One Last Scream

Chapter Fifteen

The phone woke her up.

Blurry eyed, Karen glanced at the clock on her nightstand: 8:32 A.M. She hadn’t meant to sleep this late. But after almost shooting her own houseguest in the predawn hours, she’d been so shaken up, she’d just tossed and turned. She must have nodded off at some point, because Rufus had awoken her with some sudden and inexplicable barking at around 5:45. Then, just as suddenly, he’d gone back to sleep. But Karen hadn’t been quite as lucky. The last time she’d looked at the clock, it was 6:41.

At least she’d gotten nearly two uninterrupted hours. Still, she’d overslept-and the damn phone was ringing.

Propping herself up on one elbow, Karen reached for the cell phone on her nightstand. She didn’t recognize the caller number. She cleared her throat, then switched it on. “Hello?”

“Karen Carlisle?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“This is Jacqueline Peyton with the Seattle Police. I spoke with you yesterday.”

Karen quickly sat up. She felt a pang of dread in her gut. They must have found Koehler’s body. Despite everything that had happened in those woods last night, Karen still clung to some hope that Koehler was still alive. As of 7:00 last night, there had been no body, and only speculation. She wondered if that was all about to change.

“Ms. Carlisle?” the policewoman asked.

“Yes, I’m here,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “How can I help you?”

“We’ve been trying to locate Amelia Faraday ever since we spoke with you yesterday afternoon. She hasn’t been to her dorm. She isn’t answering her phone. We’ve talked with her roommate, her boyfriend, and her uncle, and none of them have any idea where she is. I was wondering if you might have heard from her.”

Karen hesitated. “Um, is this about Detective Koehler? Is he still missing?”

“I’m afraid so, yes. We think Amelia Faraday might have been one of the last people to see him, after you, that is.”

“I see,” was all Karen could think to say.

“Has Amelia contacted you? Do you have any idea where we might be able to reach her?

“Um, you know, I–I might be able to help you,” Karen stammered. “But I just woke up, and I’m a little out of it right now. I was up late last night. Could I get back to you in about twenty minutes, Jacqueline? I have your number here on my cell. Could I phone you back?”

“That would be fine. I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” she replied.

“Talk to you soon,” Karen said, and then she clicked off. “God help me.”

She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. Rufus barked once and got to his feet. He scurried after Karen, down the hallway toward the guest room. All the while, Karen thought about how much she hated lying to the police. And yet here she was, doing just that. If she could hold them off for just two hours, she’d get Amelia to Dr. Richards. She’d have an expert opinion on Amelia’s condition. It could help their case. Despite everything, Karen still believed Amelia was innocent on some level.

“Amelia?” she called. “Amelia, are you up?”

No response. The bathroom door was open. No one was in there. She didn’t hear anyone downstairs.

Karen got to the guest room doorway and stopped dead. The bed was unmade and empty. Amelia’s clothes and her knapsack were gone.

But the sleep machine was still churning out the sounds of ocean waves and seagulls in flight.

“Let me double-check on that,” said the thin young man in a swivel chair. Seated across the desk from him, George guessed he was about twenty-four and gay, or metrosexual. He probably hated wearing that cheap-looking blue suit. His blond hair looked painstakingly mussed, and was loaded with product. The young man smiled at George, then turned toward his computer keyboard, and started typing.

He was the only person on duty in the small, modern ranch-style office across the street from Arbor Heights Memorial Park. The hedges bordering the cemetery were neatly trimmed, and the tall wrought-iron gates stood open.

But across the street, George had had to ring the doorbell before being buzzed in by the young man, who introduced himself as Todd. The office had a large picture window, which offered a view of the cemetery. There were three potted palms and two desks, both with computers. One wall was all file drawers, while another had a huge map of the cemetery with color-coded decals over certain areas.

George sat on the edge of his chair while Todd frowned at the computer screen. “No, I’m sorry,” he said at last. “We don’t have any billing records for Savitt, Duane Lee. I show he passed away in 1993, and he’s in plot E-22 on the east hill. But there’s nothing else here.”

“Are you sure?” George asked. “I called yesterday, and someone here told me they might be able to help me if I came by in person.”

Todd sighed. “Well, we don’t have any billing information in the computers for burials prior to 1996. There’s no paperwork, either. Everything over ten years old gets shredded. Who did you talk to?”

