Tag: thriller novel

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), coming August 28

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.

---

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

Dear Diary,

It wasn’t like a movie reunion. I don’t know of any action movie heroine who has snot running out of her nose because she’s crying too hard to even kiss him. I think Jane stepped out, but honestly, I can’t entirely remember. I wasn’t really paying attention to anyone else. As soon as I saw Aaron coming, they didn’t matter. I couldn’t have played gracious hostess even if I’d wanted to. Even if it was my cabin.

I’m in my cabin now. I haven’t started packing because I’m not entirely sure I want to pack right away. Alyssa’s not leaving. I know that much even if Aaron’s not convinced yet.

Diary, he’s not ready to let her go. It hasn’t been like this before. He’s never stood next to her with a boyfriend on the other side and realized she’s closer to the boyfriend than she is to him. Not even physically. If Aaron and Truman are around, even if Aaron’s right at her side and Truman’s all the way across the room, it’s so obvious that I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, except it’s also just … there. They don’t make a big deal about it, to the point where I’m not sure Alyssa’s entirely aware of it yet, but damn. If I believed in red strings of fate, there’d be one connecting the two of them.

Aaron’s up at the lodge talking to them now. I don’t think he wants to be with both of them in Alyssa’s cabin, on her home turf, where Truman’s obviously been before. After he and I finished our part of the reunion, he wanted to start working on her.

I love the man. I do. And I understand a lot of what he wants, but it doesn’t always get across the way he means it to. I figure he’ll come back here, where at least it’s just the two of us and we’re not kicking Jane out of her own place, and he’ll probably want to rant a bit about how Alyssa’s grown up and independent and defying him for the first important time in her life, and then we can get down to the other part of our reunion.

Diary, my money’s on us staying here tonight. Possibly more than one night, depending on how things actually unfold (if they continue to unfold) and if we find out Percy and the others have been found.

Truman’s staying because he’s basically the one in charge now that Jonathan and Lydia aren’t here, and he has to make sure Loon Lake doesn’t completely crumble without them. Aaron gets that, I think, but he doesn’t get why Alyssa feels such a connection to this place. She’s only been here two months, and he’s been her dad her whole life.

Maybe he doesn’t remember how fast we fell. How my dad tried to put his foot down because I’m basically the same age as Aaron’s kids. Or maybe he doesn’t want to admit how some of that speed was me just defying my dad. It wasn’t all me defying my dad, thank God, but that was part of it.

She’s never argued with him. The boys, sure, they had their clashes and they’ve basically completely broken free, but Alyssa’s the one who just shows up when you need her. She’s quiet, and dependable, and she puts you first because nobody’s ever told her that she deserves some of that, too. Except for Truman. So now we’ve got an unstoppable force, immovable object situation, and I’m sitting here waiting to see how long Aaron will be before he comes back.

---

Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Alyssa (2)

It wasn’t hard not to speak to anyone as he was driven up to the retreat, scrutinized by two cops, and followed by one to the Longfellow cabin. Henry nearly botched which thumb he had to use for the back door, but he caught himself, opened it, and let both his lawyer and the officer follow him inside. First he went to the safe to pull out his wallet and show his ID, and then, still fully supervised, he started packing.

The officer was there to make sure he didn’t take anything belonging to the Meyers, and his lawyer was there to make sure he wasn’t stopped from taking all of his own belongings. Henry didn’t know how they were going to tell, exactly, and nobody was making a list, but she told him not to worry about that. He just needed to gather his stuff—all of his stuff, because this was his one chance—and make good on his retreat. This probably meant heading all the way home, all things considered, and Henry wasn’t sure if he could adjust his plane ticket or if he’d have to buy a new one. At least his address was on his ID, so they’d know where he was going, and then he’d finally have his cell phone back.

He’d snuck the recording necklace in, but he’d obeyed the rules and left his cell phone at home. Even if he’d brought it, though, he didn’t think he wanted to stay somewhere nearby, paying for a hotel when he wouldn’t get any money back from the retreat. When he’d be facing a lawsuit from the retreat, if not also the individuals who stayed there.

It didn’t take long to pack. Henry did a final sweep of the various rooms, checking drawers, and then nodded at his lawyer. She took one of the big suitcases, which still gave him a lot to juggle, but whatever. He loaded himself up as his own pack mule and they left the officer there, maybe so he could try to figure out how to prop a door or something so they could get back in if they needed to. If they didn’t have Jonathan’s master thumb print, they’d get locked out.

