a wide plastic deck chair overlooking the lake. He closed his eyes and murmured a quick prayer before digging in, eating the spaghetti cold as he watched the activity on the water. Boats sped by, some towing skiers, others inner tubes, as locals and tourists made the most of the too-short Wisconsin summer.
Sam had a cell phone that Luke paid for. Not expecting much, he pushed the speed-dial connection for his son.
And almost fell of his chair when Sam answered. “Yeah?”
Nonplussed, he tried to think of something to say. Yelling at Sam for not being home wouldn’t work. “Hey, how are you? I’m sorry I missed you.”
“Fine.”
He grimaced at the one-word answer but doggedly tried again. “What are you up to? Have big plans for tonight?”
“No.”
Pulling every tooth out of his head without novocaine would be easier than carrying on a conversation with his son. “Oh yeah? So you’re just hanging around? With anyone I know?”
A pause. “Doug. Look, I gotta go. See ya later.” Sam hung up before he could remind his son that his curfew on Friday nights was twelve-thirty.
Luke snapped his phone shut, trying to look positively on the one-sided conversation. His son had answered the phone. And he’d admitted he was hanging out with Doug. Maybe Sam was mellowing out a bit. Maybe Sam wasn’t just biding his time until he was eighteen and finished with high school and could blow his father off for good.
Too bad he didn’t really believe that.
The ache in his chest intensified, and he rubbed the area over his heart with his hand. Sam’s resentment hurt. Luke was very afraid of losing his son, hardly able to find remnants of the good kid Sam had once been before Shelia died. Sam’s lack of respect made him so angry. Yet Sam had only started getting in trouble after Luke lost control when cancer stole Shelia’s life.
How long would his son pay for his own sins? He hoped and prayed it would not be for long.
Luke stared out over the water long after the hubbub of activity had died down. No-wake rules after dusk usually put an end to the fun. Or rather, he thought with a grimace, the fun took another form, like bonfires and parties.
Is that where Sam was now? Partying somewhere with the other high school kids? Drinking? Drugs? Sex? He had no idea what Sam was doing these days. He’d searched Sam’s room for incriminating evidence but had yet to find anything. Sam was too smart to make it easy. Sam rarely invited anyone from high school over to the house, so he didn’t really know his son’s friends very well, except for Doug, who lived on the other side of the lake.
Sam hadn’t exactly blended into the crowd when they’d moved in, and Luke wasn’t sure how much had changed in the past year and a half.
He kept his police radio close at hand. He was always expected to be on call in case something happened. Luckily it almost never did. The worst thing he’d experienced was when Eric Landers got drunk and put a gun to his head. They didn’t have access to a crime team, so he’d used his old homicide skills to make sure they weren’t missing something. After examining the evidence, Dan Koenig and the ME had both ruled Eric’s death a suicide. There had only been one other death in his short tenure here, a hunter who had been shot by accident when he’d stayed out past dusk. Tragic, but not a homicide. The two events had created a lot of stir amongst the locals, providing gossip fuel for weeks.
Luke was glad there weren’t many crimes in Crystal Lake. It was one of the reasons he’d moved here. He’d hoped Sam would flourish in better surroundings. In a place where life was simple and there were fewer negative influences.
Please Lord, help guide Sam home. And help me to be patient with him. Help give me the strength and wisdom to know how to handle him. I’m asking You to watch over him, Lord. Amen.
Luke must have dozed, because his radio blaring next to him woke him up. “Sheriff? Sheriff? Do you read me?”
Night had fallen, and he reached for the radio, fumbling with the buttons. “Copy that. What’s up, Tony?”
“Found a dead body floating in the lake.”
Oh, boy. He had heard tourists who drank too much and fell out of their boats were not uncommon in the summer months in the area. And there was nothing worse than a floater. “Got an ID on the vic?”
“Yeah.” There was a small silence. “You’d better get out here, Sheriff. This girl is local and she didn’t die by accident.”
He shot to his feet, instantly wide awake, his gaze sharp in the moonlight. “What do you mean she didn’t die by accident?”
“She was murdered.” Tony’s voice sounded strained. “Strangled with a towrope before being dumped in the water.”
TWO
Megan had trouble falling asleep, and when she did she dreamed of Katie. Even though at some level Megan knew it was a dream, she still heard the sounds of a struggle as Katie fought her captor. Katie’s muffled cry somehow pierced her consciousness and she awoke, her heart pounding as if she’d been the one attacked instead of her sister.
If only she could go back, to the night Katie had been murdered. Maybe if she’d gone with her sister to the pub, Katie would still be alive today. Katie had asked her to go along to Flannigan’s, as she was planning to meet some new guy she’d met during her job in the college library, but Megan hadn’t gone with her because she had to work early the next morning. So she sent Katie off by herself.
Only to be woken hours later to investigate a crime scene. Never in a million years had she expected to find Katie as the victim.
Megan splashed cold water on her face and then crawled back into bed and tried to fall back asleep. But as much as she needed rest, she kept hearing sounds outside. Wildlife, no doubt. After so many years in the city, the sounds of the animals took some getting used to.
A loud pounding on her door startled her so badly she almost fell out of bed. For a moment she wondered if she was dreaming again, but no, the pounding continued. Then it stopped. Her imagination? Or reality? She hated not being sure.
Her cell phone rang and she grabbed it from her bedside table, staring at it apprehensively, not recognizing the number. When was the last time anyone had called her? Her friend from Chicago, Shana Dawson, had probably called once or twice, but it had been so long ago she honestly couldn’t remember. Hesitantly, she flipped open the phone. “Hello?”
“Megan? This is Sheriff Torretti. We need your help. I’m standing outside your door.”
Relief that she hadn’t imagined the pounding was quickly replaced by surprise that the sheriff had her cell number, and then replaced again by cold dread. She scrambled out of bed and grabbed her robe. “I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.”
Why would the sheriff need her help? She cinched the robe tightly around her waist and flipped on the porch light so she could see through the front window to verify that it was, indeed, the sheriff out there, before she unlatched the dead bolt on the door. When she opened it, she realized the man standing on her doorstep was the same one she’d met earlier that day outside of Rose’s Cafe. She
