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

The first expressed concern about Sarah Beth, who had a fever and swollen throat.

I know my daughter is not well when she loses interest in her precious dollhouse, the gift Con arranged for the shop foreman to build for her sixth birthday. Con tells me she will be better in the morning, that I am over-anxious because of the blizzard, with its high winds and driving snow. Besides, the telephone lines are down and it would be difficult to summon the doctor.

The dollhouse, tucked away in the carriage house.

And the last, lengthy entry, made the next day.

I saw the girl again in my dreams last night. I’m sure it’s the Swedish housemaid, the girl who died so tragically. Anja, she was called. There is no reason to tell anyone, and certainly no reason to leave the lodge. It has drawn us here, and it means too much to the children. It should stay in the family.

Anja, with a j. But Swedish, so Anya, said with a y?

Then Ellen Lacey returned to Caro’s thoughts.

Ellen blamed herself for not listening to the dream, for not realizing the girl was so deeply troubled. I am not inclined to believe in premonitions, and certainly not to be haunted by them. There is a simple explanation, I am sure.

So Caro and Ellen had had disturbing dreams too.

Con ran into H today at the hotel. Apparently he plans to build on his land, clearing it this next summer. Distressing news, though not entirely unexpected. I am sure the conversation triggered my dream, though perhaps the sherry after a rich dinner contributed. And of course, my worry over dear, sweet Sarah Beth …

Sarah scrambled for the rolled-up photos. Grabbed the shoreline shot, then traded it for the photo of the house party. Laid it out as carefully as she could. Despite the new bulb, she couldn’t see the faces in detail.

In the bright light of the kitchen where Caro and the estimable Mrs. O’Dell had once presided, Sarah got a good look at the face of the young woman—a girl, not much older than Abby—in the black dress and frilled white apron standing a few feet apart from the rest of the household staff. Anja. Ellen Lacey’s handwriting on the back of the photo was in pencil, faded and smudged, but Sarah managed to make it out. Besides, she didn’t need the name to recognize the face. She’d seen it twice—last night, and twenty-five years ago.

 FRIDAY

Twenty-One Days

 24

“And you didn’t think you should tell me?” Janine’s tone was low and controlled, but her eyes were wild.

“I thought it was just a dream,” Sarah said. “It wasn’t until—until after the attack that I realized it might have been a warning. And now …”

“No,” Holly said. “If we’re coming clean, we’re coming clean.” She turned from her sister to Janine, parked in front of the kitchen sink. It was morning, all of them up early. “Sarah told me about the dream. She was convinced it was telling her someone was in danger. I’m the one who dismissed it. Who went all Miss No BS and said dreams were, I don’t know, misfirings in the brain while we sleep, or the result of too much wine. Then afterwards …”

“Afterwards,” Janine said. “Afterwards, you disappeared. Acted like nothing had happened, like I wasn’t even here.” She glared at Holly, then directed her anger at Sarah. “And you talked me out of filing an official report. You and that sheriff. You were more concerned about what would happen to Lucas and his reputation. No one gave a damn about me.”

“Janine, that’s not true,” Sarah said. “I knew how fragile you were—”

“Fragile? You’re calling me fragile?” Janine was ablaze. “I’m the girl who practically raised herself because her father left her mother without a backward glance and her mother was too busy screwing any man who would buy her a drink to stay home. I learned to cook so I could eat. And no one”—she jabbed at the space between them—“no man has ever taken care of me. No tech genius who made millions while I stayed home having babies and playing with houses. When my mother was in and out of rehab, or in and out of jail, I took care of myself. When my husband left me with nothing but a toddler, I worked my tail off to raise my son on my own. I am not fragile.”

Her words hung in the air like smoke after the fireworks on the Fourth of July, thick, their sharpness piercing the nostrils and watering the eyes.

“I’m sorry, Janine,” Sarah said. “I have always regretted what I did, especially since finding you here. All I can say is that I honestly, truly believed letting it drop was the best thing at the time. I never imagined Lucas would skate on the crash—I was absolutely positive he’d be charged and convicted and do time. And I never imagined we would let it tear our friendship apart.”

Or bring us back together, but for how long?

“We were all upset,” Nic said in her rational lawyer tone. “Over Michael’s death and Jeremy’s injuries. We didn’t know whether he would live or die. We were young and upset and we didn’t know what to do.”

Janine dug her fingers into the flesh above her elbows. Her lips tightened and she turned her head away. After a long moment, she faced her friends.

“I appreciate the confessions. But what about now? What are the dreams saying now?”

“Right.” Nic pulled a notepad out of her tote bag. “Let’s go over what we know.”

“If you’re making notes,” Holly said, “I need coffee.”

Minutes later, over coffee and scones at the kitchen table, Sarah described the nightmare of two nights ago in detail, the young woman in the white nightgown fleeing down the staircase.

“Who was she?” Nic asked. “Where was she going?”

“Toward the doors to the deck. I don’t know that she was going to the lake. But I knew. You know?”

“That’s dreams