Rebecca Frost

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), coming September 3

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)

I wait Dad out. It doesn’t feel good, but I wait Dad out. He’s got his mental checklist, so he’s laying it all on the table for me: how I don’t know Truman at all. How I’m isolated up here and it’s messing with my thinking. How this story will break and will mess with possibilities for future employment. How I need to get out from under all of this immediately and get back to my life the way it’s supposed to go.

And man, I have arguments for every single point, sometimes in triplicate. I want to start making that list myself, like I’ve got more cards to put on the table than he does. I want to rise to the argument and defend Truman and my own thoughts and feelings and just … argue.

It’s not all Dad, but this just isn’t a good time for a confrontation. Emily’s still missing, Percy and Mary are still out there somewhere, Henry’s off on his own to wreak havoc with his renewed internet and cell phone access … things are going to get worse before they get better. That’s true. There, Dad and I agree. We just disagree on how I should weather the worse.

So I don’t jump in. It’s hard, and it feels wrong to be my customer service self with Dad, but I keep my face as neutral as possible, even if my hands grip my mug too tightly. I try not to give him any nods, because he’d see my I’m listening nods as you’re so right nods. I just … wait him out.

My back’s to the entryway of the lodge, which means Truman can probably hear Dad’s every word. Dad might even be able to see him.

I wait for Dad to wrap up, or run down, or whatever it is that means he’s not talking anymore and just looking at me expectantly, and I take a deep breath and hold his eyes. “So you’re saying if I don’t come home now, I can’t come back ever again?”

He blinks, then blinks again. “What? No. No, honey.” Dad reaches for my hands, catching them between his and the mug. “Honey, you can always come home. Any time.”

Bingo. I nod. “Okay. I’m staying here for the rest of the summer.”

He blinks. I’m ready for him to accuse me of entrapment, because hey, it kind of feels that way, but instead he bursts out, “You can’t just throw your life away for some wood sprite just because he’s got curls and soft brown eyes!”

I almost laugh. It nearly busts out of me—Tru, a wood sprite?—but no matter how he worded it, Dad’s serious. And I’ve got so many protests, all the ways I want to defend Truman and myself, but … I take a slow breath, and at least he’s let go of my hands so I can pull them back and clasp them together in my lap. “I didn’t tell you his full name and about his brother because I’m leaving.”

“Yeah, well, I wish you hadn’t told me at all.” He flaps a hand at me, a violent gesture that almost knocks over his own coffee cup. “You can’t be serious, Lyss. You can’t want to get us into something worse.”

I mean, I don’t. I just want to be with Truman.

“You know what?” Dad stands up. “When you come to your senses and get sick of this granola mushroom shit, we’ll still be there. Until then, I guess …”

I wait, because hey, I want to know if he’s got some sort of biting valedictory, but he just waves both hands at me in a final dismissal and stalks off.

Instead of slouching back I take a deep breath and hold it as long as I can before letting it out in a gust, but when I turn around it’s Edgar in the doorway, not Truman. He holds up his hands, empty palms displayed. “I won’t lie. I heard a lot of that.”

“I’ll make you a latte if you skulk by the window and let me know when you see them leave.” Okay, it sounds more like a threat than an offer.

He blinks. “Skulk.”

“Yeah.” I get up and start gathering our breakfast dishes. “Skulk.”

“Good word. Don’t hear it very often. Skulk I shall.” He turns around and, after busing the table, I concentrate on the espresso machine and try to figure out how I’m feeling.

It’s a challenge, because that went better than I thought it might. At least, I handled myself better than I have in the past, so count all gains, I guess. And yeah, maybe I did trap Dad, but come on. I’ve been out of the house for five years, out of college for one, and maybe he’s projecting a little because neither of us is where we thought we’d be right now. He’s supposed to have a second kid with Dina, one to make Dani Jay a big sister, and I’m not entirely sure what all he had planned for me, but …

Granola mushroom wood sprite, huh? I halfway want to put that on a T-shirt.

“You might not want to come over here,” Edgar cautions from his place at the edge of the window when I start to carry his latte out. He barely looks away from the path long enough to take his drink and, for once, doesn’t admire the latte art.

Outside, Dina holds up a hand to Dad, leaving her big wheeled suitcase on the path next to him and turning to take the stairs up to the lodge. Edgar tries to step back and extract himself from the family drama, but he’s in a corner, and Dina’s inside and hugging me before he can escape.

She squeezes me tightly before grabbing my shoulders and pushing me back, the most intense I’ve ever seen her, but then she turns to Truman instead. “I’d say take care of her, but …”

Truman, arms crossed, gives a little shrug. “I can watch her take care of herself.”

