Page 28 of The Souls of Lost Lake
“Hey, Dad.”
“I thought you might stop by the house tonight.”
Wren grimaced, glad he couldn’t see her reaction. “Sorry. We’ve been out searching.”
“Yes.” His voice became grave. “I checked in at the SAR base here on the grounds. They’ve found absolutely no sign of her.”
“I know.” Wren waited. Her dad wasn’t one to waste time with empty chatter. He had a reason for calling her.
“I ran into Troy—he said you were out looking in the Lost Lake area?”
“Yes.” She didn’t offer more information.
There was a pause. “Arwen, youknowAva Coons is a ghost story.”
Wren didn’t answer.
“She’s a campfire story. She didn’t take the little girl,” her father reiterated. “You can’t let your dreams get to you like this.”
Her dreams. She leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes. Dad knew about her dreams and the way that they ate at her as if they were premonitions. It didn’t help that she’d had one right before Mom died. Years ago, as a little girl, she’d been afraid that Mom would leave. Where her sense of abandonment had come from, they had no idea, but it was there nonetheless. When she’d dreamt about Mom’s death and then it had happened, it was like a nail in a coffin. Dreams had meaning. They were prophetic. But they weren’t—at least that was Dad’s argument.Had beenDad’s argument. Yet Wren couldn’t help but question—wonder—because weren’t dreams typically the mental manifestation of some subliminal truth?
Wren bit her tongue. What really upset her sometimes was how her father could see right through her dreams to her deeper fears. The ones that lived in the irrational, fictionalized realm. The part of Wren that made her believe Mordor and the ring, and Gollumand Orcs actuallywerereal evil lurking. Dad had probably read her too much Tolkien when she was a toddler. She remembered the board book ofThe Hobbitshe’d had as a three-year-old. It had come with a plastic ring she’d insisted on wearing to church. Dad had been proud. But as she grew, he’d become wary.
“Don’t turn fantasy into reality,” he reminded her now. This from the man who’d encouraged his wife to name the rooms in their house after various locales in Tolkien’s novelThe Lord of the Rings.
“I’m not, Dad. You just—I’ve never liked the story of Ava Coons. The rumor that she snatches people and buries them in Lost Lake.”
“It’s just a story,” he argued.
“You know people have claimed to still see her.” Even as she said the words, Wren knew how silly they sounded. That Ava Coons—campfire terror—would return from the forest in which she’d disappeared to murder again. Besides, Jasmine hadn’t been murdered—God forbid—or even kidnapped. She’d just gone missing.
Right?
“Arwen.” Her dad’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Come home.”
“I am home” was all she could think to say in response.
12
“They found blood.”
It was not the phrase Wren wanted to hear. Troy came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her back into him. He whispered in her ear as they stood off to the side of the bulk of the SAR volunteers.
“This morning, Group Six found Jasmine’s hoodie. It had blood on it.”
Wren twisted in his arms, not feeling affectionate, even though she knew Troy’s way of dealing with emotion was to reach for her. She pulled away, a gripping fear tightening her middle. “What do you mean, blood? There shouldn’t be blood if she just wandered off and got lost, right? Unless she was injured?” Wren searched his face. “Sheisjust lost, right, she wasn’t taken? Tell me they’re not changing their assessment.”
There was a flicker in Troy’s eyes that spoke of more when a wail rent the air. Wren jumped at the sound and then clamped her hand over her mouth as she watched Jasmine’s mother collapse into her husband’s embrace. They had both come out this morning, intent on being part of the search, no longer willing to be coddled and mollified by the authorities. They wanted answers.
Now they had one—a very unsavory one.
“Friends. Volunteers,” Sheriff Floyd called from across the machine barn, his voice echoing off the concrete floor and metal sides. “Over here, please.”
They all gathered, including Jasmine’s parents. Wren noticedEddie’s pal Bruce standing off to the side in full police uniform. He met her eyes and looked away. That didn’t bode well. The already ominous overtones in the room had turned heavier. Weightier. Suffocating.
Sheriff Floyd waited until they had all gathered around. He consulted in John Hipken’s ear, the director of the SAR teams. John gave a curt nod, his mouth a tight firm line.
“All right,” Sheriff Floyd began, scanning the group of volunteers. Bruce moved to stand beside him and John. “As you probably know by now, earlier this morning Group Six found Jasmine’s sweatshirt. There was evidence of an injury, as we found some blood on the garment. Ben, Meghan”—he addressed Jasmine’s parents—“and the rest of you”—his eyes once again scanned the group—“this isstillan ongoing search and rescue. We have no reason to believe anything other than that Jasmine is alive, but we do have concerns for her welfare in the event she’s suffering from an injury.”