It was easy to hold his silence until they approached the lodge just as that door opened and three people came out: Truman, Alyssa … and Aaron Gladieux. Henry stopped and stared, even though of course he’d seen Gladieux before. Behind a fence or a car window, sure, but this wasn’t really much different. Except now he could see them next to each other, Aaron and Alyssa, and look past the differences—height, amount of hair, builds—to see the commonalities. The family resemblance. It wasn’t so obvious he felt the need to kick himself for missing it before, but it was there.

Aaron looked down at his daughter, who must have taken after Eileen as far as height, and Henry picked his name off her lips. His July name. Even though yesterday he’d given his real name and this morning he’d shown the ID that confirmed it.

His lawyer was ahead of him, but she paused, sighed, and left his one bag there to come back. Henry thought she’d yell at him, but instead she pulled something out of her pocket and offered each of the three people by the lodge her card.

Of course. He wasn’t allowed to talk to them, and part of her job was keeping them from talking to him. Maybe Aaron Gladieux didn’t entirely know who “Henry” was or what he meant to his family, but he’d find out soon enough. Just the temperature of Alyssa’s stare, my God. There was no customer service mask that could take away the chill. Henry realized his lawyer was looking at him, probably to avoid using any version of his name, and he ducked his head and started walking again, hit on all sides by his luggage because he couldn’t seem to find his stride. It was a retreat, a full retreat, and there was no point in hiding it now. This was time for him to get out, to find the earliest flight with an open seat and head on home with his tail between his legs where he could at least spend more time choosing a permanent lawyer.

---

Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Agatha (2)

Truman didn’t ask if he could stay last night. He told me he’d sleep on the couch if I wanted, but he simply was staying. I didn’t make him sleep on the couch.

It was clear Agatha—it’s hard to know how I’m supposed to think about her right now—suspected she’d interrupted something between us, something more than just sitting there, not saying anything, with Truman’s arms around me as I burrowed into his chest, but that’s not the case. She really didn’t want to stay, and Jane said she could sleep over in Austen, so that’s all right, I guess. And Dad’s coming. Agatha insisted on handing me my cell phone so I could see what he’d texted, but then she also did a disappearing act.

Truman didn’t ask about it, or even mention it. I guess he already knows I haven’t dated much, and definitely not in front of her.

He offered to go up to the lodge and get us some dinner, though. Cook something in Lydia’s kitchen if that’s what I wanted, but I balked at that. It’s like her sacred space. So he picked up some of the frozen meals, which I think he did mostly so I could read Dad’s message without him peering over my shoulder, because I haven’t said anything about him to Dad and I don’t know if Agatha has, but now it’s morning, I’m keeping an eye on the time, and they’re going to meet soon enough.

Truman’s still asleep, and he never sleeps this late. I’m guessing he didn’t get much rest last night, all things considered. I kept waking up, and it’s my cabin and I thought I knew all the creaks and groans, but every single noise was clearly Percy trying to break in, even though it doesn’t make sense for him to come back. Basically, they let us stay here because whatever they found in the Shelley cabin, which of course they didn’t let us in on, supported the idea that they were fleeing.

Fleeing, and Emily, Lydia, and Jonathan are part of their master plan. They didn’t need Agatha, so Jonathan dropped her off, which is a weird sort of solicitous gesture, but they didn’t let Emily out. She’s involved somehow. The man calling on Tuesday wanted to talk to Emily.

Truman takes a deeper breath, rolls over, and snuggles up to me. “You’re thinking really loud again.”

“It’s almost ten,” I argue. “You should’ve been up for hours.”

“Kicking me out of bed, are you?” he groans, which normally would work on me, but …

“My dad’s going to be here soon.” I, for one, don’t think him catching me in bed, or answering the door, clearly hastily dressed and with my hair still a mess, is the best way to negotiate what’s coming.

Truman sighs, kisses my shoulder, and then props his head up on his hand so he can look at me. “Is he going to order you to leave?”

“I am legally an adult and have been for some time.” Look at me, neatly dodging the question.

He shakes his head. “That doesn’t mean he won’t order you.”

“If they haven’t found Jonathan and Lydia yet …” That, at least, would be an actual argument on Dad’s end.