“Okay. Good.” Dina squeezes my hands and smiles. “I know how to contact you. I’ll stay in touch.”

I nod, but there’s not much more to say. We both know Dad, and maybe he’ll come around, but it’ll take him a while if he does. She’s going with him, but not without saying goodbye to me, and that’s enough of a stand. He’ll lecture her on it, on how she’s just encouraging my rebellion or whatever he thinks this is, but she’ll endure. She’s tough.

Dina nods, once to me and once to Truman, and then she’s gone again, out and grabbing her suitcase and walking toward the parking lot like she doesn’t see Dad’s exaggerated Well, finally gesture.

When I turn back to Truman, he’s chewing on his lip and it takes him a moment to realize I’m looking at him. “I, uh. No one’s ever done the whole romance novel choose me thing before.” I go around the desk to hug him, and at some point, Edgar makes good on his escape and leaves Truman and me alone, where we say nothing and everything at the same time.

---

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

Dear Diary,

Aaron wants to convince Alyssa to come home with us. That’s where he is right now: talking to her. Presumably, at any rate. We all had breakfast together, even though she should’ve been at the desk, but Truman offered to take the chair and give her family time.

Aaron thought that was surrender. He didn’t see the whole conversation that passed between them in a single glance.

I’m just saying. Yowza. I thought Truman was this laid-back surfer type dude, chill because nothing had ever impacted his life to make it less than chill, but there’s a core of something. I’d say steel, but I think it’s hot instead of cold. He doesn’t want to step in and fight Alyssa’s battles for her (point to Truman) but he was, after all, only in the next room if she really needed him.

Aaron started off trying to keep it neutral, I guess, talking about Ken and Jim and their families, like he hasn’t been emailing Alyssa with updates. Like her brothers haven’t emailed her about as often as they normally do even when she can respond in seconds.

He doesn’t see how much they pulled away not just from him, but from their sister, after Eileen died. Maybe she’s too much like her mom, or maybe they just feel guilty that they weren’t home at the end. They got out, and maybe Eileen wanted them to, and told them to, but come on: Alyssa was home with Aaron when it happened. Alyssa was there for him right away. She bore the brunt of his grief, especially because Aaron’s the sort of man who doesn’t want to show emotion in front of other men, even if those men are his own sons.

Ah, diary, it’s so easy to analyze other people.

Alyssa didn’t rise to it. I’m impressed, because when Aaron tries to turn his apparent logic on me, my blood starts to boil. He wants me to see it his way, but he refuses to see it my way, so I just have to give in and nod and go along with whatever he says. Maybe I should take some lessons from Alyssa.

He started asking her about Truman. About how much she “really knows” about Truman. That’s one thing Aaron does when he’s upset and trying not to show it: he repeats what he thinks is the key phrase until you’re sick of it. How much does she “really know” Truman when they’re in the middle of this bubble of secrecy (another key Aaron phrase) and maybe it’s not even his real name?

Alyssa pulled out her wallet, which I don’t think she’s been carrying, and took out Truman’s driver’s license and slid it across the table to us.

Point for Alyssa. And Truman, really. Whose last name is Truman, and I can completely understand why he wouldn’t want to go by Absalom or Moses.

“You’ll want to Google him,” she told us. Well, Aaron. “Or his brother. His brother’s got the Wikipedia page.”

“For what?” Aaron snapped, and he even got out his phone, but of course there’s no connection here, so instead he just took a picture of Truman’s ID like he’s going to pass it off to a private investigator as soon as we get home.

So she told us, calmly, the bare bones of it, and of course there’s child murder involved, and of course Aaron went through the roof.

That’s when I left, diary. I excused myself, more to Alyssa than to Aaron, and slipped out the porch door of the lodge so I could avoid looking at Truman, too, even though it certainly clarified a few things.

I doubt they started bonding over the children (my Dani Jay, his nephews who were, I suppose, step-nephews if you really want to get picky about it) but he certainly has a better chance of understanding her pain than most people. And it’s so hidden in him. Seriously, diary, California surfer dude who accidentally ended up on a Great Lake instead of the ocean, made for sun and sand and saying whatever, man, to the world.

Although I guess the other residents probably think the same thing about Alyssa. For twelve hours a day, five days a week, she’s at their beck and call, although I don’t think most of them do much becking or calling. When they walk into the lodge, she’s polite and ready with a smile, because that’s the job. The role. Maybe we’re all here because of our own deep-seated personal issues, but the help is the help. They know where we can find things or how to make fancy drinks, but it’s their job to make our own month easier. Not to pull out their own trauma and put it on display.

