Page 99 of The Souls of Lost Lake
“I’m sure she did.” Troy reached for a quarter on his desk andstarted flipping it between his fingers. “Listen, I’m not going to lie, this isn’t how I’d hoped things would develop between us. But I get it. Right now, you both need each other more than you probably ever have.”
“I’m sorry.” Wren dared to look at Troy. The handsome features. Girls clamored for his attention. It wasn’t often someone came around with such handsome, outdoorsy guy looks with a character of good values and faith to match. But Eddie was that too—maybe more average-looking, but he had a solid character and... “I need him.” Wren sucked in a sob. She looked over Troy’s shoulder to avoid seeing any potential pain on his face.
She heard the quarter hit the desktop.
Troy was holding out a tissue. “And I’m not stopping you.”
40
She hadn’t seen Eddie since their interlude in the kitchen. Wren had wanted to find him for the last two days. It wasn’t as though Deer Lake Bible Camp wasthathuge that she couldn’t find a staff member after a bit of trying. She’d ended up at the Markham house a few hours after breaking things off with Troy, only to have Gary inform her that Eddie had taken the rest of the week off and had left to get some time alone. Gary also let Wren know he was locking up the Markham house and heading to his brother’s place in Michigan for a week or two.
They were raw, the Markham men, in the wake of Patty’s passing. Wren understood, but their absence created a chasm. A painful, deep chasm. Her entire support system was crumbling. The SAR base camp had greatly reduced in size. People were still searching for Jasmine, but the amount of people invested had dwindled. Two weeks and already the authorities were beginning to speak of Jasmine in the past tense. Ben and Meghan had averted their efforts to arguing with authorities not to disband the search teams that remained. The dive teams had scoured the bottom of Lost Lake. Aside from the old human bones, they’d found nothing.
“They sent the bones to a lab to be tested and dated,” Troy had told Wren. At least they were still on speaking terms. But now he was off on another wilderness trip with a busload of canoeists. The Flambeau River was calling their name, with its Class II rapids that were strong enough to make novices nervous, but boringenough that Troy would go down them wearing only a life jacket and lying on his back.
Wren flung open the screen door on the back deck of her family’s house. Nestled in the woods like every other home in this area, the mosquitoes were kept at bay tonight with lit citronella candles and three massive pots of lemongrass. Dusk was settling, the air still and calm. There was Wi-Fi here, so Wren sank onto a patio chair and pulled out her phone. She set her mug of hot peach tea on the table and rested her feet on a patio chair opposite her.
Thumbing through the apps, she opened the search engine and typed inAva Coons. A litany of randomness came up, and she had to narrow her search toAva Coons campfire storyto get any specific results.
“What are you looking at?”
Wren jumped as Pippin opened the screen door and stepped onto the deck. He had a blueberry scone in his hand, and his other clutched a glass of milk.
“I’m reading about Ava Coons.” Wren ignored her brother as she continued scrolling through the few articles online.
Pippin sat down in a chair and yawned. “That old story is overdone.”
“Not if they found their bones in the lake.”
Pippin rubbed his eyes, tired after a long day of staring at his herd of computer monitors. “Yeah,if.”
“I’m trying to find news articles about the murders. All I can find is just the stories and exaggerated legends.”
“The records probably aren’t digitized,” Pippin informed her. “Tempter’s Creek Courthouse just got on Wi-Fi ten years ago. We live in the boondocks, Wren.”
“No one would believe you if you told them that.” Wren mustered a laugh.
Pippin didn’t laugh. He didn’t have much of an expression beyond boredom. “That’s the difference between living in Chicago or L.A. versus Podunk, Wisconsin.”
The screen door opened a third time, and their father stepped onto the deck. His loafers and pressed pants seemed out of place here in the woods. His glasses were academic, his features lined but handsome in a dignified, standoffish sort of way. Wren eyed him as he occupied the fourth and final remaining chair.
There was a graveness in his expression. His brows were pulled together as he set an envelope on the table.
“What’s that?” Pippin leaned over to look at it.
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Tristan Blythe leveled his fatherly stare on Wren. “Arwen?”
She tilted her chin up and looked down her nose, trying to see what it was. “What is it?”
“A letter from the State of California.”
“The Department of Health?” She’d applied online for a copy of her birth certificate. She hadn’t expected a response by mail in just a few short days.
“Yes.” Tristan’s index finger tapped the envelope. “Why are you contacting the California DOH?”
“I needed a copy of my birth certificate.” It was a simple answer. Wren wondered why she felt guilty under her father’s assessment.
Pippin took a drink of his milk. His mustache was tipped in white when he drew the glass away. “You’re in trouble.”