George started fuming. He shook his head. “I don’t know. But he told me to come by today. I live in Seattle. I flew down to Portland, rented a car, and drove an hour here to Salem because this guy told me he could help me.” George decided not to mention that he’d also paid for a cab to schlep Jessie over to his house at 5:30 in the morning, and then take him to the airport. She’d phoned an hour ago. She’d gotten Jody off to school and Steffie to the daycare center.

“You must have talked to Murray,” Todd surmised. “He has the day off. He’s been here since the late eighties. But I don’t know how he could possibly remember a transaction from 1993-”

“Could you call him?” George asked.

Reaching for the phone, Todd winced a bit. “Um, he said he was going hunting today. But I can try.”

George said nothing. He knew why Murray remembered that transaction from 1993. It was because the man buried in plot E-22 had murdered three people.

“Hi, Murray, this is Todd,” the young man was saying into his phone. “If you get this message, call me at work. You talked to a man in Seattle yesterday, and told him if he came here, you could give him some billing information on the burial of a-” he glanced at his computer-“Savitt, Duane Lee, from 1993. Well, the gentleman is here, and waiting. So call me as soon as you get this.” He hung up, then rolled his eyes at George. “I don’t know if he’ll call back. Like I said, I think he’s out shooting Bambi’s mother.”

The remark was probably meant to elicit a chuckle, but George just glared at him. “Could you give me directions to this plot E-22?” he growled. “As long as I came all this way, I might as well take a look at the grave.”

Todd nodded, then reached for a preprinted diagram of the cemetery. He circled a tiny square near the lower corner of the map. “Um, just go along the main drive, veer to your right. You’ll see a big oak tree and, down the hill from there, a statue of a soldier from World War I. At least, I think it’s the First World War. He’s wearing one of those weird pith helmets, almost like a hubcap.”

George just nodded.

“Anyway, after the soldier, take a left, and E-22 is there.” He handed George the diagram.

“Thank you,” he muttered. “Listen, I’m sorry to be short with you, because it’s not your fault. But I’m just very frustrated and furious right now.”

“I understand,” Todd whispered meekly.

George stomped out of the office, then crossed the street, almost hoping some driver would honk at him at the pedestrian crosswalk so he’d have an excuse to scream at someone. But there were no cars around. He passed through the cemetery gates, and checked the diagram as he followed the main, two-lane road. It was a cool, overcast morning. The sky was the same light gray color as some of the tombstones. George noticed a few of the markers had photographs of the deceased on them. Printed on laminated oval metal discs, they looked like large, faded campaign buttons. He found the oak tree, then spotted a weathered old statue of the WWI infantryman, which stood out among the other headstones. Walking on the grass, he tried to avoid tramping over the graves. His shoes became wet with the morning dew. He finally found the headstone, a simple, squat slab of dark gray marble: Duane Lee Savitt, 1960–1993.

Beside it was the exact same type of headstone. But this one had a crucifix engraved above the inscription: Joy Savitt Schlessinger, 1963–1993, Beloved Wife amp; Mother.

“Yes, there are other Schlessingers buried here,” Todd told him, ten minutes later. His fingers poised over the keyboard, he studied his computer screen. “Two more, Lon Rudyard and Annabelle Faye Schlessinger.” He grabbed another diagram of the cemetery and circled two tiny squares right beside each other. “They’re in the same general neighborhood, only you take a right when you get to the soldier statue,” he explained.

“Thank you very much,” George said.

George retraced his steps from before. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to find-perhaps the graves of Joy Savitt’s in-laws, or maybe her husband and a second wife. These Schlessingers might not have been at all related to Duane’s sister. He turned right at the statue of the infantryman, then started checking the headstones lined up in front of a long, neatly manicured shrub.

George found them, two rose-colored headstones.

LON RUDYARD SCHLESSINGER

Husband and Father

22 October 1958-13 July 2004

And beside him:

ANNABELLE FAYE SCHLESSINGER

Beloved Daughter, Rest with the Angels

21 May 1988-13 July 2004

“They died the same day,” George murmured to himself. He wondered if they’d been killed together in an accident. The girl was only sixteen years old. Were Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger the husband and child of Joy Savitt?

Biting his lip, George took another look at Annabelle’s date of birth. She was born on the exact same day as Amelia.