Having written that, diary, I think maybe that’s why Alyssa came here. She’s not “Dani Jay’s big sister” here. Nobody’s going to ask her how it feels (gag) or for details or if she thinks Annabeth or I did it. (Diary, no one’s ever blamed Aaron for being careless with the gate or the lid, and have I at times hated him for this? I’m sure you can guess.) She doesn’t have to be defined by that single day, that one tragedy, while she’s here, and yes, I can understand that.

Aaron doesn’t get that part. He sees how his lovely, brilliant daughter is reduced to making latte art and answering phones. How she’s not using any part of that brilliant mind or the education he helped pay for.

Help, diary. I just thought “He can’t see her flourishing because she can’t flourish when he’s around.” Is that painful because it’s a lie or because it’s so horribly true?

It’s a good thing I plan on burning this. Starting over with a new diary. Where I might have to rip individual pages out and burn them, just in case, because Aaron’s not ready for things like that yet. Not like I think he’d pick up and read my diary, but he might. He’s like Bluebeard’s wife that way. He’ll tell me it’s because he’s worried about me, and probably he is, but if he peeks and happens to see something like that …

I should stop blathering on and get to packing. I don’t know if we can get a flight out later today or if he’ll just insist on driving and returning the rental car at the airport downstate, but I don’t think we’re going to make anything better by staying here longer. I hope he doesn’t pull one of those Victorian father “She’s made her bed, so let her lie in it” things, but Aaron’s never done well with big emotions. He wants things to be his way, because he feels safe his way. Don’t we all?

---

Cold Comfort: Sunday, July 14, 2024 – Alyssa (1)

Henry hadn’t slept. Not that he’d really planned on sleeping, trapped in an airport with other passengers unlucky enough to get ridiculous layovers, but he really hadn’t slept. Once Henry had his initial email crafted, which took a while to get worded properly, he started sending them out, working his way down his normal list … and above it. This wasn’t some simple little human-interest piece. This was gold.

As the replies came in, he sorted them. There wasn’t anyone who didn’t seem interested at all, but the You’re going to need a good lawyer responses got segregated to one folder that he figured he’d never have to look at again. The ones with invitations to meet with various staff members, including a legal team, got precedence.

Henry accepted a number of appointments for later today, picking and choosing as carefully as his sleep deprived, caffeine-riddled brain would let him, and more for tomorrow. He’d really have to sleep on the plane. And at some point, he’d also have to start writing the thing he’d teased them all with: an account of his time at Loon Lake.

He sat by his gate, which was at last finally displaying his flight number, finishing his McDonald’s breakfast and refreshing the window with his email. The news was on the airport screens, as usual, but there weren’t any updates to the whole Ferguson-Sype-Jennings triangle. Henry would know, because it kept cycling through, promising more information as they received it, even though there hadn’t been anything in the past eight hours.

That was fine. That made the information in Henry’s head all the more appealing, because it was new information, and nobody else would be sharing it. Alyssa and Truman were too loyal to the Meyers, Jane had a stick so far up her ass she’d fume if it was even suggested, and Edgar …

Maybe Henry could tell the story without Edgar. Or, at the very least, without identifying Edgar, even in a roundabout way. Edgar, Jane, and even Agatha could simply be labeled with their July names and fade into the background as he focused on the people who mattered: Percy, Mary, and Emily. Not that he had anything to say about Mary. But.

Henry sipped his coffee and debated another offer when he heard the little fanfare that made him look back up at the news. The morning anchor gazed into the camera, all young and eager but trying to appear earnest, because the image that appeared over his shoulder read Bank Robbery Update. “Breaking news in the Wells Fargo robbery case,” he announced, boring into viewers’ souls with his dark blue eyes. “It seems that there’s a deeper, personal connection between suspect Tammy Sype and suspected kidnap victim Kimberlee Jennings. Mary O’Connell has the story. Mary?”

The camera switched to a woman standing in the dark outside some sort of brick building, buffeted by wind. “Thank you, Connor. We’ve just received information that Tammy Sype was also a student of Professor Everett Youngren, here at Western Michigan University, and may also have been involved with him romantically. As we already know, Kimberlee Jennings is reported to be the latest in his long line of affairs, and bank records show Youngren paid for her month at Loon Lake after his wife and children moved out of the house. Jenny Youngren has filed for divorce from her husband, and those proceedings are ongoing. Other former students have come forward to report that Tammy Sype took classes with Youngren and petitioned to switch to him as her advisor, despite not being a history major.”

