Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

car into that murky water and watched her children struggle and die. That she had a ride waiting to take her away.

I don’t want to place bets on which scenario is worse.

But in that case, why make the 911 call?

I put everything I’ve got into an email and send it to Kezia, along with a note that I’m available if she needs anything, anytime. No immediate answer, but I don’t expect one. I’m hoping she’s finished up at the crime scene, and heading to rest a little . . . but I know it’s unlikely. A homicide is a ticking clock.

I shake it off with a sigh and prepare to shut down the laptop, but a message alert catches my attention. It’s not from an email I recognize, but I do get things in from other investigators, even client referrals; there have been more of those recently. I look at the message without any particular worry about it; the trolls who tend to come after me and the kids seem to have mostly moved on, though there are always a few showing up.

The message, I realize a tick too late, is not a client referral. Not from a colleague or a fellow investigator.

Too late to stop reading it now, so I dive in.

You’ve always been on my mind. But never really at the top of my list either. What a strange coincidence that our paths are crossing now. That does make everything so much more difficult, and so much more interesting.

The only thing that’s held me back has been doubt—doubt about whether or not you truly were guilty of helping Melvin Royal commit his awful crimes. But there’s enough reason to think you did. I know you walked away once. Let’s see if you really are innocent, Gina Royal. Once and for all.

He’s eloquent, I have to give him that. Proper spelling and grammar, which isn’t usual for this kind of thing. It doesn’t have the fetishization that most of the other trolls display; he doesn’t tell me how he plans to hurt me, kill me, kill my kids. There’s a certain measured rationality to it that alarms me more than if he’d indulged in the standard-issue lurid death fantasy.

I look at his handle, but it’s just a string of anonymous letters and numbers. Most trolls are fairly careless in their internet habits. They use all or part of their not-very-clever false identities in other, mundane places. I caught one who changed only two numbers on the end of his screen name and posted with his regular handle on hockey forums; from there I was able to track him back to his real name, address, workplace. I didn’t do anything with that information. I just make it a point to have it . . . in case things get worse.

So far, I’ve tracked down about 60 percent of my stalkers. The other 40 percent are smarter, cleaner, and better at their trollcraft. But they’ll screw up or get bored and move on. Eventually. I’m playing a long game.

But I’m not sure this one is anything like the rest. He unsettles me in ways that are entirely new.

He’s an original. And he’s smart. I need to take him seriously. And I need to tell Sam, and loop in the Knoxville police.

I print out the email and close the laptop. Still thirty minutes before I need to start breakfast and wake the kids for the day, which is always something of a battle, especially when neither of them is really a morning person. They’re great kids, and they love each other deeply, but they’re also at that age where every little slight feels like a mortal wound, and the last few weeks they’ve been more reluctant about school than ever. I’d thought they’d adjusted well to the move, the new classes, the new friends . . . but I constantly worry I’m missing something.

I take a minute to think about it, then reach for the phone and dial.

“Office of Dr. Katherine Marks, how may I help you? You’ve reached her answering service.”

Of course it’s too early for Dr. Marks to be in. I feel momentarily stupid, and realize I’m just dull with weariness. Not enough sleep, and I need more coffee. “Hi,” I say. “I just need to make an appointment with Dr. Marks for family counseling for later this week. Gwen Proctor, I’m already a client.”

“Okay, I can help you with that. Would you consider this urgent, ma’am?”

“No.” Hopefully.

“How about Wednesday at four? It’ll be for you and which of your family members?”

“Me, Sam Cade, and our children, Lanny and Connor Proctor.” Better if we do it together this time, I think. It feels like cracks are forming—small, subtle things. I want to keep them from growing any worse. The kids already have their own counselors, but Sam and I see Katherine Marks on a fairly regular basis to deal with our own deep-seated traumas.

None of us are in denial about our damage.

By the time I’ve confirmed the appointment, Sam comes out of the bath dressed in a towel, hair damp and gleaming tiny jewels of moisture. He looks, frankly, fantastic, and I sit on the bed and unashamedly watch as he drops the towel and reaches for his clothes. He notices. “Really?” he asks, with just a hint of encouragement. “You know I can’t be late. Private client? Money in the bank?”

“I know,” I say. “Just enjoying the view.” We understand each other perfectly, at least the vast majority of the time. When we don’t, it’s trouble, but little things? We’ve grown well past all that. It’s good. It’s even fun.

“How’s Kez?” he asks as he skims his soft blue T-shirt over his head. “Not like her to call you out at that hour.”

“She’s got a tough case,” I tell him. “You’ll probably hear about it on the news. Two little girls drowned in the back of a car, no sign of the driver at the scene.”

He hesitates as he puts on the flannel shirt to go on top.