“My God,” George whispered. “Amelia and Annabelle, they were twins.”

“She took the car. I had about sixty dollars in my purse. She took that, too.”

With the cell phone to her ear, Karen held Rufus on a leash in the backyard. He hadn’t been out yet this morning and needed to go. She kept the kitchen door open so she could hear the home phone if it rang.

“My dog started barking at around a quarter to six this morning,” Karen explained. “I’m guessing that’s when Amelia snuck out of the house. I called Jessie at your place, and she hasn’t seen her. But she’ll keep a lookout for my car. Amelia’s roommate, Rachel, hasn’t seen or heard from Amelia this morning either. Neither has Shane. I also called the rest home where my dad is, and they didn’t see Amelia over there, either. I’m grateful for that. I didn’t want to bother you, George. I know you’re in Salem. But has Amelia called you?”

“No, she hasn’t.” He let out a long sigh. “This isn’t like Amelia at all. I mean, she’s disappeared for a day or two before, like she did this weekend. But she’s never stolen a car, or money. This is nuts.”

“Do you think she might have driven up to the house in Bellingham?” Karen asked.

“Well, I have the phone number for Mark and Jenna’s neighbors up there,” George said. “Nice couple, Jim and Barb Church. I’ll give them a call, and find out if there’s any activity next door. You drive a black Jetta, right?”

“That’s right.” She heard a beep on the line. God, please, let it be Amelia, she thought.

“I’ll ask the Churches to keep their eyes peeled for your car,” he was saying.

“Just a second, George. I have another call.” She checked the caller ID, and then quickly got back on the line with George. “Oh, God, it’s this policewoman phoning, the third time. I’ve been dodging her all morning. They’ve been looking for Amelia since yesterday.”

“Listen, I think you better come clean and tell them what’s happening, Karen. You don’t want to get yourself into any more hot water with the police. Plus, at this stage, you aren’t doing Amelia any favors by not reporting this. I hate to even think it, but she could hurt somebody else.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, feeling a pang in her already knotted-up stomach. Rufus tugged at the leash, and Karen let him drag her toward the edge of the garden. She wondered who would walk her dog if she ended up in jail for aiding and abetting a fugitive.

“I may try Shane one more time,” she said into the phone. “I had to call him three times before he finally picked up. And when I talked to him, I had a feeling he might have been holding back on something. Once you hear back from Amelia’s neighbors up in Bellingham, will you give me a call?”

“Will do,” he said. “By the way, I’ve been to the cemetery, and now I’m parked down the block from the public library in Salem. I need to look up some information. Has Amelia ever mentioned someone named Annabelle to you?”

“Annabelle? No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure that’s her twin sister.”

“Amelia has a twin?” Karen murmured.

“Had,” he said, correcting her. “Annabelle died three years ago, the same day as her father. That’s why I’m here at the library. Maybe there’s something in the local newspaper archives about it.”

“She never mentioned a twin,” Karen muttered, almost to herself. Amelia had recalled sometimes talking to herself in the mirror as a child. Was that as close as she could come to remembering her twin sister?

While George explained about Joy Savitt and the Schlessinger graves, it suddenly seemed to make sense why Amelia had all these issues-the guilt, the low self-esteem, and the nightmares. At age four, her parents had discarded her, and kept her twin. But why?

“Listen, George, call me as soon as you find out anything,” she said, pulling Rufus on his leash as she headed toward the house. “I’ll see what I can dig up on the Internet. What was that date the father and daughter died again?”

July 13, 2004…

Lon Schlessinger…

Annabelle Schlessinger…

Joy Savitt Schlessinger

None of those keywords yielded a result on the search engines Karen had tried. There wasn’t anything in the Oregonian either. And nothing came up in the Salem Statesman Journal archives index. She hoped George might have better luck following a paper trail at the Salem library.

Karen glanced at her wristwatch: 11:20. She tried phoning Shane once more. He didn’t answer his cell. She left another message: “Hi, Shane, it’s Karen again. I still haven’t heard from Amelia, and I’m very worried. I’ve just talked with her uncle, and we both agree it’s time to call the police and tell them what’s happened. If you have any idea where Amelia is, please, please, call me back.”

Shane stopped rowing for a minute so he could listen to Karen’s message.

