Page 95 of The Lake of Lost Girls

I retrieved the key from the hook and slipped it into the lock, the door clicked and I pushed it open. The air was cold. Much colder than one would expect given the temperature outside.

The garage was piled high with decades’ worth of family clutter packed into plastic tubs, and bags. Fishing gear, paddles, Christmas decorations and old clothes I had long since outgrown. Stuff that was supposed to be donated to Goodwill or sold at yard sales, but instead had accumulated here, gathering dust.

The walls were lined with shelves filled with old tools I had never seen my dad use. I also noticed glass bowls from the vinegar he used years ago to eradicate the smell of rot from the dead animals that had died in the eaves. I recalled the rancid odor and Mom’s loud complaints about the smell wafting under the door. Then one day the smell was gone, replaced by the overwhelming perfume of peppermint.

In the corner, underneath a large, blue tarp was the paddleboat. The same one Jess and Dad used to take to Doll’s Eye Lake. The same paddle boat I had never been on. It had remained untouched since the last time the two of them had taken it out. It seemed sad and lonely, discarded with a hundred memories. I could only see the bottom rudder. It was otherwise covered.

And there, in the center of the garage, was Dad’s beloved Boss 429 Mustang—once a vibrant yellow, now cracked and peeling. It was a far cry from its mint condition in the photographs in Sergeant O’Neil’s case file.

My dad loved the car. Some of my earliest memories, the hazy, half-formed ones I could vaguely recollect from before Jess disappeared, involved standing at my father’s side as he buffed and waxed its bright yellow surface.

Then one day, Dad declared it had broken down. A busted carburetor or something. He said it was an expensive part to replace in a retro vehicle, so he’d never had it fixed. I had never thought to question the obvious lie. How he could listen to music in a car that apparently didn’t run. I felt foolish for my obliviousness. Now, like the unused boat, it sat in this cold dark space, rusting away.

I tried the door handle and found that it was open. Impulsively, I climbed inside, sitting in the driver’s seat like I’d seen my dad do countless times before—like Daisy had seen that day long ago. The keys dangled from the ignition. I turned it on, surprised, though I shouldn’t have been, when the engine turned over. I let it idle. I fiddled with the radio, turning it on. A slow, melodious voice whispered through the speakers like a phantom. I recognized the old fifties classic. An agonized ballad about love and death.

I looked at the small window in the garage door that Daisy must have looked through all those years ago. What the hell had he been doing sitting there, listening to sad music? I wondered, briefly, if he had been thinking about Meghan. Or maybe one of the other girls he had been involved with. The thought made my skin crawl.

A few minutes later, I turned off the engine and got out of the car, not wanting to be inside it any longer. Something about the garage and the Mustang didn’t feel right.

As I turned to leave, I glanced back at the car, noticing that one of the taillights was broken. There was a black cavity where the glass had once been. I wasn’t sure if it had always been like that but, I couldn’t imagine my father not fixing something cosmetic and easily repaired. I looked at the floor and there was no broken glass anywhere.

I walked to the trunk of the car, gently brushing my fingers over the empty socket. I moved as if possessed, my handshovering over the lever. The sudden need to see inside felt important.

Imperative even.

But when I tried to pop it open, it wouldn’t budge. I pulled and pushed, frustrated, but it still wouldn’t move.

A shudder went through me, and I wondered what could possibly be inside that he felt the need to lock away. I remembered the pictures from Sergeant O’Neil’s case file. The list of items police had recovered from this very car. What secrets did it hold? I quickly grabbed the keys from the ignition and went to open the trunk. My hand trembled as I turned the key and lifted the lever. I peered inside, expecting to see the worst …

And it was empty.

I patted around to see if something was hidden, but there was nothing there.

With a sigh I slammed the trunk shut. What was I doing? Did I really think my father was hiding something nefarious in the trunk of his Mustang? I was letting my imagination run wild, looking for the worst in the people around me.

There was a rustling of movement out of the corner of my eye. I froze.

The tarp covering the boat slightly fell to the side revealing a portion of its faded orange hull.

Curious, I walked toward it. I couldn’t remember ever having actually seen it before. It had always been hidden by plastic. I had only seen it in photos.

I reached out to pull the tarp from its worn body …

“Lindsey!”

I went completely still.

Looking over my shoulder, I felt my body go rigid with a fear that felt rooted in survival if not sense.

My father stood in the doorway, the light from the kitchen throwing him deep in shadow.

“What are you doing?” His voice sounded strained—almost breathless.

My hand still hovered over the tarp-covered boat.

“I—”

“Stop that, right now!” he roared, practically running across the garage and pulling me away.

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