The thought makes Truman hold up a finger and scoot out of bed, padding barefoot into the main room. When he comes back, he picks up his jeans and starts to put them on. “Phone’s still out. I’ll ask on the way back to my cabin. Shower and meet at the lodge?”

“Yeah, okay.” At least it’s a plan.

“Hey.” He leans over the bed to kiss me softly before grabbing his T-shirt. “This isn’t exactly when I was planning on mentioning it, but there’s always my place. If you don’t want to go back home. Option B.”

My smile feels lopsided. “Your tiny house.”

Truman shrugs. “Two can live as cheap as one? I don’t know, Lyssa. I just haven’t had nearly enough of you yet.”

I catch his hand and pull him back down for a better kiss. “I’ll meet you at the lodge.”

He touches my cheek, not quite a hesitation, before he nods and goes to get his shoes.

I wait for the click of the door before getting up and heading to the bathroom, totally not thinking of Psycho, even though Percy had a gun instead of a knife. He could’ve had both. Just because neither Jane nor Henry told us he had one doesn’t mean he didn’t.

I take my time washing my hair and scrubbing the rest of me, like removing a layer of skin means being a new person. Erasing yesterday. I don’t really wear makeup even when I’m not in the middle of the woods, so I don’t have to worry about that, and I blow-dry my hair before getting dressed. It’s cloudy out there, and I could use the comfort, so jeans and a hoodie it is. I stick my phone in the pocket even though it’s basically useless and totally pause and do a slow scan of what I can see out the front windows before I open the door and head up to the lodge.

There’s a police officer inside, filling up one to-go cup and one thermos, and he nods a greeting. It’s strange having someone here, but I can’t really blame them for wanting coffee, so I nod back. The food in the fridge cases is fine, and there wasn’t anything left out on the table or the counters that couldn’t be kept at room temperature, so the dining room isn’t weird, exactly, even if it also is. “Is there any news?” I ask, because hey, I don’t have to wait for Truman.

The man shakes his head. “We’ll let you know.”

I shiver but return his departure nod, because they have the description of the van and the license plate. It doesn’t say Loon Lake on the side or anything but, with all they know, and how soon they must’ve learned of what happened …

Truman ends up holding the door so the officer can exit, then comes in and frowns, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” I agree, turning to the espresso machine and getting it going. Edgar must’ve had to fend for himself this morning. “Well, nothing they’re telling us.”

He tilts his head and comes in to pick up and inspect an apple. “Percy didn’t kill any of the others.”

Not the ones he let go, no.

Sighing, he puts the apple back and turns to face me, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. “This doesn’t feel good.”

“No.” I pull out my phone and give it a little shake. “I wish this worked.”

“Yeah?” He smiles at me, almost teasing. “What would you Google?”

“Hell if I know.” I nod at the machine. “You want anything?”

“A red eye.” He hesitates, but apparently I’m too locked in for him break into my personal space bubble.

I nod and focus on the steps involved with pulling perfect shots of espresso.

There’s nothing we can do. We’ve done all we can: reported it. Told them all we know. Kept out of the way of their investigation. Stayed here, where they can keep an eye on us and make sure we’re not communicating with the Shelleys as inside men. That almost triggers something, but as soon as I try to look at the thought, it slips from my grasp. Truman comes to join me and kisses my temple when I pass him his mug, but I don’t immediately start making my own drink because I hear voices outside, one of them in a familiar cadence, so I turn and wipe my hands on my jeans and all but fall into my dad’s arms.

---

Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Henry (2)

Dear Diary,

There’s a lot to catch up on. I didn’t have any energy to write yesterday, after everything, but now we’re just waiting again.

I don’t want to talk much about yesterday. Or I guess I already talked about it, and it went on the record, and it was hours before they let me out because they didn’t actually care about yesterday. Diary, they wanted to grill me about early June, because Annabeth Deschain’s been murdered, and last night was the perfect time for them to come after me.

Well. “Perfect.” I snapped at them and didn’t ask for a lawyer and told them I was home, moping, for most of June, thank you very much, because my only child was dead, and so sorry, pals, but there aren’t really witnesses to that. Maria still comes in to clean, but once a week now, so she wouldn’t be super helpful. Although she’d probably say “Yeah, sure, Dina was always on the couch in the same spot, so maybe she never even moved.”

That’s pretty much the truth. This whole retreat thing was supposed to break that momentum.