It was cool and overcast, with a breeze that made the lake slightly choppy, not exactly a great day to be out on the water. Nevertheless Shane had forked over his driver’s license and five bucks for the canoe rental. And now his was the only boat in this area of Lake Washington. He’d already crept by the Montlake Bridge, and was edging along the shore near the nature path. He saw two people fishing off one of the footbridges, but no one else.

He couldn’t believe Karen was ready to call the cops just because Amelia had borrowed her car. But it was more than that, he knew. Last night, Amelia had been singing Karen’s praises and, this morning, she’d told him not to trust her. It didn’t make sense.

Shane slipped the cell phone back in his jacket pocket, and recommenced rowing. He saw a little piece of land with grass and trees jutting out from the wild overgrowth along the shore. He started looking for Amelia. She’d told him she would be there, and she would explain what all this was about. But he didn’t see any sign of her, yet.

The water became a bit rough, and his canoe rocked back and forth as he rowed closer to Foster Island. The spot looked deserted. Shane pulled past some reeds and around a bend, where he found a clear spot to maneuver the boat into the shore. He felt the tip of the canoe hit the muddy bottom, then reluctantly he stepped into the water and tied up the boat to a tree trunk.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Even though he’d moved quickly from the muddy bank to the grass, his feet had been totally immersed in the frigid lake. His shoes were soaked, along with his socks and his jeans, from the knees down. “Damn it to hell,” he growled.

He heard her laughing in the distance.

Then he saw her, emerging from behind a tree. She was wearing the same lavender sweater she’d had on yesterday, and the black jeans he’d packed for her. She had her knap-sack slung over her shoulder. She looked very pretty, laughing, with her wavy black hair loose and windblown around her shoulders.

He snarled at her, but couldn’t help chuckling, too. “Well, Amelia, my feet are wet, my fucking toes are frozen, and I hope you’re happy.”

In response, she hoisted up her sweater to flash him her bare breasts. “Does that warm you up a little, baby?”

“Jesus,” he murmured with a startled grin. “What the hell has gotten into you today?”

She kissed him. “Right now, I think we both should be getting into this canoe before it floats away.” She grabbed him by the hand and started to lead him to the shore.

But Shane balked. “Hold on. Don’t you think you ought to tell me what’s happening? I mean, this is pretty bizarre. Karen’s called me four times this morning. She’s freaking out because you took her car, along with some money from her purse.”

“Karen’s a fucking liar.” She scowled at him. “Did you talk to her?”

He sighed. “Yeah, I took one of the calls. She’s really worried. The cops have been calling her about you. And she’s not a liar. You did take her car. I saw you drive away in it this morning from my place.”

“Well, I brought it right back to her house. And if she says I still have it, she’s lying. I can’t believe you talked to her after I asked you not to. You can’t trust her. I told you that.”

“Well, what the hell happened? Last night, you were all gaga for Karen, and today, she’s a lying skanky bitch. What did she do to you?”

“Can’t you guess?” she asked. “Isn’t it obvious? She couldn’t keep her goddamn hands off me all last night. And then she got really angry with me, because I didn’t want to have sex with her. To think, I trusted her and bared my soul to her and, all the while, she just wanted to get into my pants.”

“My God, you’re kidding,” he muttered.

“I’ll tell you all about it in the boat,” she said, stroking his cheek. “You’re the only one I can talk to about this. C’mon, baby, I just need to be with you right now, nobody else. Could you pick me up and carry me into the canoe? I promise to warm your feet for you later.”

“Sure, sweetheart,” he said, obediently hoisting her in his arms. He kissed her forehead and carried her down the grassy slope toward the canoe.

Once he’d pushed the boat away from the shore and hopped inside, she untied his wet shoes and pried them off. Then she rolled down his soggy white socks and wrung them out over the lake. She rubbed his feet, and took turns tucking each one between her legs. Pressing her pelvis against his cold, wiggly toes, she gyrated and purred. Shane grinned at her. She could see the erection growing inside his jeans. She giggled at how much more feverishly he rowed in response to her foot-warming tactics.

“Thanks for rescuing me from her, baby,” she said. “You can slow down now. We’re not in any hurry. I brought along something else to keep us both warm.” She unzipped her knapsack and pulled out a pint of Wild Turkey.

