Page 12 of Lake Hollow Curses

This little drop in at Cal’s place is fast becoming a party for two. “Just one shot.”

Two hours later we’re both feeling no pain. I’ve listened to his opinion of Skip James and the relationship he has with Remi, heard everything there is about the Lake Regional High school baseball team, and played a halfhearted game of quarters. My motor skills are lessening all the time. Laughing at the public access channel he’d stopped on looking for a baseball game, I almost miss the couch when I go to topple on it. “What the actual fuck is this?” I slur at him. My vision swims as I try to focus on a nun hula hooping in the courtyard of the St. James Cathedral.

Cal flops down next to me on his old couch, out of nowhere asking, “Do you think I’m emotionally repressed?” Is he serious right now?

“Doyou?” I wobble standing to grab the stale chips Cal dug out of a cupboard. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like sharing things. Our family motto is ‘keep it to yourself’ and that’s been the unspoken motto forever, because we keep it to ourselves.” He chuckles after a hiccup.

He picks up the television remote pausing the screen as he points. “Is that… Remi?”

I wouldn’t consider myself drunk enough to be seeing things, but sure enough on the frozen screen is our Remington James, standing next to a dunk tank, inside the tank sits Father Chris Lowe from St. James. “They took video of the charity event? Damn, man, look at her, she’s such a knockout.” Her animated little faces talking to the kids, the twirling of her Sharpie marker hanging on her bird locket chain, the little drawings littering her skin. The whole package inside and out makes me thank my lucky stars every day.

Cal’s dreamy-eyed gaze at the visual of her is certainly duplicated on my face. He rewinds until the camera is focused on the booth she is volunteering at. Like lovesick idiots we replay her segment a few times. “Let’s call her,” Cal says with another slight hiccup.

Normally, I’d love to call Remi,ifshe answers. Her cellphone is usually misplaced somewhere. But we’ve both over imbibed. I’ve already accepted that I’m passing out here. “How about we don’t drunk dial our girlfriend?”

“Our…” Cal laughs to himself. “Doesn’t it feel

strange thinking of her that way? Are we boyfriends then? Because no offense, I don't think ofyoulike that.”

I should’ve anticipated dealing with this question, eventually. Cal is a good-looking guy, but I’m not attracted to him. Never have been. “We’re friends, remember? I’m not into you, man.” Thankfully, that whole conversation is dropped as he channel surfs, looking for some sport to have on in the background.

He lands on an ‘expose’ of Romantic Ruin, or more correctly focused on yours truly. The glib sounding reporter stands infront of blown up photo of me on stage at The Splash. “Marlow hasn’t been seen since the music festival in Minnesota, insiders say he’s laying low while rumors circulate about his sexuality-” Our band’s latest release has managed to stay strong in the top five songs for that last three weeks on the Billboard music charts, but sure… let’s talk aboutmypersonal life. My bottom teeth hurt from clenching my jaw and my left ear is ringing just watching this. The guilt over my shit eclipsing the band itself is always on my mind.

Making a disgusted noise, Cal flips the channel. “Stupid fuckers. How is that news? Not to mention that no one even acknowledges the loss you had in your family. Fuckers.” This could be the moment that I decide Cal may actually be my friend. A real friend.

An hour later, when I find Cal in the middle of his kitchen doing the standing nod off, I call it. The party wraps up with me steering him to his bed. Depositing the wastepaper basket next to it, I put a hand out to the wall to help guide me to the couch, tempted to try calling Remi. However, just hearing her voice is a weak replacement over holding her.

I may be feeling sick tomorrow, but it was worth it. It’s been years since I last spent any real time with Cal. That time lapse had me forgetting how much fun he actually is. I laugh at the memory earlier in the evening when he did a little heel kick, while speaking in an Irish brogue, or when he attempted a jumping toe touch but nailed the wall like a live action cartoon. Silly. Aspects of his personality that seem dimmed around Charlie.

Chapter Nine

Remington James

Borrowing one of Ceily’s vintage bicycles to get to the Sheriff’s office had seemed like a solid plan. I don’t know if Hemminger will find the information I have helpful, or if she can tell me anything, but I’m determined to try. That was before the day turned balmy, hovering around ninety degrees, before I forgot about bugs, and before I miscalculated the distance or time it would take. My desire to do this is flagging. I could’ve gotten a ride, but then I would need to explain why I’m going there.

I roll to a stop on the bike path with the Sheriff’s office in sight to swat mosquitos off my ankle. “Christ on a cross what the fooook,” I whisper furiously in a Scottish accent. The swarm of bugs hovering around me is an irritating cloud. Pulling my ponytail tighter, adjusting the white babydoll top and jean shorts I’m wearing, and kicking at the rusted chain guard that has been rubbing against the pedal, I’m almost ready to proceed. Until itdawns on me that I still have to bike all the way back into Lake Hollow. Good freaking gravy, so much for thinking this was a good idea.

By the time I angrily shove the clunky wreck of rust into the bike rack at the Sheriff’s office, I’m crabby. The cinderblock, no nonsense building feels like a refrigerator after the heat and exertion of the ride. I wipe my sweaty face against an arm, leaning against the wall waiting for the detective. The desk clerk behind the bullet proof glass said she was on a phone call as she eyed me over, like I’m here to bump someone off.

“Ms. James?” Detective Julia Hemminger approaches from the hallway, extending a bottle of water so cold that condensation drips off. Bless her law-abiding damn heart.

Accepting the drink with thanks, I follow her into an office stuffed full of her things. The walls are covered and the desk is piled up high with paperwork. “I’m surprised by the visit. Is everything okay?”

That’s a rather broad term. Okay? I’m fairly sure I’m being haunted, one or more of my boyfriends are lying to me, my uncle detests me, and I just donated a pint of blood to the ferocious mosquitos that plagued me on my way here. Oh, and I just realized my cellphone isn’t on me. Goll damn it.

“I take it by that lack of a response that it’s not. What can I help you with?” She adjusts her chair, folding her hands on the desk in front of her. That worn and stained turquoise and pink striped journal is the only way Katie Gibson has to communicate with us now. Letting it go is for the best, but I’m nervous it won’t get the detectives any closer to holding the culprit accountable. Poised to listen intently, she meets my eyes. But finding the words is proving difficult. What if I cause the police to go after an innocent person? What if this conversation is the downfall of someone I love?

Pulling out Katie’s diary with the missing pages slipped inside of it, I put it on the desk in front of the detective. Her eyes widen as she looks down at it. “What do we have here?”

Detective Hemminger reminds me of my high school art teacher, the same warm voice, understanding eyes, and a demeanor that screams of competency. I want to tell her every last thing. About Carlotta’s letter, the tidbits I’ve picked up from various people over the past few weeks, but I know better. She’s trained and paid to be an information gatherer. I tell her about finding the diary, but nothing else.

It’s enough of a confirmation that the drownings were not accidental, at least two of them weren’t. I watch her page through, stopping and scanning the words. When she reaches the final entries, she sucks a breath in, her eyes getting even bigger. “You’ve looked at this?” she asks me in an even tone.

“Mmhm. I have. Can I ask you something?”She pulls her glasses off, to rub at the side of her nose. “You can.”

“Do… do you have a suspect?” My heart lurches in my chest. Not really wanting the answer, but knowing I need it. “For the drownings?”

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