Diary, at least I didn’t crash out until they let me go, and Jane was still waiting, and she handed me Alyssa’s phone. I don’t know if she knew by then why it made sense, or if she just handed it over, but she also had Alyssa’s keys, and we were told they’d be watching the retreat and all vehicles in and out, and we’d already paid for those beds.

I called Aaron as soon as I had signal. Jane drove. That was good because I started crying. Part of it was the way he answered (“Lyssa, my God, what’s going on?”) and part of it was how I had to tell him that it wasn’t Lyssa, it’s me, and I had no idea how she was. And he probably wouldn’t find out for a while, because we were heading back into the dead zone, and I’d heard something about the phones.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m on the first flight in tomorrow. I’ll drive up and see you both.” So right now that’s part of what I’m waiting for: the plane. Aaron’s rental car. The police stopping him and checking his ID and letting him through.

I’m in Jane’s cabin. I saw Alyssa last night. I handed her phone back, which didn’t have signal, but he texted before we left the service area so she could still read a note from her dad.

She flung her arms around me and hugged me tightly and cried a little into my shoulder, which is weird, maybe, because we’re not really demonstrative, but we were stressed. And at least she was glad to see me, I suppose. But I wasn’t going to stay in her cabin, even though I didn’t want to be alone, because I figured Truman was staying, and I didn’t want to ruin that. If it’s not ruined already.

Stop, Agatha. Truman’s been through his own hell and he’s not going to let something like this send him running. But what do I know? He’s always Truman, the employee, around me. Just because he was in her cabin, with his tea …

Jane suggested I stay with her, because at least it’s on the side of the retreat away from the Shelleys’ cabin. If they try to come back, it’s more likely they’ll go that way. That’s also maybe why Truman was in Alyssa’s cabin instead of her being in his, but it doesn’t really matter. I accepted. We ate some of her cereal for dinner and then collapsed into bed. Now it’s morning, she’s still asleep, I’ve made coffee and had some more cereal, and I’m waiting for someone to come around knocking.

They think I murdered Annabeth. I suppose it makes sense. Annabeth killed my baby and got off because she did the wide eyes thing and played a child. She’s untouchable by the law even though she ripped my family apart, and those journal entries? Of course I can see why a younger woman would be attracted to Aaron. I certainly was at her age. But I didn’t just write in a journal about it and hide the fact that I was mooning around over him. We actually talked, and it wasn’t just about business. We did drinks. Dinner. Dates.

Annabeth seemed professional. That’s one of the reasons we picked her. And Dani Jay liked her. She’d go to her, and fuss when it was time to come back to me the same way she’d fuss when she had to leave me and go to Annabeth. Dani Jay trusted her. We all did. When those journal entries came out …

Aaron was completely poleaxed. He had no idea. It’s like gaslighting, I guess: all these entries about the secret looks he gave her or these code phrases and he had no idea, but they all added up. They made Annabeth decide to kill Dani Jay.

Why didn’t she kill me instead? That’s my question. I thought she loved Dani Jay, the same way the rest of us did. She should’ve been just as devastated and heartbroken as the family if it was just an accident. A terrible accident. The kind that happens and breaks families all the time.

She should’ve been plagued with doubts the same way we were, but she was so clear: I told Dina that Dani Jay was playing in the yard. Maybe she shouldn’t have, because that means she left Dani Jay alone in the yard, but nobody ever came after her for that. Dani Jay was apparently old enough to be left in the yard alone, as long as her stupid parents didn’t leave the gate open or bump the cover off the hot tub.

And it wasn’t actually all that usual. Most days if Annabeth didn’t bring Dani Jay in to me, it’s because she was asleep somewhere, like her bed or the couch. Not out there playing. I shouldn’t have been able to not realize the time, because there should’ve been 28 pounds of toddler flinging herself into my lap. But that’s what Annabeth kept saying: I told Dina, and she didn’t look up, but she said okay.

It doesn’t matter that I know I looked up at 3, which was when Annabeth’s day ended. That I know I looked up, and then got up and went looking for them. That the delay wasn’t mine. We didn’t make her clock in and clock out or anything, but that was the contract: 8 until 3 on weekdays, and then again 7 until 11 on Thursdays. We wanted a date night, but we didn’t want to take Annabeth’s Friday nights away from her. That’s how conscientious we were about her time.