The shot switched to a woman probably in her twenties, also wind-blown, looking off-camera, presumably at Mary O’Connell. “Tammy was obsessed,” she said earnestly, or maybe even dismissively. With her hair going across her face and blocking much of her expression, it was hard to tell. “She never told us if she was really sleeping with him, but she certainly hinted at it. She told me once that he was going to leave Jenny for her, so when she didn’t …”

It cut back to Mary O’Connell before the woman could clarify what, exactly, Tammy Sype had done when Youngren’s divorce didn’t materialize for her. “Tammy Sype is, of course, one of the suspected Wells Fargo robbers who made away with upwards of three million dollars on June 27 of this year. She and purported partner Kyle Ferguson paid for a cabin in the tech-free Loon Lake Retreat, located in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, for the month of July using stolen identities. Loon Lake is known for both its isolation and its discretion. Owners Jonathan and Lydia Meyer have not been reached for comment. Back to you in the studio, Connor.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Connor replied, completing the call and response, and Henry tuned him out as he promised more updates as events warranted.

Exactly how much coincidence was too much? Emily was in the bank when Percy and Mary robbed it, okay, but then Emily was also at Loon Lake when Percy and Mary hid out there, and now Emily secured the divorce from the married professor whom Mary had also dated? Although maybe the bank and the professor weren’t too much of a coincidence, because it meant Mary had remained close to the college town and Emily was still there after graduation. But still. It was absolute luck that meant Youngren had booked Emily a cabin.

Henry blinked and clicked to a new window, because maybe Youngren had floated the idea of Loon Lake to Mary when they’d been hot and heavy. Maybe Youngren himself had once stayed at Loon Lake, although records being what they were, it would take a good amount of luck, or money, to find it. But wouldn’t that be ironic? Mary’s mask slipped, fine, but it didn’t really matter until they ended up at Loon Lake with one of the witnesses. And she was also at Loon Lake because of Youngren.

Seriously, this just got better and better. And he’d gone to Loon Lake thinking he’d only find Annabeth Deschain, who—

Henry stopped, deleted his search terms, and typed in her name instead. She hadn’t surfaced at Loon Lake.

He frowned. Annabeth Deschain’s Body Found; Murder Suspected. That couldn’t be right. Fine, Emily wasn’t Annabeth Deschain, but this was … nothing. An anticlimax. One so dismissed that it hadn’t made the news the entire time he’d been here in Chicago, even though it was the murder of a young woman, and usually the murder of a young woman got played for all the airtime they could eke out of it.

The murder of a young woman who most likely murdered a toddler got bumped from the headlines even before this weird robbery and sex triangle, or quadrangle, or whatever the heck was playing out with Percy and Mary and Emily at its center. And nobody in the comments seemed upset about it: Serves her right. I feel bad for her family, but come on. Who was ever going to trust her again? Karma’s a bitch, especially when you’re one first. Sheesh. No love for Annabeth Deschain, and—he tried a few more searches—no public announcements of funeral services. Her parents probably didn’t want a whole line of people waiting to spit on her coffin.

Henry took a diversion anyway, since there was still time to kill before his flight was called and hey, this was the story he’d wanted to chase: no one knew the last time Annabeth Deschain had been seen alive, because she’d been keeping to herself, but they suspected sometime between four and six weeks ago she’d gone into the abandoned house where she was only found dead about one week ago. It didn’t look like she’d been living there, at any rate, but she’d been strangled and left there. Either she hadn’t fought back, or her killer took precautions to make sure she didn’t scratch him and get his DNA under her fingernails.

Really, it looked like the perfect crime, made even more so because nobody wanted to waste time prosecuting it. Her death simply wrapped up the Dani Jay murder story without opening another one, and everyone seemed fine with letting it go. Harsh, but what else could Annabeth Deschain have expected? To live the rest of her life as the woman who murdered a toddler? Even if she changed her name, someone would track it down and expose her. That happened to Karla Homolka. She got out and changed her name—more than once, even, Henry thought—but every time she moved somewhere, a concerned citizen in the neighborhood outed her. That was the life facing Annabeth Deschain, so if that life happened to be cut short … well. In death, she barely even made the news. The gate attendant came over the PA system announcing that Henry’s flight would start boarding soon. He wasn’t in any of the first groups, but Henry closed out the search, downed the rest of his coffee, and did one last scan of his emails before packing his laptop away to prepare for boarding.

---

Cold Comfort: Sunday, July 14, 2024 – Agatha (1)

Lydia and Jonathan just want to get on with things. I’d say they want to pretend like none of this ever happened, but that’s not quite true. Jonathan pulls Truman aside and Lydia asks if I’ll run their dinners over to them in the Meyers’ cabin, and then tells me to go ahead and leave the walkie talkie at 8, like it’s a normal Saturday. A normal Saturday when three residents are missing and one of the ones still here has my dad as a guest.

