Page 23 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

“The real mystery to solve is how Mort has so many followers,” Millie says.

“He’s very charming,” Evan defends. Millie and Herb look at him. “No, really, Mort, I looked at some of your stuff today. I watched your talk titled ‘Holden Caulfield Was the First Karen.’Brilliant, I can see why people watch you.”

Mort blushes. “Want me to tell you what a Karen is, Millie?”

“Karen Wallington? Who works at the Dickie’s dry cleaning? Which other Karen do we know?” Millie asks.

“That’s it,” Herb says in an exasperated tone, picking up his cigar and a lighter and walking out the front doors.

“Of course we won’t continue if you don’t want us to, right, Florence?” Evan asks, and even though he’s just showing them how to edit and get sponsors, I appreciate him taking the lead on this.They won’t care if I say no, though. He may think he’s being noble by asking, but if the five of them have their minds set, they would film this in the middle of the night in Mort’s room on their smartphones and block me from accessing it…or something like that. I need to think about it.

“I don’t know yet,” I say.

“I could see a woman wanting Leo dead for—you know, being involved,” Heather says out of absolutely nowhere. Everyone turns to look at her.

“I’m just saying I agree with the thing in the video—a woman’s scarf. I mean, I don’t know about that, it looked like a plastic bag flapping to me, but before I worked at the hospital—like when I was younger—I worked at Pipers Pizza that Leo owned and all the girls hated him. He never paid us on time, never gave us enough shifts. Erin Wylie had a kid to support and there were like three customers a day. I guess that’s not enough to kill a guy, but sometimes I wanted to… Making us split our tips with him. I mean, I hope nobody killed him. He’s probably alive stealing tips from someone else, just on a beach in Mexico, like everyone says.”

“You worked at the hospital?” is all Florence responds, after all that. Then… “When Otis was there?” Heather nods, and suddenly I hear the front doors fly open and the sounds of giggles and yelps only six-year-olds can make as Poppy and June skip into the rec room with Clay following behind, holding Happy Meals in one hand and purple glitter backpacks hanging from the other.

“Hi, Mom,” Juju says, and then they’re both on their knees at the coffee table screaming over Gus and asking if they can have him.

“He’s Bernie’s,” I say, and Bernie looks up with a surprised expression and a suppressed smile. They go and sit by Herb the way they usually do because he sneaks them Fruit Roll-Ups or rock candy or some other garbage, and don’t ask me why a grown man has any of those things.Today it’s peppermint bark. He slides it to them under the table so I don’t see it, and I pretend not to.

June hugs Florence and asks her if she wants to see the drawing she did in school, and Florence kindly makes a big to-do about how she should be an artist, then Poppy bounces over to sit next to Millie.

“Can you knit me red mittens?” she asks and she’s asked Millie this every time she’s seen her since before Christmas and is still trying to eke a late gift out of her that will never come.

“She only knows how to make a square. Maybe one day, years from now, she’ll figure out how to put all of her squares together to make a scarf instead of forcing pot holders on everyone,” Herb says, and before Millie can say “Up yours,” I shrug my coat on and announce I’m leaving early.

I pull Clay away from Herb’s box of Cubans he’s trying to sell to him, and explain that we are taking the girls ice fishing this afternoon. Mort and Florence have moved away from the computer and she is putting a pot of tea on the stovetop in the kitchenette, and he is looking at his feet, and I know they are ready to defy every word I just said and jump back into this podcast armchair detective thing the minute I walk out.

On the car ride to the bait shop, I think about what they said. I think Mack would lose her mind if she found out this was being discussed publicly. But it also feels like something. Something more than anyone else is doing to unravel all this—give me my life back, my family’s safety back. Still, I have to put a stop to it. It’s my fight, not theirs.

It’s dusk when we arrive at the bait shop. The girls sit on milk crates by the minnow tank while they eat their French fries and name the fish until they lose track of who’s who. Clay sits in his oversized red flannel on the stool behind the counter that’s covered in kitschy trinkets—a miniature Paul Bunyan statue, a plastic football, a piggy bank, a talking fish, a handful of Smurf figurines,a vase filled with beer bottle tops. He brushes the nugget crumbs from his fingers, takes a beer from the minifridge under the counter, and adds the bottle top to his vase.

The place looks more like it could be on an episode ofHoardersthan it does a profitable bait shop, but he stands by people loving the cozy nostalgia of the place. The girls sure do at least. They’re always unearthing new crap from the piles of boxes and collectables he tells them are not toys, but still lets them play with whatever they come across—a 1970s Hot Wheels or one of Mr. Potato Head’s feet. I once made the mistake of telling him the place would make a better secondhand shop than bait store, but I won’t make that mistake twice. Breaking about even each month was not what I imagined when we opened the shop six years ago, but now I try to enjoy the cozy kitsch and not dwell on how much money it’s not making us, at least for a little bit longer.

The girls don’t like ice fishing, but they do love the hot chocolate and playing in the ice hut that resembles one of those ever popular tiny homes equipped with a fireplace, card table, and board games, and even mounted fish on the wooden walls. The hut, which Clay’s named Salmon Slayer and loves more than anything, is everything you’d expect from a northern Minnesotan fisherman—a man cave on ice.

The girls bring electric blankets we plug into a portable battery pack and curl up with hot chocolate and a movie on their tablet, and I drink a mug of wine and chat to Clay about the new contestants onSurvivoror how the pawnshop on 1st Street is rumored to close. Anything but the news, or that note on my car, or Otis, or anything having to do with real life, and we are both happy to pretend nothing is wrong when we’re with the girls.

On the weekend, the lake is peppered with a handful of other ice fishers, and their trucks are lined up near the snowbanks by the bait shop where they tailgate and drink beer half the day. But on weeknights, most of the other ice huts are empty and the extreme temperature has folks waiting until the promised warm-up coming next week.And by warm-up, I mean single digit temps instead of subzero.

The girls ask if they can skate on the ice after the thrill of cocoa and time in the hut has worn off, and I remind them they didn’t bring skates, and it’s dark.

“We just wanna go ice shoeing,” June says, the clever name they made up for sliding around the ice in their boots without skates.

“Five minutes, and I’m watching you from the door, so don’t go out of my sight.”

“Take the lantern, Pops,” Clay says, and she brings the lantern with her and sets it on the ice. I watch them hold hands and set out, giggling and squealing with each almost fall. They charge and slide across the ice and then back again. I smile at their simple joy and feel lifted that they seem happier as time passes—adjusting well.

And then I hear something. Something that stops my heart.

There is a loud crack in the darkness that echoes, and then a guttural, terrified scream.

“Poppy!” I scream so roughly my throat feels like it fills with blood. Clay jumps up and follows behind as I run, screaming wildly, across the ice to where June stands weeping and shaking, watching Poppy grip onto the edge of the broken ice with her tiny pale hand as she starts slipping under. The ice is broken wide open even though the lake has been frozen solid enough to drive on for weeks. It’s impossible. What’s happening?

“Poppy,” I scream again, Clay is behind me with the lantern so I can see her, but she’s not there. Her gripping fingers let go and all I can see are wisps of blond hair being pulled under the icy black water.

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