Dani Jay was Annabeth’s responsibility until 3 p.m. That’s when I started looking for them. Whatever happened, it happened when Annabeth should’ve been watching her. But, by the time the alarm was raised (damn Annabeth for the delay) it didn’t matter. She sloughed it all off and then kept daydreaming about Aaron and damned if she didn’t write down some spicy daydreams that still haunt me.

So honestly, if I had killed her, could anyone blame me? But she disappeared. I guess until they came to the decision not to go to trial, some lawyer somewhere had to know where she was, but she’s gone. I even tried. I asked our lawyer, and he looked into it and said nope, she’s gone off the grid. Ages ago, diary. No way to find her. God, I hope he gets here soon. I hope there’s news. When all you’re doing is waiting, you keep having to push away the worst.

---

Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Alyssa (1)

Henry suspected his lawyer was a fraud, or at least hadn’t passed the bar, but what could you expect up here? There were too many pine trees and not enough people to support a really good lawyer, so he had to make do with the one who showed up, and he didn’t even have a cell phone to Google her name and figure out if he was just being put on.

She seemed fine with Henry not surrendering any of his private papers, which was good, but she also put her foot down about Henry going back to Loon Lake for the night, even with the police watching the only road in. It wasn’t a question of danger from the missing residents, she informed him, but the ones who would be spending the night in their usual beds. “Your cabin’s sealed,” she told Henry, in case he forgot. “They can’t get in, and the police would have to break in, for which they have no warrant and no probable cause. You’ll get a room for the night, and stay there, and talk to no one, and when we get the chance, I’ll take you up so you can clear out your belongings. And just your belongings.” She’d repeated that talk to no one thing multiple times, like he was going to immediately start sharing the story—his story—with someone who would then just go and publish it first.

He didn’t have a car, and he didn’t have his wallet, so she found him a hotel room and paid for it with the understanding that really he was the one paying for it, and he ordered room service on the tab, and had a television he could watch, but other than that, it was just him, in the clothes he’d thrown on, with nothing to do. There wasn’t even a pad of paper and a pen with the hotel’s logo on it. It was simply a room, and honestly, he supposed he should be grateful there was an attached restaurant so he could get some food.

Henry tried finding local news, but there didn’t seem to be any. He could flip through maybe eight stations, and one of them was national news, but he didn’t see anything about Loon Lake. His lawyer probably liked that. Maybe she’d picked the place because she knew he’d be stuck with the Weather Channel, PBS, and Fox News.

Henry was bored out of his ever-loving mind. He didn’t have his notes, he didn’t have his knitting, and he didn’t have any way of pitching the story he was in the middle of living, or even starting to write that story. He was just stuck in this one-star motel in freaking Eagle Harbor, Michigan, which basically wasn’t on any map, simply waiting. He didn’t even know if today was the day he’d get to go north and get his stuff, including all those notes his lawyer had at least helped him keep, or …

Or. What was the or? He either got this story, this new and weird story, or he had nothing. He didn’t have Annabeth Deschain, and he certainly didn’t have Emily’s real name. He didn’t even have Alyssa’s phone anymore. Jane took that, and after he’d asked for a lawyer, he hadn’t seen Jane. He didn’t know what was going on at all, and that was annoying.

Plus Percy pointed a gun at him yesterday. When he showered with the hotel soap, it was partly to get the sticky spots off his arms and ankles. And his toe. He should’ve thought the whole shower thing through because water falling onto his ripped-off nail bed was painful, and he had to call the front desk and ask if they had Band-Aids or something. The police took the duct tape off him just fine, but he hadn’t mentioned the toe, so that wasn’t documented. Nobody cared. So here he sat, having drunk the serving of coffee provided in the room, not sure if there was breakfast anywhere around here, or if his underwear was dry where it hung on the rack in the bathroom, or if he’d have to somehow get through today and another night completely cut off and unable to make any decisions for himself. Really, it wasn’t fair.

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Cold Comfort: Saturday, July 13, 2024 – Agatha (1)

from Dina Lauritsen’s statement to the police, Friday, July 12

I was in the lodge, and I think I was alone. You can’t always tell if Lydia’s in the kitchen, but things were really quiet. Nobody was at the desk. I was sitting there with a book, sort of waiting for human contact, I guess, and things felt weird. I don’t really have a reason for it, but they did, so I was jumpy. I couldn’t eat. I just sat there in the dining room, keeping an ear out for the door and just … waiting.