Agatha picks up their dinners, and Jane and Edgar pick up their own separately, too, and take it all to go. Edgar tells Lydia thank you, but that’s it. Everything’s like normal. Like we’re all agreeing to fake it.

It’s not really chilly enough to start a fire, but I kind of want one, anyway, for the ambiance and just the comfort. I get it going and change into one of my sundresses. I brought two, even though I figured they wouldn’t get much use. Wearing them in an over-heated cabin is basically the extent of that so far, because they’re too chilly even with a hoodie or something on top. Truman might do the shorts and long sleeves thing, but I haven’t quite adapted to the look.

I have the throw around my shoulders and I’m sitting on the floor, just sort of staring into the fire when he knocks. I don’t turn any of the lights on, but my eyebrows go up when I open the door and see he’s got a backpack over his shoulder. “Executive decision,” he tells me with a shrug, slipping out of his shoes and setting his bag down on the floor.

I think I nod. “Do we need to talk?”

“Uh.” Truman blinks. “What’s option B?”

I bite my lip, and he laughs and starts kissing me.

Later he stokes the fire and then snuggles back up to me. “We need some sort of faux bearskin rug in here.”

“You want to have sex on a bearskin rug?” I clarify, because man, that does not sound like the Truman I know.

“Faux,” he emphasizes. “Some sort of fake something. Padded and warmer than …” He knocks on the wooden floor.

“Is that going to be your first order of business when you take over?” And how many questions can I cram into something that sounds like only one?

Truman props his head on his hand, staring generally in the direction of the fire. “Jonathan’s going to keep on keeping on. If that’s part of what you’re asking.”

I lick my lips and look up into the darkness of the ceiling. “How good does someone’s fake ID have to be to fool him?”

“They stole identities down to the social security number,” he explains, not quite dismissively, but there’s a finality to it.

“Huh.” I mean, once you’ve robbed a bank, or rather, as soon as you started planning on robbing a bank, you might as well go all the way.

“The sheriff wants Jonathan to start sharing residents’ names, but Jonathan—well, Nilo—pointed out that they would’ve gotten the stolen information, too, and no red flags would’ve been raised.” Truman shrugs.

My eyes drift over to his face. “What about Henry?”

“Reporters are allowed to get away from it all the way the rest of us are. But as soon as he writes about anything that happened here, Nilo’s ready to slap him with any number of suits.” He focuses on me. “Your dad?”

“I think he’s got Ag—Dina convinced to take off tomorrow.” I’m almost positive.

He waits a beat. “And you?”

“Tru.” I reach up to pull him down for a kiss. “You’re going to have to find someone to cook, and you’re going to need someone to do nights at least most of the time, because I’m not going all season with barely seeing you.”

He can’t hide his slow grin. “Oh?” Truman shifts his weight on top of me and starts kissing my neck. “You want me around at night for some reason?”

“I mean, I kind of want you around all the time.” And why am I blushing?

“Yeah?” Something else comes into his grin. “So you’ll take me again right now?” I cup his face in my hands and kiss him, and he moans, and I think we’re on the same page.

---

Cold Comfort: Sunday, July 14, 2024 – Henry (1)

Dear Diary,

Aaron’s asleep. I can’t blame him (it’s been a hell of a day) but my brain won’t shut down. You’ve been such a help to me, so I figure I might as well try to lay it all out.

After Percy dropped me by the side of the road and told me where to go, he had Jonathan drive around some more. He told him lefts and rights, and Jonathan obeyed, because Lydia was tied up in the back seat. I don’t know if that would work on every husband. I’d like to think so, but I also think some of them might’ve called Percy’s bluff: go ahead and hurt her. Or kill her. Just to see if Percy really meant it.

Jonathan suspects all the twists and turns were to make sure the van was basically out of gas by the time he pulled into this cabin or camp, one of those off-the-grid places people have up here because they like doing the retreat thing every summer. There was another car there, but Jonathan didn’t get a good look at it, and Percy laughed and told him not to count on that license plate, anyway.

They had Emily get in the trunk.

Jonathan had to sit there, hands on the wheel, or else they’d shoot Lydia. Lydia had to stay in the back seat or else they’d shoot Jonathan. Emily had to get out and get in the trunk or else they’d shoot her.

Diary, it doesn’t make any sense. Jonathan and Lydia didn’t have their real names, but Emily didn’t, either. And she wasn’t the only witness.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Jonathan and Lydia had to wait 10 minutes after the others drove away. They said that Mary’s face was still all bandaged, but they couldn’t have driven very far that way, right? All the police have to do is keep an eye out for an old blue Subaru that looks like every other Subaru around here, except the person in the passenger seat is a mummy, which doesn’t look like every other Subaru around here.