Shane stopped rowing, and gave her a disapproving look. “Oh, I’m not sure if that’s such a great idea, Amelia. You know you shouldn’t.”

She just smiled at him. She thought it was funny, because her brother had said the exact same thing shortly before she’d bashed his skull in.

She saw the caller ID and quickly answered the cell phone. “George?”

“Yeah, hi,” he said. “I just talked to Barb Church up in Bellingham. There’s nothing going on next door at Mark and Jenna’s house. No sign of your car, either.”

Karen was still seated in front of her computer trying to get information on the Schlessingers, but to no avail. She rubbed her forehead. “Well, Shane didn’t answer when I called. I left another message.”

“I know you don’t want to, Karen, but it’s time to let the police in on this. Amelia took your car and stole some money. That’s not like her. She’s not herself. I don’t want anyone else hurt because we procrastinated on this. I’m being selfish here, too. Amelia knows where I live. And my kids will be home from school in a few hours.”

“I understand,” Karen said. “I’ll call them.” But she hated the idea. All she could think about was how scared, confused, and desperate Amelia must have been to run away like that. She imagined the police hunting her down, maybe even a high-speed chase that would end with Amelia dying in a car crash.

Maybe Karen didn’t know that other Amelia. But the young woman she knew wouldn’t hurt anyone. In fact, Amelia would have wanted to get as far away as possible from her family and friends if she believed herself a danger to them. But where would she go?

“The Lake Wenatchee house,” she murmured. No one else was at the lake house, except ghosts.

“What?” George asked.

“Do you think she could have driven to the Lake Wenatchee house?”

“It’s possible.”

“Didn’t you tell me last week you’d phoned a neighbor, some woman who lived down the lake from them? Do you still have her number?”

“It might be in my study someplace. But I don’t have it on me.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Helene Something…Summers…no, Sumner. Helene Sumner.”

“Helene Sumner in the Lake Wenatchee area,” Karen said, scribbling it down. “I’ll call information. Maybe this Helene has noticed some activity over there today.”

“And if she has seen something over at the house, then what?” George asked.

“Then I’ll warn her to stay away. And I’ll need you to give me directions to the cabin.”

“What, are you nuts? If Amelia’s in that house, I’m not letting you go there. That’s insane. Besides, you don’t even have a car.”

“I could rent one.”

“Karen-”

“Listen, George, let’s not argue about it just yet. For all we know, Amelia might not even be at Lake Wenatchee.” Karen sighed. “Have you come up with anything about the Schlessingers at the Salem Library? I’m not having any luck on the Internet.”

“I had the same problem on the computers here. But I went to the periodicals desk, and they’re digging up some newspaper microfiche files for me right now. I just stepped outside to take the call from Barb in Bellingham. I’m heading back in there now.” He paused. “So-you’ll talk to this policewoman, right? Report your car stolen, and Amelia missing….”

“Yes, George, I will,” she replied. But she knew it wouldn’t be easy. The police would have a lot of questions for her, and maybe a few charges, starting with obstruction of justice.

“Okay. Talk to you soon,” he said.

“Bye, George.”

She quickly clicked off the line, and then dialed directory assistance for Wenatchee, Washington.

At the periodicals desk, George gave the librarian his driver’s license as a deposit for a microfiche file for the Salem Statesman Journal for the week of July 11–18, 2004. The two microfiche-viewing machines were at a desk near a bookcase full of reference books and in front of a window looking into the lobby and the Friends of the Library Bookstore.

He switched on the machine, and it made a soft, hairdryer-like humming noise. George quickly scanned the file until he came to the front page for July 14, 2004, the day after Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger had died. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find-perhaps a story about a car crash or a local boating accident. Maybe the story wasn’t even in the local paper. Like Uncle Duane, they may not have even died in Salem.

He didn’t see anything on page one, but noticed the newspaper’s index in the bottom left corner said the obituaries were on page A 19. George fast-forwarded to it, but didn’t see any Schlessingers among the dead. He went back to the first page. These were A.M. Editions. If Lon and Annabelle had died late in the evening on July 13, it might not have made the morning paper.

