fuel. There was probably a message from his U.P. lawyer already somewhere in his phone, but that didn’t matter. By this time tomorrow he’d have a signed contract that included a whole team of lawyers ready to yell freedom of speech to let him write what he wanted … as long as it got published by their people first. God, it was good to be back.

---

Cold Comfort: Sunday, July 14, 2024 – Agatha (2)