Lydia made Jonathan wait for the van’s clock to say 15 minutes before he came back and got her out of the ropes and stuff. He checked the little shack just in case there was a phone or something (no dice) and Lydia checked the van in case Jonathan forgot one of their cell phones in there (also no dice). They agreed, generally, where they were, and decided to drive until the gas ran out and then walk, so that’s what they did.

And here’s what they learned before they got back here: Percy and Mary robbed a bank. And Emily was at the bank when they did it. What sort of freaky coincidence is that? They wore masks, which I thought were maybe knit ski masks, except Jonathan said Mary’s mask slipped and some people saw her face. Including Emily.

When did Percy first see Emily here? I’m trying to think back, but I can’t really remember. It’s all jumbled. But Mary wasn’t dead in their cabin. I guess the thought is those bandages are from plastic surgery, and then someone wanted our real names, and …

It’s weird that they didn’t kill any of us, isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong (I’m not complaining) but when two people scheme to knock over a bank like a far more successful twenty-first century Bonnie and Clyde, and plan ahead with fake identities to pass muster for Loon Lake, and bring a gun, they’re determined to keep that money.

They could’ve killed all of us. Think about it: kill us all, and maybe someone misses Jonathan first, but that still takes days. Nobody comes here during the month. I don’t think anybody comes in during the changeover between months, either. It’s all internal, and Jonathan’s the only one who goes back and forth. So how long would it have taken anyone to come in and find us?

Days. Maybe more than a week. Aaron would’ve tried to call on Monday and got no answer, but how many times would he call before he panicked?

Alyssa’s here. She’s his one remaining daughter. I’m pretty sure he would’ve panicked if she didn’t answer.

But diary, it doesn’t make sense. None of it makes any sense. Percy and Mary robbed a bank, okay. They decided to come here under fake names until the heat died down, okay. But then, what, they see Emily? Or Percy sees Emily. Emily has no clue who they are, because she would’ve said something, right? But she doesn’t know, and instead she decided to play with Henry, who thinks she’s Annabeth instead.

God, it’s so messed up.

Percy sees me and gets me in the van, but then he dumps me. It takes me a while to get to the police, but I still get there. Same with the Meyers: he just holds them longer, but they didn’t know who the Shelleys were until the police told them.

God, all their files are going to be gone through, aren’t they? At least the Shelleys. And then Henry. Ugh. Whatever he got while he was here is gone. Alyssa and Aaron saw him with a lawyer this morning. They know she’s a lawyer because she gave them her card. Her freaking business card.

Aaron would’ve already passed it on, except this is Loon Lake. He even reached for his phone right away because he brought his, but it’s useless. I’m not necessarily looking forward to going back to having a cell phone all the time. To being available all the time. I’ll want to keep up the diary (a new diary, where I don’t call myself Agatha between the covers) but I don’t know. I don’t want to leave all of this behind.

---

Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Alyssa (3)

Henry’s layover in Chicago was ridiculous, but he wasn’t bored. He had his laptop, at least, and a couple hours into his basically overnight stay—he wasn’t going to pay for a hotel room for a mere nap, thanks—Percy’s face appeared on the giant television screens. It was a good five minutes before Henry realized he’d dropped into a full-on open-mouthed stare.

It was part of a breaking story, so he didn’t have long to wait before it came around again. “Suspected bank robbers Kyle Ferguson and Tammy Sype, identified days after the robbery on June 27, have finally been located … maybe,” the woman in the newsroom reported professionally, like she hadn’t said these exact same words not long before.

The photo on the left was clearly Percy Shelley. He was posed in front of the usual blue backdrop for studio portraits, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes and dressed in a suit and tie. The photo on the right was a stranger: a brown-haired woman in a selfie, beaming into her outstretched hand as she held her phone up over her head.

“During the robbery, Sype’s mask slipped,” the reporter explained with just enough modulation to keep from being boring. “Although her face was not caught on camera, witnesses in the bank provided enough of a description to help lead to identifying the couple, who apparently went off the grid at a tech-free retreat in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.”

Yeah, they did. At least Percy did, and Henry supposed the whole mask slipping thing explained why they’d never seen Mary. They played the jerky black-and-white footage of the robbery behind the reporter’s monologue.

“The alleged robbers apparently panicked when they realized that another member of the retreat, there for her own reasons, was in fact one of the witnesses at the bank on June 27.”

Emily. Damn it, that was Emily. Her photo was cropped close to get rid of the friends on either side, but the blue eyes, the wide smile … Emily, with the name Kimberlee Jennings below her photo.

“Ferguson and Sype should be considered armed and dangerous. Anyone who sees Ferguson, Sype, or Jennings should call 911 immediately,” the reporter warned with finality. “Do not approach.”