He scanned forward to July 15, and searched the front page. His eyes were drawn to a headline near the bottom right of the page, taking up three columns. He anxiously read the article:

LOCAL RANCHER AND

DAUGHTER PERISH IN BLAZE

Widower and Teen were Salem

Residents for 11 years

MARION COUNTY: The two-story house of a secluded ranch outside Salem became the site of a fiery inferno Wednesday night, claiming the lives of widower, Lon Schlessinger, 45, and his daughter, Annabelle Faye Schlessinger, 16. Marion County investigators believe the fire started in the upstairs master bedroom…

“Another fire,” George murmured to himself. He was thinking about Duane Lee Savitt burning down the adoption agency.

The article didn’t exactly say Lon Schlessinger had fallen asleep while smoking in bed, but they sure hinted at it. Annabelle’s charred remains were discovered in the hallway by her bedroom door. The Schlessingers had moved to the area in 1993. Mrs. Schlessinger died that same year, “an apparent suicide,” according to the article. There was no mention of her dead brother, and his murder rampage, at least, not on page one.

George anxiously scanned down to page two, where there were side-by-side photos of Lon and Annabelle Schlessinger. He was a slightly paunchy, balding man who looked like an ex-jock gone to seed. The high school portrait of Annabelle was startling. George might as well have been staring at a three-year-old photo of his niece.

Biting his lip, George went back to the article, which talked about Lon’s membership in two civic organizations, and his love for hunting and fishing. George was more interested in what they reported about Amelia’s twin:

“Annabelle was an extremely bright student,” said Caroline Cadwell, her sophomore homeroom teacher at East Marion High School. “She was very driven. With her intelligence, beauty, and determination, we were all expecting great things in her future. It’s a tragic loss….”

The article ended with a quote from Annabelle’s friend and classmate, Erin Gottlieb:

“Annabelle was like a force of nature. She was so strong and determined. She never let anyone get in her way when she made her mind up to go after something, and you have to admire that. I guess it took another force of nature, like fire, to stop her.”

It struck George as a slightly cryptic epitaph, almost unflattering.

There was a coin slot at the side of the microfiche viewer and, for two quarters, George made a copy of each page. Then he returned the microfiche file to the reference desk, and asked for a local phone book.

He hoped Caroline Cadwell and Erin Gottlieb still lived in the area. Maybe Annabelle’s teacher and her friend could tell him something about Mrs. Schlessinger’s apparent suicide and Uncle Duane’s killing rampage. Maybe one of them knew about Annabelle’s twin sister.

She got Helene Sumner’s machine.

Karen waited for the beep, then started in: “Hello, Ms. Sumner. I’m Karen Carlisle, a friend of Amelia Faraday. I’m sorry to bother you, but-”

There was a click on the other end of the line. “Yes, hello,” the woman said. “This isn’t a reporter, is it?”

“No,” Karen said, suddenly sitting erect in her desk chair. “I’m a friend of Amelia Faraday. I’m calling from Seattle. She drove off early this morning in my car, a black Volkswagen Jetta. I’ve been trying to locate her. I was wondering-”

“Well, I can tell you where she was as of nine o’clock today,” Helene interrupted. “She was at their house, just down the lake from here. It’s got the police tape on the front door, but that didn’t stop her from going inside, though I suppose she has a right to go in there.”

“Then you saw her?”

“I heard screams,” Helene said. “That’s what got my attention. The sound travels across the water. I’ve been keeping an eye on the place. The police told me to report any trespassers. Well, I almost phoned them this morning when I heard the screaming and laughing over there. But then I got out the binoculars, and saw it was Amelia.”

“Just Amelia, and no one else?”

“I only saw her, though it sure sounded like someone else was there, maybe that boyfriend of hers.”

“Boyfriend?” Karen said. “You mean Shane?”

“I don’t know his name. I’m sorry. I know you’re Amelia’s friend, but…” Helene paused for a moment. “Are you in college with Amelia?”

“I’m Amelia’s therapist, Ms. Sumner,” Karen admitted.

“Well, then you must know, for someone so sweet and pretty, she has terrible taste in boyfriends.”

“Does he have black hair and wear sunglasses?” Karen asked.

“Yeah, that’s him. I’m sorry, I hate to say the word, but he looks like a pimp, what with his cheap suit and those sunglasses. But I didn’t see him today, just Amelia.”

“You said she was at the house around nine o’clock. Have you seen or heard anything over there since then?”

“No. She may have left. She may have gone back inside the house. I’m not sure.”

“Is there a black Jetta or an old Cadillac in the driveway?”

