Page 5 of The Lake of Lost Girls

I got to my feet and slowly, quietly, made my way to the door of the room that hadn’t been occupied in twenty-four years.

I put my hand on the knob, willing myself to turn it. It felt warm, as if it had been held only moments before.

There was an echo of a presence. As if I had only missedherby a few seconds. I could almost feel her on the other side. Waiting for me.

I hurriedly backed away.

After that, I decided that staying home was a bad idea. I needed to get out of that house and the remnants of ghosts that sometimes, on days like today, made themselves known.

As I sped away from home, I glanced in my rearview mirror, seeing Southern State at the top of the hill, all lit up. I wondered, not for the first time, about Jess’s life there.

Would I ever find out?

Instead of driving toward downtown, I found myself making a detour. I followed the main road out of town, only about five miles, until I reached a familiar turnoff. Police tape cordoned off the area, so I couldn’t drive down the narrow gravel path that cut between the trees, leading to Doll’s Eye Lake.

I pulled off to the side of the road and let my car idle. I watched groups of people walking through the thick growth of trees. A nondescript white van was parked at the edge of the woods. A woman wearing white coveralls leaned against the side of the van talking on her phone.

The normally quiet, secluded place was bustling with activity. Teams were combing through every square inch of dirt and rock, looking for something—anything—that would explain how a body had come to be buried in the ground there. In a place familiar to every person that lived in Mt. Randall.

Is this where Jess had been the whole time?I wondered to myself.Only a couple of miles away?

Feeling cold from the inside out, I put my car in drive and did a U-turn in the middle of the road, heading back to town.

Mt Randall wasn’t always a place people wanted to visit. The Chamber of Commerce had worked tirelessly over the past ten years to put it on the map. They’d wanted to create a town that still clung to its small town roots while also embracing innovation and progress. As a result of their efforts, Mt. Randall was slowly becoming a tourist hot spot known for its shops and restaurants.

The chamber had a fight convincing some of the older townsfolk—those stuck in their old ways and how things had “always been done.” But ultimately the chamber got their way, and now the town was starting to thrive.

Ten minutes later, I parked my car in my designated spot in the Bronze Monarch’s lot and headed into the luxurious restaurant. The staff weren’t surprised to see me because I did this often. The food at the Bronze Monarch’s restaurant, The Golden Butterfly, was incredible. It had an esteemed reputation and won numerous awards, mostly thanks to our Michelin-starred chef, Pierre Rochefort.

When she saw me, Evelyn, the hostess, waved me over to my usual table near the windows. I sat down and smiled sheepishly at her.

“I’ve been dreaming about the clam chowder since Pierre sent me the week’s menu,” I laughed.

“He’s outdone himself this time,” she agreed, tucking a stray red curl behind her ear. “He said he’s put a secret ingredient in it, and I don’t know what it is, but it works. I had a bowl for lunch and I’m taking some home for Reg and the kids,” she chuckled.

My stomach growled in anticipation.

“I’ll tell him you want a large bowl.” Evelyn gave me a wink.

“Make itextralarge, with a basket of bread, and a large red wine, too, please,” I requested eagerly.

“Coming right up,” she assured me and then headed back to the kitchen.

The Golden Butterfly wasn’t particularly busy tonight, so I knew I wouldn’t be waiting long for my food, not that I wasn’t happy to wait. These people, this hotel, were my second family. My second home. I didn’t go out very often, so this was the extent of my socialization.

It may have seemed strange to some—your place of employment being your sole social outlet—but it was. I had never cared much about having tons of friends or going out every night of the week. Even as a teen, I tended to stick to myself, and was happy to do so. I never felt I was missing anything. I had always been content with my life. I had to be. Being the sister of a missing girl didn’t make me Miss Popular.

“Would I be feeding you another line if I were to ask to join you?”

I looked up to see Ryan McKay, the guest I had helped earlier in the week, standing in front of me, a half drunk cocktail in his hand.

I debated whether to let him. Despite my better judgment, I found myself inclining my head in invitation. Perhaps it wasn’t Ryan, but the promise of a diversion from my dark, obsessive thoughts that had me thinking that letting him sit with me was a good idea.

I surreptitiously looked him over. He was the kind of man you stopped to appreciate. I also couldn’t help but notice the lack of a ring on his left hand.

“That seems to be your MO, Mr. McKay,” I deadpanned as he sat down.

His cheeks flushed as he grinned. “I can tell I haven’t made the best first impression. I feel like I need to rectify that immediately. I can’t have you thinking I spend my time traveling around the country hitting on beautiful hotel staff.”

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