Page 96 of The Souls of Lost Lake
She took a quick detour into the kitchen. A glass of water would be good. Quench her thirst. Still her spirit. Do something to—
The back door was ajar. Ava stared at it as if the door were going to open further. But it didn’t. Its gap was wide enough for a cat to squeeze through. A ray of sunshine followed the path of the imaginary cat, stretching across the floor and resting on the leg of the kitchen table. Ava looked around the kitchen in a swift gesture. Stove. Icebox. Sink. Table. Nothing was moved or upset. A dish towel hung over the back of one of the chairs. The curtains over the sink were still drawn.
Ava made quick work of crossing the kitchen. She grasped the doorknob with her left hand and moved to shut the door. But something kept it from closing. Ava looked down and noticed a shiny object leaning against the doorframe. Cautiously, Ava bent, daring a peek out the door to see if anyone stood there. There was no one. Nothing. Only the backyard that stretched into the woods. A honeybee buzzing across the back step. A crack in the cement boasting one lonely violet.
She turned her attention to the item wedged in the doorway. Reaching for it, Ava realized what it was, and she snatched her hand back.
I will hunt you.
The hissing voice of her attacker filled her. Ava could feel his arms around her again. This time she could smell his raunchy breath. Her ear throbbed. He had made that vow, that promise. He was playing a deadly, wicked hunting game.
Ava pulled the heavy iron ax-head into the parsonage and slammed the door shut. Staring at the offensive item, she could no longer stifle the growing terror and agony inside her. She reached for what resembled the weapon that had been used to murder her parents—to kill Matthew Hubbard—and with a wild scream, Ava launched it through the kitchen window.
39
Wren
Eddie edged past Wren as she entered the camp kitchen. His white canvas apron was stained with water droplets from his position at the industrial-sized sink. It was piled with stainless-steel pans that needed a good hot scrub to get off the baked-on remnants of cookie bars.
“Eddie.” Wren tried to capture his attention, but he was focused. He’d been this way since Patty had died. An intensity surrounded him with an air of standoffishness. She couldn’t be frustrated with him, but she ached for him to let her in. It seemed ever since his moment of vulnerability, he’d withdrawn. Selfishly, she wanted to bounce off her conversation with her grandma and get Eddie’s opinion. She wanted to draw him into the unsettled trepidation that was growing within her. She wanted his opinion on the search of Lost Lake—whether he thought they’d ever find anything there. Not that he would know more than the experts, but ... well, it was Eddie. They’d always shared everything. Now, in the wake of his mother’s death, it seemed to be driving them apart.
He lifted the sprayer from its holder and sent scalding water splashing against the dirty pans. The spray misted into the air. A few of the kitchen staff remained, high schoolers volunteeringtheir time at the camp for the week. They hovered behind Eddie. He seemed aware of them if he wasn’t aware of her.
“You guys can head out if all the dishes are being run through the dishwasher,” he called over his shoulder.
“Yeah, they are!” one of the guys responded. He glanced at Wren, who offered him a smile.
“Thanks, guys. Good job on getting the place cleaned up.” Eddie’s consistent encouragement kept these teenagers engaged in menial work. Getting a few hundred campers and staff through one meal could be strenuous work, but three meals a day was nothing short of monumental.
The kids scampered from the kitchen, tossing their aprons into a five-gallon bucket that housekeeping would later snatch, take to the laundry, and return.
Eddie grabbed a scrub pad and put some serious elbow grease into cleaning a pan.
“Eddie,” Wren tried again. She was only a few feet away from him in the doorway. There were four big sinks, and he was at the third farthest from her.
He gave her a quick glance. “Hey.”
Wren hesitated. He wasn’t unfriendly. He was just ... she’d never experienced awkwardness with Eddie before. Ever.
“What’s up?” He hefted the scrubbed pan into sink number four, which was filled with sudsy water.
“Do you want help?” she offered.
“Sure.” He managed a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Wren rolled up her sleeves and headed for the last sink. Plunging her hands into the hot water, she fished around for a dishrag. “I missed you at lunch today,” she managed. She intended to follow it up with a comment about how she’d been at her dad’s house, and Pippin was helping her look up her birth records in California. But that would require filling Eddie in on a lot more details than just that. He didn’t seem ready for that type of conversation.
“I was working in the kitchen,” he explained.
Of course he was. Wren wasn’t surprised, just—well, often he’d come out and eat with her while the rest of the experienced staff managed the trail of hungry campers.
“Are you okay?” She gripped the edge of the sink and went in for the jugular. Eddie was never one to mince words, and Wren wasn’t sure she could take this continued distance between them. This undefined arm’s-length thing.
Eddie nodded. “Sure.” He continued to scrub at an especially black part of the burnt batter.
Wren cocked her head. “Really?”
Eddie scrubbed harder. “What do you want me to say, Wren? Mom just died a few days ago. Sure. I’m ready for Disney World. When do we leave?”