“They don’t have a driveway. There’s a short trail through the woods to the top of a hill, where the road is. The Faradays always parked their car in this inlet up there. Do you want me to go over to the house, and check if she’s-”

“No,” Karen cut her off. “No, please, don’t do that. It could be dangerous, especially if her boyfriend is there. I agree with you, Ms. Sumner. He’s a bad influence on Amelia. I don’t want you going over there. If you see him or Amelia anywhere on your property, you should call the police. I don’t mean to frighten you-”

“I’m sixty-seven years old, miss,” Helene said. “Not many things scare me anymore. I’ve lived alone in this house by the lake for the last nine years. I have a good watchdog and a loaded rifle. I’ll be all right.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Karen replied.

This was the only lead she had. And from what Amelia had told her, there was no way to get in touch with anyone at the lake house, except through Helene’s landline next door. Karen would have to drive three hours to Lake Wenatchee and hope Amelia was still there. She wondered if Blade was indeed with her this morning. Or was Amelia’s multiple personality disorder so severe that she was screaming and laughing over there by herself?

“Miss? Are you still there?”

“Um, yes, Ms. Sumner,” she said. “Can I ask you for one more favor? Could you give me directions to the Faradays’ house?”

“Have another hit,” she said, handing him the Wild Turkey bottle.

His hands on the oars, Shane grinned at her. “I think I’ve had enough. They say booze and boating is a bad mix.”

“This is a stupid little canoe,” she said, still offering him the half-drained pint bottle. “I don’t think it counts. C’mon, have another blast. It’ll warm you up.”

Shane shook his head. He already had a little buzz, and unlike Amelia, he knew his limits. Though so far, she’d downed surprisingly little for someone who had seemed bent on getting drunk less than an hour ago.

She was acting awfully strange, a total turnaround from last night. She’d been nervous and on edge throughout the movie and pizza, needy, but in a good way that made him feel like the most important person in the world. But then, since her bizarre visit with him this morning, she didn’t seem stressed out at all. She wasn’t making him feel needed, just manipulated and jerked around. That wasn’t like Amelia at all. Her flirting-the foot rubs, flashing him, the kisses, and her dirty talk-had all been a turn-on, yeah, but it all seemed like an act.

Last night, she hadn’t been able to tell him why the cops were waiting for her in her dorm lobby. She’d promised to explain later, and begged him to be patient with her. But when he’d pressed her about it again just a few minutes ago, she’d dismissed it, and said they were bugging her with more personal questions about her father. “I just didn’t feel like discussing my dad’s hang-ups with them again, that’s all,” she’d explained. “So screw them.”

She didn’t want to talk about Karen coming on to her last night either. At first she’d acted like Karen had attacked her or something. But now, in the boat, she didn’t seem too traumatized about it. Shane began to wonder if anything really did happen with Karen.

He glanced up at the darkening sky, the clouds almost obscuring Mount Rainier in the distance. “Looks like rain. We should head back,” he said, working the oars again.

“Party pooper,” she muttered. She put the cap back on the Wild Turkey bottle, then slipped it into her knapsack. She kept the knapsack in her lap. “What’s wrong with you today anyway?” she asked. “You’re acting totally weird.”

“I’m acting weird?” Shane shot back.

She nodded. “You know, I should be really sore at you. This morning, I specifically asked you not to talk to Karen, and you talked to her anyway. Did you tell her about meeting me here today?”

“No. I didn’t tell her shit. I didn’t tell anyone.” He rowed more fervently. “I’m sorry, but this whole thing is totally schizoid. You show up at my window at dawn, dragging me out of bed. You’ve got me ditching psych class and renting a canoe, so we can schlep out here in the middle of the goddamn lake for this secret meeting. My favorite shoes are all wet, and we’re about to get rained on. And you’re telling me I’m acting weird, because I’m not exactly thrilled to be jumping through all these hoops for you….”

Her head bowed, she hugged her knapsack in her lap and quietly cried.

Shane sighed. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to my place and talk, okay? Nobody’s there right now.”

“Well, nobody’s out here right now, either,” she said, pouting. “That’s why I wanted to come here-so we could be alone. But you’re acting like you don’t want to be alone with me.”

“That’s not true, sweetheart.” He stopped rowing, and they drifted for a few moments.

