Chapter 11
After my mom leaves, I say good night to Olivia, Eric, and Laelynn and stumble to my guest room.
The combination of the tequila bender last night, today’s road trip, and Eric’s bootlegs has finally gotten the better of me.
A long breath escapes my chest, and for the first time all day, my jaw unclenches.
People don’t get it. For them, a social gathering is just…a gathering. But for me, it’s like performing a dance, and nobody taught me the moves.
They say, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
I hear: “We scheduled you for surgery.”
I open my undersized travel bag and sigh.
In my hungover rush to leave, I barely packed enough for a weekend, let alone a month.
I place my items in drawers, socks and underwear on top, shorts and tank tops in drawer two, pants and dresses in the bottom.
Open the closet door and hang my dresses. Leave it open.
To me, unpacking the moment you arrive somewhere isn’t optional; it’s a moral imperative. I once spent a weekend away with a guy who never unpacked. Just lived out of his suitcase like a fugitive. I seriously considered calling the police.
I sink onto the edge of the queen-size bed and absorb the space that will be my room for the next few weeks.
Or my prison. On the surface it’s lovely, very lake-chic.
White sheets paired with a blue-and-white seersucker duvet.
Original tan oak hardwood floors—forty-eight floorboards, to be exact.
White wallpaper with a pattern of watercolor sailboats.
A framed needlepoint of the American flag on one wall and an impressionist-style painting of Main Street Wayzata on the other.
It all bears Laelynn’s unmistakable touch.
I remember visiting the Parkers when I was a kid.
Our best times were always when Laelynn was away.
Eric would make homemade doughnuts doused in powdered sugar and take us tubing on the lake.
He would attach two inner tubes to the boat’s rear, one for each of us.
Then we’d have tube wars. Whoever fell first lost. He’d speed across the lake and yank us into a turn so sharp it felt like flying, and we’d hang on, laughing, afraid to let go.
Olivia was always bolder. Sometimes, mid–tube ride she would leap from her tube onto mine and try to knock me off, usually sending both of us crashing into the wake.
We would laugh so hard, water rushed into our noses.
Then we’d arrive home, and Laelynn would be there, fresh off a HIIT class or whatever workout was in style, arms crossed, jaw tight, asking where we were or griping about the mess Eric left behind, and the fun would end. Even Olivia seemed bummed.
I don’t blame Laelynn. I remember she had just launched her digital marketing firm, and being married to Eric, while certainly an adventure, was probably more like having a second child.
She was just trying to keep an organized household and make sure he didn’t accidentally kill us.
But for a kid, it was one big buzzkill. With Eric, the Parkers’ house was a theme park; with Laelynn, it was a museum.
A chorus of crickets chirps outside my room. The mist slithers by the open window, and the sheer curtains sway to the rhythm of the breeze. It should be relaxing, but it prods my nerves. I’ve been in the city so long the great outdoors sounds unfamiliar, menacing. I wonder how long I’ll last.
My phone dings.
I check the screen. The first thing I notice is that I have one bar of reception. Great.
Then, I check my messages. It’s from Carlos. In my walk down Eric-Parker-crush memory lane, I’d almost forgotten I’d invited him.
Hey Mami! How’s the trip going so far? I assume you’ve been counting the days until I visit. ?? I talked to my boss, and he said I’m cool to cut out for a couple of days. We still on for our adventure? ??
I chuckle to myself, then take a deep breath and stare at the colonial-style ceiling fan whirring above me.
It’s amazing how an idea can seem cute and whimsical in the fog of intoxication, yet unbearably heavy in the light of sobriety.
Carlos is cute, but do I still want him to visit?
Eric’s married, so he shouldn’t even factor into this equation, yet, for some reason, he does.
Now that I’ve reconnected with the man I used to idolize, Carlos seems smaller, more immature.
I decide to do what any self-respecting young person does and ignore the problem. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I should sleep, but the note on the Parkers’ door niggles at me, a consulting problem I haven’t solved yet.
I lean over the edge of my bed and snatch the laptop out of my computer bag on the floor.
Then I remember. No Wi-Fi. I jump onto my painfully slow mobile hotspot and search the property records for Big Island.
At first, everything Eric said checks out.
I find Russ Neuman’s house, which he’s owned personally since 1985.
Then I find the Parkers’ property on Zillow, current value: $3. 5 million. Must be nice.
That’s when things get interesting.
The Parkers purchased their home from a bank that had foreclosed on the previous owner.
I scan the records to determine who had owned the property before the bank foreclosed.
The name jumps off the screen. Marjorie Neuman.
Presumably, Russ Neuman’s mother. The Parkers bought Russ Neuman’s mother’s house out from under him.
She must have had debts, and when Russ couldn’t cover them, the Parkers swooped in. Not great, but not illegal.
I search for Marjorie Neuman. The first result shows a lovely obituary with a picture of her. She was a sweet old lady with a silver-haired perm, a toothy smile, and oversize bifocals. She loved fishing and playing whist with her friends. I smile, reminded of my grandmother.
My grin fades when I spot the next article.
Foul Play Suspected in Big Island Death After New Autopsy Revelations
By Kara Jensen | Sun Sailor | June 4, 2024
BIG ISLAND, MN.—Authorities are actively investigating the death of a Big Island woman after a recently completed autopsy raised concerns about possible foul play.
Marjorie Neuman, 84, was found dead in her lakeside home on Big Island in July of this year.
According to a source close to the case, the autopsy report revealed petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes and pulmonary edema consistent with smothering—signs that may indicate she was suffocated, possibly with a pillow.
“We are investigating this death with all resources until we can rule out causes. Due to this being an open and active investigation, we won’t be commenting any further,” said Detective Ezequiel Gonzalez of the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Office.
Neuman, a lifelong resident of Big Island, was known by locals as a fiercely independent woman with deep roots in the community.
She lived alone in the same cottage her parents built in the early 1900s.
She’s survived by her only son, Russ Neuman, a fixture on the island.
Friends say she had recently expressed concern about someone trespassing on her property, though no official reports were filed.
“She never left the island, even in the dead of winter,” said neighbor Dennis Kohler. “Everyone respected her. And now this? It’s just chilling.”
The isolated nature of Big Island—accessible only by boat during the summer months and sparsely populated year-round—has fueled speculation about what really happened the night of her death.
Some residents report hearing strange noises and seeing lights on her property in the early hours before she was found.
No suspects have been publicly identified, but investigators are urging anyone with information to come forward.
Anyone with tips is asked to contact the Hennepin County tip line at 555-555-0198.
I click my mouse and jump to the next article.
Police Close Big Island Death Investigation, Citing Lack of Evidence
By Kara Jensen | Sun Sailor | July 25, 2025
BIG ISLAND, MN.—The Hennepin County Sheriff’s Office announced Friday that it is closing the investigation into the death of Marjorie Neuman.
Neuman, 84, was found dead in her home on Big Island last summer. Although an autopsy earlier this year suggested signs of possible smothering, investigators now say no definitive proof of foul play could be established.
The report of the Hennepin County Medical Examiner listed Neuman’s cause of death as “asphyxia” and manner of death as “undetermined.”
The announcement has left some residents unsettled. “It just doesn’t sit right,” said neighbor Carol Haukebo. “Things like this don’t happen out here.”