Chapter One
LILY
My eyes flew open in the dark. I’d been dreaming of the lake, of moonlight playing on the water, of swimming at night. Of unseen hands pulling me under, water filling my lungs.
Most of my life I'd slept like a log. In the year since Trey died, I'd gotten used to this. To waking in the dead of night, only the shadows on my walls for company.
I rolled over, fluffing the pillow under my head, trying to find a comfortable position. Sometimes I could fall back to sleep. Sometimes I lay awake until dawn.
The dream weighed me down, the dark water in moonlight. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to close my eyes again or give up and read until morning.
Sleep. I needed a full night of sleep. Then maybe the nightmare wouldn't come back. I could hope.
My eyes were sliding shut when I heard it.
A thump. A shuffle. Something being dragged, or someone walking in sock-covered feet.
I sat up, throwing off the covers, then stopped at the edge of the bed, my feet on the carpet, leaning forward, straining for a hint of sound.
Had I heard something? It wouldn't be the first time a noise woke me. The house was isolated, on the edge of the lake and surrounded by woods. Between the wildlife and the wind, nighttime sounds weren't unusual.
This was different.
Since Trey had died everything was different.
I listened, breath held, and heard nothing but the faint echo of crickets outside.
I took a deep, slow breath and reminded myself that the doors were locked. The alarm was on. The house was secure.
The last time I'd thought I heard a noise—had been absolutely sure someone was in the house—I’d called the police and ended up feeling like an idiot. Deputy Morris was nice about it.
Black Rock is a small town. Deputy Morris, Dave, had been fishing buddies with Trey. He was a friend. Sort of. Friend enough that he didn't tell me outright he thought I was making it up, but I'd known Dave for years. I could read between the lines.
If I called him right now, he'd jump in his cruiser and head over. He'd search the house from top to bottom, and when he found nothing, he'd give me a sympathetic, worried look and ask if I needed help.
I needed all kinds of help, but not from Dave Morris.
There was nothing there. It was the nightmare, that's all. Stress. Too many nights of interrupted sleep playing tricks on my mind.
I'd almost convinced myself I was imagining things. I turned, ready to slide my feet back under the covers, when it came again. A soft, shuffling thump. Not quite someone walking. Something being dragged?
I didn't know, but I'd have to find out.
I stood slowly, my palms clammy, heart racing. My robe lay at the foot of the bed where I'd tossed it hours earlier. I pulled it on, tying the belt firmly. My hair slid into my face. I twisted it into a messy knot, crushing the curls, just wanting it out of my eyes.
The house was quiet, but this time I'd heard something. I had. I wasn't making it up. I wasn't imagining things. I'd heard a noise from inside the house.
Picking up my phone, I stared at the screen. Just call Dave, a little voice whispered.
I unlocked the screen and pulled up Dave's number, then stopped. Dave's face filled my mind, the expression as he stared down at me the last time I'd called in the middle of the night. His patience would have been sweet if it hadn't been tainted by condescension.
He'd suggested maybe it was the stress of being alone. That maybe the pressure was too much. That grief could play tricks on the mind. He'd laid a hand on my shoulder, intending comfort, and said that it was okay if I was overwhelmed without Trey.
Then the suggestion, voiced so gently, that perhaps I was lonely.
Like I'd call Dave in the middle of the night because I wanted some company.
Did he think I was that pathetic? I guess he did.
I wasn't pathetic.
I was scared.
Phone in hand, I turned on my bedroom light. I'd known I was alone in the room, and still, I was relieved to see the familiar white walls, my messy bed.
In the hall I turned on the light, flicking switches on my way to Adam's room.
Trey had insisted our son sleep as far from us as possible.
I hadn't minded back then. My little guy was a bear to get to sleep, but once he was down, he was out.
Trey joked that Adam slept like me. Like I used to.
Before. Now I hated the distance between our rooms, but Adam didn't want to move.
I left Adam's light off, padding silently to his bedside. He lay face down on the mattress, the quilt shoved to his feet, his cartoon pajamas twisted around his torso.
He slept like a rock, but he moved constantly. Every now and then I'd let him fall asleep in my bed, but I always moved him to his own. I'd woken too many nights from a kick to my kidneys or a small toe in my ear. He slept hard, but he was never still for long.