It was definitely a headliner sort of story, but it left so much out. What about Agatha? Or even Jane and Henry himself? And the Meyers. Were they still missing?

Suddenly blinking, Henry opened his laptop, paid through the nose for the freaking Wi-Fi, and started Googling. He had names now, and putting in one popped up the other two: Kyle Ferguson, Tammy Sype, and Kimberlee Jennings. They were already connected, and members of the Jennings family put themselves in front of cameras and behind microphones to beg for help in finding Kimmy, who, he found out a couple clicks later, was apparently at Loon Lake because she was having an affair with her married professor.

Henry thought his head might explode.

The professor paid for his sweet young thing to escape to the Upper Peninsula for a month because the heat was on. His wife moved out and took the kids with her, there were complaints to his department chair, and a whole string of former students came forward to call out his inappropriate advances. Phew. But, Henry noticed, none of those young women—all hot with huge blue eyes, because Professor Youngren had a type—had their own cabins. In fact, they seemed rather salty about the fact that they weren’t the special one.

Mrs. Youngren had yet to be reached for comment.

Shortly before coming north, Kimberlee Jennings, aka Emily, had gone to the bank, where her transactions were scrutinized: she deposited a bunch of cash. She wouldn’t need any at Loon Lake, but nobody knew where she got the cash. Hush money from Youngren, maybe?

Kimberlee Jennings was clearly the most fascinating of the witnesses at the bank that day. People were already asking if she ran off illegally or something, while others protested that of course the police knew where to find her, except the police hadn’t known where to find Ferguson and Sype.

Henry sat there rubbing his chin. Jonathan had their names—or at least one name, right? He would’ve known that one of his guests was Kyle Ferguson, and he had to have known that Kyle Ferguson was wanted for questioning in a robbery. Especially if Jonathan knew that Kyle Ferguson was accompanied by Tammy Sype. One name might be a coincidence, but two? Tammy had to have signed the NDA and everything else, right? Jonathan wouldn’t accept any residents who hadn’t.

Unless the pair of them planned it and used fake identities to book.

Hmm. If it was a good enough fake, maybe they had all the records. They could have planned it all, because they were going to hit the bank and disappear off the grid for a month before emerging under their new names, anyway.

Henry hadn’t seen the photos of Ferguson and Sype before. He wasn’t entirely sure of the timeline. Had they been identified before he got to Loon Lake, or had he just not been aware because the story wasn’t big enough to cross state lines initially? But he did understand why Percy would be upset at the idea of the residents having to show their real names.

Or their faces. Both their faces.

Henry shook his head as he continued looking through the Internet to see if anyone, anywhere had more information than this. It didn’t look like they did, which meant he, personally, was a gold mine. A gold mine who’d have his cell phone back soon enough and was reachable by email now.

Henry should probably start sending some of his own emails now.

On July 1 of this year, I arrived at Loon Lake Retreat as a resident alongside Ferguson, Sype, and Jennings. Brilliant. He didn’t even have to start out by saying he’d never met Sype and he thought Jennings was actually Annabeth Deschain. The main point was he’d been there, but he was out now and therefore both reachable and willing to write … for the highest bidder. This summer might pay for itself after all.

---

Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Agatha (3)

Truman keeps checking in on me using just his eyes. Dad’s in my space, sitting right here and probably not realizing he’s just demanding that I give in. So Truman’s not on my other side, reaching for my hand or my shoulder or my knee, but he’s letting me know he’s willing to step in if I need him to. Yeah, I haven’t had nearly enough of him, either.

Dad’s used to people listening to him. Mom would point that out to my brothers all the time: he’s used to people showing him respect, but in Dad-speak, showing respect means obeying without questioning. You can’t respectfully disagree with Dad. He won’t let you.

The guys got off to college before Mom died. With Jim it was just barely, but he made it. She insisted, and intervened when she had to, but she never actually put herself between Dad and Jim, or Dad and Ken, when they were arguing. She’d stand back, and wait for things to calm down, and then work on one of them later. It wasn’t always Dad. Sometimes she had to sit Ken or Jim down and give them the Really? eyebrow and work on that side of things. And maybe I’m thinking about all this so I don’t have to listen to Dad’s carefully reasoned list of why I should leave here right now, despite the implied loss of income and the sudden change of plans.

“Lyssie.” He reaches across the table to cover my hands with his own. “We’ll figure it out.”

Mom chuckles in my mind, because it hasn’t occurred to Dad that maybe I’ve already figured it out.

The lodge door opens and we all turn to it like sunflowers at dawn, but it’s not a police officer. Edgar blinks at the attention, then grins, but it’s a little self-conscious because hey, it’s not just us. “Hi.”