I heard voices. Percy’s voice. He said something like “You cut all this off and she won’t die.” Then Jonathan said something, some protest, about Lydia. I couldn’t move. He was begging for her life, asking them not to hurt her, and Percy just growled at him to do whatever he was supposed to do.

I should’ve moved. I probably could’ve gotten up and at least put myself out of the line of sight from the desk without being seen—he was focused on Jonathan and whatever they were doing—but I didn’t. I froze. And I saw the gun, and I still froze. Then Percy saw me, and he kept the gun on Jonathan, but he pointed to me, and he said something like “Well, Agatha, time to live one of your mystery novels.”

I had my bag, the big hobo purse, and I automatically picked it up when I stood. I guess he figured I wouldn’t have a cell phone inside, so it was fine. I had my journal, and that’s … when he had me get into the back of the van, that’s when I wrote something to Aaron, in case he’d ever find it. Because I thought I was going to die. I didn’t know what I’d walked into, but I was going to die.

There were people already in the van. Lydia and Emily were in the back seat, hands tied together, and mouths duct taped. I don’t know if anything else was tied, because someone else sat in the van, and she had a gun, too. A gun, and bandages all over her face. Like the Invisible Man or something. It’s a big van, three rows of passenger seats, so she had me get in the middle one, and she sat there in the front one, next to the door, with her gun, and Percy got into the shotgun seat and told Jonathan to drive.

That’s when I snuck my journal out and wrote that. Nobody was paying any attention to the three women in the back. They didn’t tie me or tape me. I guess they figured the guns were enough. Which, I mean, they were. I didn’t even ask any questions. I didn’t want to die. I know what I wrote, what I wanted Aaron to see if he ever found it, but I didn’t want to die.

Percy told Jonathan what turns to take, and there were a lot of them. It was weird, because when Jonathan brought us up it wasn’t exactly a straight shot, but it was a lot more highway. Percy took back roads, but I don’t even know all the back roads. I didn’t look up anything about the area, because Jonathan picked me up at the airport and he’d drive me back, and otherwise I’d just stay at Loon Lake. So that seemed weird. That Percy knows the area.

I don’t know how long we drove. I didn’t check my watch when we started. I just know that Percy told Jonathan to pull over, even though there wasn’t a shoulder to the road. It was one of the skinny ones that’s barely enough pavement for two lanes, and no traffic. But Jonathan stopped, and Percy looked at the woman in the rearview mirror, and she sighed and opened the van door. “You, get,” she told me, and I grabbed my bag again. Habit, I guess. Or comfort. But they didn’t stop me.

I almost fell, because my legs were Jell-O, but Percy cranked down his window and leaned out. “Sorry you got dragged into this,” he told me, but he didn’t look sorry. He was just checking something off his list. Dusting his hands. “Wait until we’re out of sight, then follow this road until you hit the lake. Turn left.” That was it: hit the lake and turn left. He rolled up his window and I guess he told Jonathan to drive again.

They drove off. I didn’t have a camera or anything for GPS, and I didn’t have my knitting, but I had a spare charging cord for my kindle, and I tied that around a tree. They’re right up close to the road there, and the cord’s white, so it should be obvious. Then I scuffed an arrow in the dirt—I don’t know why, because it’s not going to last—pointing the way I was walking, and I started walking.

There was nothing. If there had been a house or even a street sign, I could’ve written down an address. Walked up to the house and asked to use the phone. There weren’t even any cars. I could’ve flagged one down, or at least caused enough of a nuisance that maybe somebody would’ve complained about the crazy lady. It was just trees and trees and trees, until I finally saw the lake, and at least I had a street sign so I could write that down.

I saw the beachy turnout, and there were cars, so you probably know this part. I asked someone if there was cell service and they could call 911, but their phone didn’t work. I guess they didn’t want to take me in their car and go however far to reach a police station with a stranger, but someone else said he had a CB on his motorcycle, so he’s the one who called. I didn’t talk to anyone while we waited, because I didn’t really know what to say, and it’s been, well, less than two weeks at Loon Lake, but I was never much for small talk, anyway. So I waited, and you came and picked me up, and brought me here, and can I ask my questions now? Because I saw Alyssa’s car outside, so if she’s here, can I see her? Is she okay?

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