Page 4 of The Lake of Lost Girls

Mom and I didn’t understand why he kept it out there. The garage’s roof often leaked when it rained, and it was freezing in the winter and boiling hot in the summer. And for a brief time, when I was younger, it seemed to be where every animal in the neighborhood went to die.

I remembered as a kid, that to combat the stink of a raccoon that had crawled up into the eaves and began to rot, Dad had filled glass bowls with white vinegar and left them lined along the floor and on the shelves. He had also taken to dousing everything in peppermint oil. Apparently, it was a problem with the way the houses on the street were built. Our neighbor, Mrs. Lewis, complained of a similar issue.

Eventually the smell subsided after Dad told us he boarded up the hole on the side of the house. Regardless, Mom and I steered clear of the garage. It wasn’t exactly a place you wanted to spend much time in.

“Definitely not for me then.” His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled.

My dad was incredibly handsome. He had aged well and it was impossible to go anywhere without women noticing him. He was the epitome of masculinity; tall, broad shouldered, dark haired, chiseled jaw line and an easy-going smile. He had charisma and was very likable. But he only had eyesfor his car magazines and his phone that seemed permanently attached to his hand.

His job as a real estate agent demanded a lot of his time. He was a broker and had started his own agency when I was a little kid. He had worked hard to become one of the ‘best goddamn realtors in the county.’ As a result I rarely saw him growing up, though Mom always told me it was all in the name of keeping a roof over our heads.

“Okay then, we’ll be back in a while.” Dad paused, as if deciding whether to come into my room. I couldn’t remember the last time he had stepped inside. He didn’t make a habit of venturing to this part of the house. The proximity to the permanently closed door across the hall acted as a barrier, keeping him out most of the time.

Eventually he took a step back, away from my room. Away from me. With a quick glance around and a slight wave, he headed downstairs.

My parents and I existed easily together for the most part. Dad gave me all the space I could have ever wanted, my mother all the nurturing I had ever needed. I loved them both. They had always been the most important people in my life, which is why, at thirty years old, I still lived at home. Some adults may find it suffocating, and if I was being honest with myself, some days I did as well, but mostly I appreciated that I could depend on them for anything.

Most people couldn’t understand how the thought of leaving my parents alone with their unending grief, left me with a sinking feeling of guilt that was much worse than letting my mom continue to do my laundry and my dad to dutifully pay my car insurance.

When I went away to college, Mom struggled. She would call constantly to check that I was okay and ask what I was up to. She wanted to know who my friends were and if I was dating. It had been unnecessarily hard on all of us, considering I could have lived at home and gone to the great school that was less than fifteen minutes away.

But going to Southern State University had never been an option. Even though my parents were both alumni and itwas where they had met, it would always beJessie’scollege. That had beenherlife. And it would never be mine. Any other prior claim was forgotten once she had gone missing. The college would forever belong to a girl who would never be going back.

So, together, my mom and I decided I’d go to North Carolina East College, knowing it was only four years. And the moment I graduated, I came back home. We had never discussed it, but we came to a silent, mutual agreement.

I was a grown woman stuck in limbo between my old life and the prospect of a new one. But I wasn’t in a hurry to rectify the situation. Because moving on had proven incredibly hard for me, too.

I turned the podcast back on as soon as I heard the front door shut. The high-pitched voices of the two hosts, one clearly from the South, the other with an indescribable British accent, filled my ears as they laughed and joked about something that wasn’t remotely funny.

“What do we know about Jessica Fadley?”one of them asked, her question taking on the dramatic cadence of someone putting on a show.

“We know she was super smart.”

“I read she graduated top of her class in high school, which is pretty damn impressive,”Rachel, the first host, laughed.

“Yeah, not everyone is like you, Rach, drinking their way to a solid D average during their teenage years,”Stella teased.

“Well, it’s not like she was Miss Perfect. Sure, Jessica was smart, but once she was off to school, like most of us, she had a good time. People who knew her said she partied and stayed out late—she was getting the full college experience,”Rachel interjected.

“She sounds like my kinda gal,”Stella cooed.

Okay, I’d had enough. I turned it back off, shutting down the streaming app before I was tempted to turn it back on. Listening to people making light of my sister’s life and disappearance was the worst kind of masochism.

This wastheirentertainment, but it wasmylife.Herlife.

“Ugh,” I groaned, leaning back in my chair and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “What is wrong with me?”

I knew I was torturing myself, and I knew it wasn’t healthy.

A loud thump caught my attention and I froze. My ears strained in the throbbing silence.

Was that a rustling? A sign of movement?

It was coming from the direction of my open doorway. I dropped my hands and glanced toward the closed door across the hall. I stared, imagining it gradually creaking open.

There was a barely audible sigh. A release of pent-up air. And it came fromherroom.

There was an uncomfortable buzzing in my ears, and my palms started to sweat. This wasn’t the first time I had experienced unexplained noises, yet I never grew accustomed to them. Each and every time, I became paralyzed with an irrational fear that felt rooted in the grief that permeated the house.

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