Courtney
Cass screams. Mae draws back, blanching at the sound of someone tugging roughly on the door handle before battering the lodge
door, which is locked, as if with the heel of a hand.
I fold my arms around both girls, drawing them into me, pressing their faces against my chest. My heart pounds as I wonder
who’s at the door and whether it’s the police or if it’s someone else.
Cass’s scream is a reflex, something involuntary, but then, realizing what she’s done and knowing she needs to be quiet so
that whoever is on the other side of the door doesn’t know we’re here, she clamps both hands down over her mouth and goes
silent, her eyes wide as full moons.
Ms. Dahl looks toward the door. She sets the rag down on the countertop, stepping out from behind the bar as Cass pulls away
from me, crying out in a scream whisper, “No! Don’t open it.”
“She won’t, honey,” I say in a low voice, stroking her hair. “Not until she sees who it is. Isn’t that right?” I ask for Cass’s
sake as well as mine. We’re easy targets. I don’t know who I can trust, if I can trust anyone. I regret not taking a knife
from the cottage before we left or Elliott’s multitool, something like that, something to protect ourselves with. I search
the bar with my eyes, seeing a box cutter, though it’s out of reach. I could lunge for it if I need to, though the blade on
a box cutter is something like an inch or two. I don’t know how much damage it would do.
“That’s right,” Ms. Dahl says. Still, I feel scared as she closes in on the door, my heart pounding in my chest and up my neck.
“No,” Cass whines again. “Don’t look. Don’t open it.”
“What if it’s Dad?” I ask to comfort Cass, hoping she can’t hear the fear in my own voice. “What if he’s looking for us?”
It could be Elliott. It really could be. I texted him earlier. If he saw the text, he would have come immediately back from
the lake to see what had happened. I wish more than anything that he was here, that he hadn’t gone fishing today, because
he would know what to do. He would keep the girls safer than I can. He’d keep me safe. Unlike me, Elliott would have gone
back to the cottage to check on Wyatt and Reese; he wouldn’t have left without them in the first place. I think of Elliott
out there in the canoe on the lake, in the dark. He has no idea what’s happened. He has no idea that Emily and Nolan are dead.
Last night, Elliott and I were at Emily and Nolan’s place until sometime just after eight. It was mostly dark when we left,
the sky softly glowing, though the sun had already slipped beneath the horizon. We said goodbye to Emily, who stood alone
on the deck, waving until we could no longer see her though the trees. I had no way of knowing that was the last time I’d
ever see her alive. Cass and Mae were already in our cottage, waiting for us to come home. They were lying up in the loft,
giggling when we came in. What’s so funny up there? I remember Elliott calling out to the girls, and them, in unison, holding their laughter back.
Nothing.
It doesn’t sound like nothing, he teased.
“It’s okay,” Ms. Dahl says now, gazing out the window. “It’s the police.” She reaches her hand up to undo the dead bolt. I
hold my breath, only releasing it when the door opens and I see them for myself: a few men, standing tall and broad shouldered
while, behind them, red-and-blue police lights pulse through the trees.
I close my eyes, pressing a hand to my heart, sagging forward in relief. “The police are here. We’re safe now,” I whisper to Cass and Mae.
It’s only as the police step inside the lodge that I see him: my nephew, Wyatt, standing behind the officers, getting swallowed
up by their larger size.
Tears of relief leave my eyes, falling down my face. “Wyatt,” I cry out, moving from my stool to go to him, taking him into
my arms, and though Wyatt is fourteen and averse to things like affection and hugs, I feel his body give freely to me, slackening
in my arms.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I ask, running my hands through his hair, pushing it out of the way so I can see his eyes, which
shun mine. Like Mae, Wyatt is languid, his reactions slow, his eyes bemused. Slowly, he shakes his head, leaving me to wonder
which question of mine he’s answering: if he’s okay or if he’s hurt, because it’s hard to know. There is no blood, no obvious
sign of an injury, but he doesn’t look okay.
One of the officers, a young, ruddy redhead with freckles on his face and hands, steps forward, asking Wyatt who I am and
if he knows me.
Wyatt is slow to nod. “Aunt Courtney,” he manages to get out, pulling his body away from mine. His voice is meek, his shoulders
rounded forward, which makes him appear smaller than he is, though Wyatt is taller than me.