Tousled blonde hair streaked white from the summer sun spread across his navy pillowcase. I ran my fingers through the silky length so like Trey's. So unlike my own dark curls. He'd need a haircut soon.
I straightened and went to the door, closing it behind me. If I'd been alone, I might have ignored the sound. Might have tried harder to convince myself I was hearing things. But I had Adam, and Adam's safety was more important than anything.
At the top of the stairs, I stopped, the darkness at the bottom a cavern hiding whatever had made that sneaky, shuffling sound. I waited, ears straining. Nothing moved in the shadows below. Nothing that I could see.
I flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs, illuminating the empty hall below. The empty hall and the alarm panel on the wall at the base of the stairs. The alarm panel with its blinking green lights. Green, not red.
Green.
My heart kicked in my chest, my breath strangling in my throat.
I'd set the alarm. There was no question. I'd set the alarm. I never forgot.
I'd grown up in the suburbs, not the country. I’d never liked the isolation of the house Trey had built for us. Even when he was alive, I set the alarm every night. I never forgot.
Those green lights glowed up at me, making me wonder. Making me doubt. I never forgot, but had I? Could I have? I descended the stairs slowly, racking my brain.
We’d had dinner early. Chicken fingers with honey mustard for Adam, along with two hated carrots. Leftover lasagna for me. After, a bath for Adam. Pajamas for both of us. Then, curled up on the couch with his favorite stuffed monkey between us, we'd watched half a movie. Curious George. Again.
Adam was crazy for Curious George, and we'd watched the movie every night for the past two weeks. Then bedtime for Adam. A story and a back rub later, Adam had fallen asleep.
I'd gone downstairs, set the alarm, and made a cup of tea before bringing a book and the tea up to bed.
I'd set the alarm while I was waiting for the water to boil. Then I'd walked through the first floor, turning off the lights, the alarm panel glowing red. Armed.
How was it green? My mind reeled at the thought. Only Trey and I had the code, and Trey was dead. The alarm had never malfunctioned. If it had, the police would have come.
Someone must have disarmed it. But who? And how? Even if someone had the code, the siren would have gone off when the door opened. The only way to disarm the panel silently was from inside the house.
That thought sent ice through my heart. No. I'd walked the house. No one had been inside. No one. It was impossible.
Not impossible. It's a big house. So many places to hide.
I pushed the voice away. I was not going to get hysterical. There had to be a simple explanation. Maybe the power had gone out while I was sleeping.
Backup battery.
Sleepwalking? Could I have sleepwalked to the panel and turned it off myself?
At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped, turning away from the green glow of the alarm panel. The front door was closed and locked, the windows on either side dark.
Taking a breath for courage, I strode forward and flicked every switch on the panel by the door. Bright light flooded the steps outside and the path from the driveway. Beyond the path, the lake gleamed black in the moonlight, just like my dream. The lights from the dock glowed, warm and welcoming.
No one was there. No one on the lake. No one on the dock. No one on the path.
I peered into the darkness. Most of the first floor was a big open space surrounded by towering plate glass windows. Trey had designed the house with the help of a renown modernist architect. I'd hated it from the start.
This part of Maine is filled with classic New England architecture. Colonials. Saltboxes. Cape Cods. Georgians. Federals. Even a few Victorians. Painted siding. Brick. Shutters and front porches.
This place, with its flat windows and sharp corners, its metal and concrete, looked like it had been dropped from another world. Or California. Here in Maine that was the same thing.
Modern and aggressive, it jutted out on the peninsula, intruding into the lake, breaking up the shoreline. The house Trey built demanded attention, asserting itself when it should have blended with the trees and the water.
I hated giving my address to anyone who didn't already know it. ‘Oh, that house,’ they'd say. ‘Why'd you go build a thing like that?’
If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard it, I could afford to burn the place down and move away. Not that money would help. It wasn't a lack of money that kept me here.
For the first time, I was grateful for the open design of the house. One flick of a switch and I could see everything. Almost everything.
The kitchen, empty. The dining area, the sitting area, empty. The doors to the decks, all closed and locked.
I crossed the empty room and flipped more switches. The deck lights flashed on. Empty.
There was no one here. I was imagining things.
My nerves were shot, like Dave said.