Page 2 of Lake House Killer

Death is too easy, too cowardly, too much of a dream for the snakes that lie in wait.

Tonight, I am simply an avenger in the shadow set to balance the scales. They’ve wronged me in ways they barely comprehend, in ways that have left scars deep within me. And with each step I take this evening, it’s a step toward rectifying a past rife with betrayal.

I glance back at the cabin, its windows spilling light into the darkness. It’s almost time. I trek over to the next evergreen as my footsteps are swallowed by the whispering pines around me.

I’m ready for what the night will bring. I’m not only armed with weapons, but with a righteous fury that has simmered for far too long.

I edge closer to the cabin as the sounds of their carefree existence fuel my resolve. They won’t see me coming. Come to think of it, they never saw me at all, not really.

But tonight, they will know I am here, and they will feel the weight of their missteps and the weight of my fury.

The lake reflects the moon like a silent witness to what’s about to unfold.

I move forward once again as my retribution is set to begin. My heart races in my chest as the lights go out one by one. It’s time for all occupants of that cabin to lull themselves to sleep.

Tonight, the past will meet the present, and they will understand the true cost of their actions.

The final light goes out from the upstairs window.

And a malevolent smile curves on my lips as I wait a little bit more.

2

Cynthia Beck

Darkness envelops the room as I flick off the light on the bedside table, and now it’s just the glow of the moon seeping through the window to illuminate my unease.

Cornwall lies next to me, snoring away at top volume. It’s a wonder he doesn’t wake himself up. It’s a wonder anyone in this cabin will get any sleep because of it.

He left his breathing machine at home. Last year, I made him have a sleep study done where, lo and behold, they affirmed what I already knew. The man stops breathing regularly in the night. And once they issued him the CPAP machine, both of us have been sleeping better because of it.

We should have turned the car around once we discovered it was missing. But at that point, we were over halfway here, and that alone was a two-hour drive. Plus, we were too eager to catch up with old friends, to meet new friends, and readers next week at the book signing.

Cornwall figured he’d gone fifty-six years without that breathing machine, one lousy week wouldn’t kill him. Not that I was factored into that equation—and believe me, a week without sleep might just be the end of me.

His snoring isn’t the only thing keeping me awake. I’ve never been comfortable sleeping in someone else’s bed. My hand pats the unfamiliar quilt over my stomach and I sigh.

To make matters worse, this isn’t the bedroom situation I was envisioning when we accepted the offer to stay here. I wish Damien and Lydia had offered us the guest bedroom where Cornwall and I belong. Instead, they insisted we take the primary.

Cornwall and I put in a weak effort to deflect, but they kept coming at us with the selling points. It has its very own bathroom. A tub large enough to throw a pool party in. The bed is a California king. Cornwall will fall right out of the full bed in the guest room. That part was probably true. Not to mention the view of the lake is stunning from dawn to dusk from the private balcony—also true, come to find out. We’ve just been here for two nights so far, but the view is enough to make me want to move in permanently.

Back in Clover Ridge, our home overlooks a barren field. We had bought acres thinking we would have a working ranch, but as we quickly discovered, a working ranch is a heck of a lot of work and neither Cornwall nor I wanted to fund the endeavor by hiring hands to care for it all. So we’re left with an eyesore of dry and dusty property in the summer and a pristine blanket of snow to look at in the winter. We should sell the place and move next to a body of water. Here at Sugar Pines Lake would be nice.

Hey? Maybe I’ll check the local real estate listings and see what the inventory is like. I bet we could squeeze a second property out of our retirement fund. What else have we been working toward for all these years? Our kids moved out a decade ago and they hardly come around at all. We could relocate to Mars and they’d be fine with it.

Sleep. I need to find it asap. If I keep this up, I’ll be a zombie in the morning.

I try to force myself into thinking of nothing, but my brain is too unsettled for that. Instead, I lift an eyelid and examine the space around me, Damien and Lydia’s bedroom. Sure, it’s their second home, but still. I can’t shake the feeling I’m intruding on their lives simply by taking up space here.

That conversation I had with Lydia earlier comes back to me and I shudder.

The evening started out on such a good note. Steaks grilled to perfection. The corn was undercooked, but I didn’t complain. Dessert was a bowl of ice cream for each of us and each of us had seconds; some of us had thirds.

We played cards for hours, laughing and screaming like teenagers, just having a good time.

Writing is such a lonely task, that when we do get together with people—especially other writers—it feels good to cut loose.

Then afterward, we shared our works in progress, critiquing ideas, throwing the proverbial spaghetti at the wall, offering one another the final puzzle pieces that we ourselves couldn’t figure out.

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