“Hey, Edgar. This is my dad.” Who’s staring. “Dad, this is Edgar.” I couldn’t have said Dad knows who Edgar is, but he has to blink a couple times.

“Edgar.” Dad clears his throat and stands up to shake hands. “Aaron.”

Edgar nods. “Your daughter’s awesome, by the way. Not that I think you don’t know it.”

“Yeah, she is,” he agrees automatically, but Dad’s still starstruck. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s saying.

Truman clears his throat, but he doesn’t have to bring a hand up to hide a smile or anything. “What’s up, Edgar?”

He professionally ignores Dad’s glassy stare. “Have you heard anything? At all?”

Truman shakes his head. “They haven’t told us. Henry’s gone, though. We saw him leave.”

Edgar snorts and mutters something that might not be in English and probably isn’t a blessing on Henry’s health and home. “I heard Agatha’s back? And she’s okay?” His eyes slide past Dad and land on me.

The last word was more of a question than the rest of the sentence, so I shrug and nod. “Percy kicked her out of the van and told her where to walk. I think he was just buying time. She’s in her cabin now. Dad?”

“Yeah, I should, uh.” Dad clears his throat, and either he figures that maybe Edgar wants some privacy, or he remembers that Dina exists. “I should go and … nice meeting you, Edgar.”

They shake again, and Edgar waits until the door closes to sigh and smile a little ruefully. “Sometimes I don’t understand my own demographic.”

“You’re hot,” Truman tells him with a shrug. “Sorry, not sorry. Did you want Alyssa to get you some caffeine?”

“I mean, I’ll take it if you’re offering,” Edgar tells me, coming to a chair across the table from me but not the one Dad just vacated.

“Today’s a good day for caffeine.” I get up and go over to the machine, even though it’s plenty loud and we’ll have to shout our conversation. “Do you need to get out and make some calls and stuff?” Jonathan’s the one with the email passwords, but there’s always the library.

Edgar waves that away with both hands. “If someone really needs me, they’ll drive up like your dad did. Otherwise, I’m out of reach until August, and I’m sticking by that. Even if it’s not staying here.”

Truman grimaces as he sits down, too. “If for any reason Jonathan and Lydia are unable to continue at Loon Lake, I’m the one it falls to. I mean, I hope this isn’t a forever thing at this juncture, but legally I’m in charge. The point of all that being I’m here to fulfill your contract for the rest of the month, even if there might be a decline in home cooking.”

He doesn’t look at me as he says this, even though it wouldn’t take much to turn and meet my eyes. I mean, it’s not like I can blame him. We’ve barely touched on October of this year, much less the rest of our lives.

We’ll need a cook. Someone who loves spreadsheets and planning as much as Lydia does. But not for years and years, because she’s fine and she’s coming back and next year Jonathan will just call up Truman and make sure we’re both returning.

I concentrate on the latte art. It’s a special one I’ve been perfecting, just for Edgar, and it doesn’t turn out quite right, but that’s part of the charm. When I set the mug down in front of him, he looks, pauses, and dissolves into laughter. “If I Instagrammed that, it would blow up.”

Truman clucks his tongue. “Can’t Instagram anything from Loon Lake.”

“Damn it. Because that’s good. I’m touched. Seriously.” His smile is warm and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“She doesn’t do custom latte art for just anyone.” Truman winks at me. “I might be jealous.”

“Okay, I was going to ask if you want something, too, but now it feels weird,” I inform him.

“I’m fine, thanks.” He grins at me to say that maybe he’s actually more than fine.

I could use a latte, mostly for the comfort aspect of something normal, so I return to the machine and get it ready for another round.

“Alyssa, are you staying?” Edgar turns to slightly look at me, but not fully head-on, like I’m a wild animal who might startle.

“Yes.” I say it before I can soften it to something like That’s the plan, because softening it would be the wrong move. Dad’s intent on me leaving, even before we figure out what’s really going on, and he’s probably going to take Dina away ASAP, but I don’t want to go. This is nothing I went to school for, and nothing I ever really thought I’d be doing, but I relax here in ways I haven’t anywhere else. Even dealing with cranky residents is something I know I can handle.

“Good.” Edgar sips his latte. “I might have to come back. Probably not next summer, since I’ve got too much going on, but I like it here.” He grins again. “It’s nothing like I thought I’d like, but I like it here.” Truman winks at me again, because he knows I feel the same way, but whatever he’s going to say doesn’t come out because the lodge door opens and it’s not a policeman. It’s Jonathan and Lydia, and I abandon my latte and Truman knocks over a chair in our rush to go hug them.

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Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Henry (3)