“I’m Wyatt’s aunt,” I say to the officer. “Courtney Gray. I’m the one who found them.” Them. I practically choke on the word, my throat tightening, my mouth all of a sudden watery, what little I’ve eaten today threatening
to come up. I bring a hand to my mouth, trying to swallow away the image of Emily’s and Nolan’s gnarled bodies on the floor,
watching as the officer stands there, taking glances at me out of the corner of his eye as if he doesn’t know what to do,
as if discomforted by my display of emotion.
“Is there anything you need?”
“Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?” I ask, curling my shaking hands into fists. My eyes leave his, moving to the two men
who stand behind him, because they’re older than he is and closer in age to me.
But the young redhead says, “That would be me, ma’am. I’m Detective Evans,” and I look again to see that, unlike the other
officers who are in unform, he’s dressed in everyday clothes, long sleeves and pants under a black tactical vest, and I wonder
what a person has to do to be a detective, how old they have to be or how much experience they need to have and if he has
any. “You can speak to me if you want.” I nod, forcing my eyes closed, where I see the blood spatter on the wall, though I
try not to, though I try to purge it from my mind. I breathe in, holding it before exhaling, over and over again until the
nausea subsides.
I open my eyes to find him still watching me. I look away, glancing at Wyatt. “Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“Where did you find him?”
“He was asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms,” he says, and I pull a face, wondering how it’s even possible that Wyatt was
asleep when they found him, until I look again and this time see that there are still pillow lines on Wyatt’s face.
Wyatt was asleep? How can that be?
“Can he sit?” I ask, because Wyatt looks pale and he’s unsteady, like standing in the ocean and feeling the shifting sand
beneath your feet.
“If he wants.” I go to Wyatt. I take him by the elbow, helping him to a barstool beside Cass and Mae, and then I turn back.
“Can we talk over there?” I ask, pointing before following the detective to the far side of the room, where I can still see the kids, who are quiet, statue-like, no one speaking.
“Did he see them?” The detective turns to face me, his stance wide, his hands on his hips.
“My brother and his wife,” I say, when he says nothing. “The bodies. Did Wyatt see them?”
“He did. To a limited degree.”
“To a limited degree. What does that even mean?”
“It means that we did what we could to get him out of the house without him seeing any more than he needed to see, but unfortunately
we can’t move the bodies until the medical examiner comes.”
I nod, understanding. I imagine the police leading Wyatt out of the house with a tight grip on his arm, of them steering him
past Nolan’s lifeless body in the upstairs hall. I wonder if Wyatt closed his eyes or if he looked straight ahead, if he avoided
looking at Nolan lying on the floor. A knot forms in my throat, thinking how this will stay with him and how he’ll deal with
the fallout his whole life. How he’ll never be the same again.
“Who did this?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “We’ve just begun—” he starts to say.
I cut him off, asking instead, “How were they killed?”
“We don’t know that yet. The medical examiner will have to determine a cause of death, but as soon as she does, we will let
you know.”
“And Reese?” I ask, clearing my throat, fighting tears. “Where is she?”
“Reese?” he asks, with a slight headshake. “I’m sorry, I—”
“My niece. Is she—” I start to ask, interrupting, but the words get away from me and I can’t finish my question. Dead. Is she dead? Of course she’s dead, because if she wasn’t, then she would be here too, with Wyatt. While Wyatt slept, someone
came into the cottage and killed the three of them. Miraculously, he’s the only one who survived.
But the detective’s response is unexpected. “There wasn’t anyone else in the cottage. We only found the two deceased and him.”
“I . . . I don’t understand,” I say, feeling a tightness spread through my chest. “She has to be there. Did you check all
the rooms, the closets?”
“We searched the entire cottage. There was no one else there.”
“That can’t be right. She must be there.”
My first thought is that they’re incompetent, that they’ve somehow missed Reese in their search. I get angry. But he insists,
“No, ma’am. It was only the two deceased and him,” lifting his chin to Wyatt.
I feel my body temperature rise. I’m hot all of a sudden, sweating under my arms and near my groin, feeling claustrophobic
in my robe, wondering what’s worse, if Reese is dead or if whoever killed Emily and Nolan took her, and if so, what unimaginable
things they’re doing to her. My stomach roils, a sour taste in my mouth.
I think how last night, while we were asleep, someone came into their cottage and killed Emily and Nolan and took Reese. Elliott
and I had the bedroom window open last night. There is no air-conditioning in the cottage. Though the temperatures drop into
the fifties overnight, Elliott runs warm. The fresh air these last few nights has been a blessing. When we left home, it was