Page 6 of The Lake of Lost Girls

It was my turn to blush. I wasn’t usually one to be swayed by compliments, I was too guarded to let throwaway comments affect me, but something about his delivery seemed to get to me.

In that moment, he reminded me of my dad. The sort of man who was used to getting what he wanted. He saw my dismissal as a challenge and I knew it wouldn’t stop him. I also knew I’d probably give in eventually. It felt like an inevitability.

I let the tension sit between us for several seconds before I took pity on him.

“You can join me as long as you drop the tired pickup lines.” I couldn’t help but smile secretly. “I don’t make it a habit of socializing with guests, though. No matter how handsome they are.”

Oh god, had I really said that?

Of course Ryan jumped on it. “You think I’m handsome,” he stated with a flirty smile. “If we’re going to share a meal and a drink, can we finally stop with the Mr. McKay stuff? We’re old friends by this point, right?”

“Sure, Ryan,” I snorted, earning me another one of his charming grins. He dished them out like candy, and it was hard not to feel all warm and giggly when he bestowed it. Diane, one of the full-time servers, appeared with my order.

Diane placed the food and wine down, looking at Ryan in barely concealed surprise. I never ate with anyone, so I knew the sight came as a shock.

“Do you want to order anything?” Diane asked Ryan.

“I’ll have what Lindsey’s having. Minus the wine. I’ll have another whiskey sour instead,” Ryan told her, his eyes never leaving my face.

I stared at Ryan in exaggerated annoyance, but the scent of my chowder demanded my attention, so I picked up my spoon and started to eat.

“One drink, that’s it,” I warned, in between mouthfuls.

“We’ll see,” he teased.

One thing was for certain, Ryan McKay was going to be trouble.

“That was the best clam chowder I think I’ve ever had,” Ryan moaned as he sat back in his chair after finishing.

I agreed with a nod, my mouth still full.

Ryan was watching me closely, and despite the intensity of his gaze, I didn’t feel uncomfortable. There was something about this good-looking stranger that put me at ease.

“So,” I said, letting my guard down a little bit, “when you checked in, you said work paid for your stay. What is it you do?”

“I’m glad you asked, because I think it’s something we need to talk about,” he replied, going suddenly serious.

“What do you mean?” I took another sip of wine, my earlier ease now being replaced with conditioned wariness. I sat up a little straighter in my chair.

Ryan reached down to a leather bag by his feet and pulled out some papers. I was suddenly on high alert.

“Listen,” he began, a hint of pleading in his voice. “I want to be honest with you, right off the bat.” He handed the papers to me. I looked through them, and the chowder began to curdle in my stomach.

They were old articles about my sister. About the other missing girls of Southern State University. There were pictures of my house. Of the college. Of Doll’s Eye Lake. My hands trembled as I came to a photograph of my parents and me at a vigil. I looked about six, so it must have been right after Jess went missing. We obviously didn’t know our picture was being taken. My parents held on to each other, their faces an agonized portrait of grief and despair. I clung to my mother’s skirt, my cheek pressed against her thigh. I looked distressed, though most likely because of my parents’ sobs and not because I understood what was going on.

The violation hit me like a fist to the stomach.

“Who are you?” I hissed angrily.

“I promise I didn’t know who you were when I checked in, but,” Ryan looked around us as if to make sure we weren’t overheard before continuing, “I’m a journalist.”

“A journalist.” It was an admission that filled me with bitterness and apprehension. The papers in my hand fell to the table, scattering as they landed.

“Have you heard of the new podcast,Ten Seconds to Vanish?” he asked, a hunger in his eyes that I recognized. One I had seen in the eyes of every reporter who had invaded my privacy and hounded me for interviews for the past twenty-four years.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he was already continuing, rushing ahead in his hurry to explain, to convince.

“I’d been pitching a story on the missing girls of Southern State University for years. My editor at theChicago Couriernever entertained the idea until the podcast’s first episode went viral. Now everyone is talking about these cases I’ve been passionate about for so long. Then when the remains were found in a place heavily associated with Jess’s cold case, my editor finally gave me the green light to come down here and start on what I plan to be a series of in-depth articles about the investigation.” He paused to take a breath, his eyes drilling into mine. I felt pinned in place. Like an insect tacked to a piece of wood.

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