Page 92 of The Souls of Lost Lake
It seemed like it took hours. Wren lost track of time, and even as she and Troy made their way closer to the lake and to the controlled chaos, a mounting dread welled up inside her. Jasmine. Little Jasmine. The only sign of her had been the hoodie sweatshirt with some blood on it. Not a shoe. Nothing.
Wren prayed repeatedly in the quietness of her soul.Not here, God. Not here. Please don’t let them find her here.
A diver broke through the surface. They hauled him up into the boat. From the shoreline, Wren saw the diver remove his regulator from his mouth.
Walkie-talkie static filled the air. One of the SAR workers onshore lifted hers to her mouth. “Come again?”
“Nothing. Just an old trunk or something.”
“Were they able to open it?”
“Didn’t need to.” More static. “Top rotted through. It was empty.”
Thank God. Murmurs of gratitude rippled through the crew.
Wren sagged against Troy. She had been certain it was going to be Jasmine. Why she had felt so sure, she didn’t know. Maybe it was the expression on the woman’s face in the woods near the park as she’d stared at Wren the day Patty had died. No, it wasn’t evil that was in the woman’s face. It was the look of knowing. Sheknew. She knew what had happened to Jasmine. Perhaps to Trina Nesbitt as well.
But then wasn’t that how the old campfire story went? Ava Coons always knew. She saw, she took, and she didn’t return.
37
“Did they find anything?” Meghan floundered as she leaped from the picnic table outside the canteen. Wren hadn’t expected to be accosted by the desperate mother on her return to camp. Being at Lost Lake and watching the slow-going process left her feeling more defeated than if they had actually found something—someone. It just seemed no matter what avenue they took to find Jasmine, they came up short. Even a shoe. Couldn’t a diver have at least found a shoe? In no way, shape, or form was Wren wishing Jasmine’s body would be located, but any clue to help urge the search onward would sure be a positive next step.
“They haven’t found anything.” Wren shrugged off her backpack and dropped it on the wooden deck of the canteen.
Meghan collapsed back onto the bench next to Ben. His black hair stuck up in various directions, outing his nervous habit of running his hands through it. His bronzed skin and dark eyes were a sharp contrast to Meghan’s blond hair. Wren had seen pictures of little Jasmine. She looked a lot like Ben, only she had her mama’s fine bone structure.
“They’re using all the tools they have on hand,” Wren assured the bereft parents.
“But not finding anything is good, yes?” Meghan looked between them.
Ben nodded. “Sí. If they find nothing, then we pray Jasmine isn’t there.”
After a few comforting but likely empty words, Wren moved away from their table, fumbling in the front pocket of her packfor her phone. Her shoes crunched on the gravel as she crossed the camp’s main drive toward the lodge and the offices. Thumbing through her contacts, she found her grandmother’s number. She hadn’t seen her grandparents in years. They lived on a small ranch, and traveling wasn’t in their budget, nor was it practical to leave the animals they boarded to pay her family a visit. Mom had never been that close to her parents, Wren recalled, yet she also remembered the two times they had spent a winter vacation in Oklahoma visiting the ranch. Pleasant memories. Her grandparents had been warm. Friendly. In comparison to her highly educated and bookish father, her grandfather seemednormal.
Wren paused on the walk outside the lodge building. She wanted to check in with her dad one more time about her birth records. But first...
“Hello?”
Her grandmother’s voice broke through, and Wren smiled in spite of herself and the circumstances.
“Grandma!”
“Arwen, is that you?”
“It is.”
“Well, land’s sake, honey! We haven’t heard from you or your brother in months!”
“I know.” Wren bent and fished a candy bar wrapper from its tangle in the grassy edge of a flower garden. “Sorry about that.” She stuffed the wrapper into an outdoor garbage receptacle.
“How is everyone? Your dad?”
“Oh, we’re fine,” she lied. Pleasantries were easy fibs, and Wren didn’t want to relive the raw agony of loss with her grandmother over the phone. She didn’t want to revisit the stark reality of Jasmine’s disappearance.
“Good. Your grandpa’s dog just had pups the other day. Blue heeler puppies are the darndest little devils.”
“Are you keeping them?” Wren fought her way through the pleasantries.
