Bitterroot Lake by Alicia Beckman (best books for 20 year olds txt) 📗

And she heard herself agreeing. Not right then; she’d been in shock. But later, in a quiet corner of the lodge, Sarah had wondered out loud if the sheriff didn’t have a point. They were going to have to testify against Lucas for killing Michael and critically injuring Jeremy, and that would be hard enough. Better to focus on making sure he was punished, swiftly and severely.

How could she have been so naive? Janine had decided to keep quiet. The crash had been ruled an accident and Lucas was never charged. Even a slap on the wrist would have been more than he’d gotten for ending Michael’s life and seriously changing Jeremy’s. Thank God for the strength that had pulled Jeremy through. She’d known Janine wasn’t that strong. Wasn’t that strong now.

Now they were grown women.

Now she was a mother who worried about her daughter’s safety.

Now she’d be outraged by the suggestion that a woman keep quiet. Wouldn’t she? God, she hoped so. Had anything really changed in twenty-five years, after #MeToo and all the revelations about all the ways powerful men silenced powerless women?

That, all that. That’s why she felt guilty. That’s what Holly didn’t know.

She paused. Was that a light, shining in the woods? She closed her eyes and opened them. Nothing.

Was she losing it, going a bit crazy, seeing things that weren’t there? Finding pennies and seeing strange lights and thinking it meant something?

But Holly had seen the pennies too. George Hoyt—and there was nothing woo-woo about that man—had seen a car and lights on the lodge road and it hadn’t been Janine. Who, then? A looky-loo, a lost driver, someone turning around?

The phone in her pocket buzzed, startling her, the signal so intermittent down here. She took it out and swiped and pushed. A text from Abby. What, what was wrong? Love you, Mom! the message said. The bars on her screen were bouncing up and down like her heart rate, but she had enough reception to reply. Love you more!

Under a wild juniper, crickets were beginning to peep. She tipped her head back, gazing up at the sky through a gap between the lodgepoles. Her dad used to make a game of dragging the three of them outside before bed to see who could find the first star. Connor was so much younger, he only won if Dad spotted a star before the girls did and pointed it out to him. She and Jeremy had played the same game with Noah and Abby.

She used to know the names of all the constellations, but now …

Now everything was different. The sun had set and the air had turned cool. She shivered and headed up the lakeshore, drawn by the comforting lights of the lodge.

Inside the front door, she hung up her jacket and kicked off her shoes. Tomorrow she’d give them a good scrub. In the living room, Holly sat on the floor at the end of a couch, the canvas bag from the mortuary next to her. Cards and letters surrounded her.

“What are you doing?” Sarah’s hands clenched and heat shot through her. “Those are mine. Mine and my children’s. You have no right—”

Then she noticed her sister’s eyes, wide and afraid. She sensed rather than saw Nic standing a few feet away. Holly’s hand shook as she held out a sheet of paper. A single sheet, just like the ones they’d seen before.

God damn you, Lucas Erickson. God damn you.

 16

“I was coming back from the bathroom,” Holly said, gesturing. “I tripped over the bag. I didn’t see it, I swear. We were going to play Scrabble.”

The board lay open on the game table in the corner. Sarah sank into a chair, the letter in her hand. The cat jumped into her lap, and she steadied the wiry little creature.

“I—I left it there,” she said. “Friends, business acquaintances—they sent cards and notes, but I didn’t have the heart to read them. I thought it might be easier here.” Ha. The joke was on her.

The kitchen doors swung open with their rhythmic thump and Janine pushed through with her backside, a tray with glasses and a bottle of sparkling water in her hands. “Oh, you’re back.”

“I’m back,” Sarah said. “To this.” She lifted the letter, then dropped it on the table.

Holly scrambled to her feet. “I think we could all use something stronger.”

“Don’t you think you drink enough?” Nic asked.

Sarah’s eyes slid to her sister. Fair question.

“Don’t, Nic,” Holly said, her voice sharp. “Not tonight.” She walked to the buffet where a bottle of cabernet sat uncorked and held it out, a questioning look on her face. Sarah nodded and Holly poured two glasses, setting them on the table next to the mound of Scrabble tiles.

“It’s identical to the others,” Janine said. “The envelope, too.”

“You found the envelope? Who was it addressed to?” Sarah demanded.

Nic picked a plain white business envelope off the floor and handed it to her, then slid the rest of the cards back into the canvas bag and tucked it out of the way.

It was addressed to her. Had whoever sent it known of Jeremy’s death?

The familiar numbers and letters of her address in Seattle blurred. Vomit swelled in her throat and hit the back of her mouth. She swallowed instinctively, the hot, sour taste burning as it slid back down. But why? Why send her a letter like the ones he’d sent Holly and Janine? She hated to touch the foul envelope, but she couldn’t read the postmark in the dim light.

“Why send me a letter?” she finally asked. “Did he know—about Jeremy, I mean? He might have heard through friends or the alumni network. Plenty of people did hear, obviously.”

“He must have known,” Nic said. “I wonder if that’s why he decided to send the letters. He knew that with Jeremy gone, there was no reason for you not to speak out.”

“What are you saying?”

“What if he thought Jeremy was the reason