Page 104 of The Souls of Lost Lake
“Wren?”
Wren jumped. She jerked around to meet Meghan Riviera’s eyes. “Oh! Meghan. Hi.” It was a lame greeting. Meghan appeared gaunt. Her eyes were pulled downward, her skin pasty enough that all color had disappeared. Her eyes shifted back and forth, looking over Wren’s shoulder, then back to Wren. She adjusted the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Wren asked.
Meghan tugged out a chair and sat down, leaning into Wren. “I need your help.” Her whisper gave Wren chills.
Wren shot a glance at the laptop. One click and she’d bring up the newspaper from Stanford, California, in 1996. She looked back at Meghan.
“What’s wrong?” The mother needed Wren’s prioritization. She was trembling. “Have you eaten anything?” She was worried Meghan was about to pass out.
“No,” Meghan whispered. She tossed a look over her shoulder toward the front door, then back to Wren. “I got this, this morning.” Shoving a piece of paper into Wren’s hand, she waited. “I needed you to see it.”
“How’d you know I was here?” Wren asked as she unfolded the crumpled piece of paper that wasn’t unlike the one she’d salvaged from Redneck Harriet.
“I saw your truck.”
Small-town problems. Privacy was hard to come by.
Wren opened the paper. Her breath caught. She met Meghan’s eyes. “Where’d you find this?”
Meghan gave Wren an almost panicked look. “Outside our RV. Taped to Jasmine’s bike.”
“What!” Wren straightened in her chair.
Meghan nodded. “I’m going crazy. Wren, I’m losing it.” Her breath quivered. “I can’t do this any longer, and everyone thinks I’m nuts already.”
Wren looked down at the note, so similar to the one she was just researching. “What does April second, 2016, mean to you?” She had a gut feeling but had to ask anyway.
“It’s Jasmine’s birthday.” Meghan’s eyes welled with tears. “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know.” But she did. The woman in the woods. It was all her.
“And your name.” Meghan jabbed at the paper in Wren’s hand. “Your name is by Jasmine’s birthday. Why?”
Wren spun to her computer and quickly opened another tab. She typed in Trina Nesbitt’s name and Tempter’s Creek. A reportcame up instantly, discussing the disappearance of Trina, naming Trina’s mother and others searching for her.
“Why are you looking at that?” Meghan leaned over Wren’s shoulder.
“There’s something connecting all of us. But I can’t figure it out.” She eyed Trina’s birth date. It didn’t hold any special significance to her. She skimmed the article.
“Wayne Sanderson.” Wren tapped the computer screen.
Meghan looked confused. “What about him?”
“He helped with Trina’s search.”
“So?”
Wren turned to Meghan. “He’s inserted himself into Jasmine’s search too. His stories of Lost Lake. What if they’re a deflection? Something to keep him involved so he can watch and—”
“You think he’s a psychopath who takes kids?” Meghan breathed. Her fingertips met her lips, which were in a shockedO.
Wren hated voicing her suspicions out loud, but they were there nonetheless. “It makes me wonder. Look. They even interviewed him about Trina’s disappearance, and there—he mentions Ava Coons. Right there.”
“But how doyoufit into this? Why would Wayne Sanderson leave a random note on Jasmine’s bike withyourname on it?”
“I don’t know.” Wren hesitated. Her fingers alt-tabbed back to the screen where the Stanford, California, news archives waited. Without putting further thought into it, Wren slammed her index finger down on the enter key. The newspaper pulled up.