“You’re treating me like I’m a stranger,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I’ve felt it ever since we met on the island. You’ve been pulling away from me. We’re out here alone in this beautiful, romantic spot, and all you want to do is go home.”

“I’m sorry, Amelia.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to pull away. I just can’t figure out what you’re up to today. I-”

“What I’m up to today?” she repeated, giving him a wounded look. “What does that mean? You sound like you don’t trust me.”

“Of course, I trust you.”

“Prove it,” she said, reaching into the knapsack again.

“What?”

“I said, prove it. Prove to me that I have your trust.” She pulled a revolver out of the knapsack.

Shane recoiled, and the boat rocked a bit. “What the hell? Amelia…”

Tears in her eyes, she pointed the gun at him.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing?” he whispered. If he’d had a little buzz from the Wild Turkey, he was very sober now. He stayed perfectly still.

“I want to see if you really trust me, if you love me,” she said.

Gaping at the gun, he shook his head. “I–I didn’t know you had that. Where did you even get that?”

He shrunk back as she got to her feet. The boat swayed back and forth, but she kept the gun trained on him. “Oh, Jesus, be careful,” he murmured, wincing.

She sat down close to him. Their legs pressed against each other, knees bumping. Shane tried not to make any sudden moves.

She stared into his eyes. “A minute ago, you said you didn’t mean to pull away from me. If I put this gun in your mouth, would you pull away?”

“Sweetheart, please stop….”

“Then you don’t trust me,” she cried. “You don’t love me. I might as well use this gun on myself. Don’t you see? You’re all I have left, Shane.”

“Don’t, please, Amelia. Just-just-just put that thing down.”

She held the revolver a few inches from his face. He was so terrified, he could hardly breathe.

“Prove to me that you love me,” she whispered. “Let me put this in your mouth. Can’t you trust me that much? Just for a couple of seconds? If you won’t let me, I swear to God, I’ll shoot myself right here. I mean it.”

He shook his head.

“Fine,” she muttered, then she suddenly turned the gun on herself.

“No!” he screamed. The sound seemed to echo over the lake.

She froze. Her eyes wrestled with his.

“You can put it in my mouth,” he said. “If it’s that important to you, go ahead.”

Shane told himself that she’d had the chance to shoot him ever since they’d gotten out on the lake, if that was what she wanted to do. In some totally screwed-up way, maybe she was right; he’d have to trust her, and this was one way of showing it.

But as she turned the gun toward him, he felt his stomach lurch. Shane thought he might be sick. His hands shook on the oars. “Why?” he whispered. “Amelia, why are you doing this?”

Her forehead was wrinkled in concentration, but there was a strange coolness about her, too, a determined gaze past the tears in her eyes.

She brushed the end of the gun against his lips.

Shane opened his mouth wider, and tasted the dirty metal on his tongue.

“I’m doing this to make certain you love Amelia,” she said.

He sat there, trying not to shake, and counting the seconds while she kept the gun in his mouth. It struck him as bizarre, the way she’d said Amelia instead of me, as if Amelia were someone else entirely: “I’m doing this to make certain you love Amelia.”

The notion that she might not be Amelia didn’t occur to him at all. Shane didn’t have a chance. Before the thought even entered his head a bullet already had.

She dipped her hand in the cold lake water to rinse it off. Blood had sprayed on her face and hair, too. She licked her lips and tasted it: salty and warm. Then she bent over the side of the canoe and washed off her face.

Shane had flopped back so violently that the boat had almost tipped over. Water had sluiced in, and one of the oars had gotten knocked into the lake. Now he lay there on the floor of the canoe in an awkward contortion. The small puddle of water lapping around him was almost completely red now.

She checked his wallet. There were only seventeen dollars in there. She kept ten. She’d noticed the ring on his right hand earlier. It was gold with a beautiful black onyx stone. She twisted it off his finger and dropped it into her purse. Wiping off the gun, she carefully placed it beside his lifeless hand. Then with the one oar they had left, she paddled toward the little island. The small patch of land was still unoccupied. She let the canoe hit the muddy bank. Climbing out of the canoe, she stepped knee-deep into the icy lake. She hoisted the knapsack over her shoulder. She had a change of clothes in there, among other things.

Giving the boat a shove, she watched it drift away from the shore.

Then she turned and headed for dry land.