Bitterroot Lake

1

A light glowed in the window of the far cabin, the cabin closest to the lake.

Sarah McCaskill Carter squinted and tightened her lips. She was seeing things again. She’d thought that once she came home to Montana, to Whitetail Lodge, the apparitions, the ghosts, the specters—whatever they were—would go away. That she would be herself once again. Although the therapist in Seattle had told her it might take months, or longer, to feel she was back on solid ground. Everyone responds to grief differently, the woman had said, in their own way, on their own time.

The light was gone. Sarah blew out a breath and took her foot off the brake, aiming the rented SUV down the last stretch of the winding lane that led to the lodge. She touched the gas and focused on the road. Deer, even elk and the occasional moose, were known to jump out of the shadows that filled these woods, especially when twilight was fading. She knew what damage they could cause, to a car and to a life.

She glanced back at the cabin. The light was on.

“Get a grip, girl,” she said out loud. “Or your next trip will be to the funny farm.”

Moments later, her headlights hit the double doors of the carriage house. Even in the fading light, the roof appeared to be sagging and the siding dull, in need of oil. Less schlepping if she parked in front of the lodge. But high winds and evening rainstorms were common in the mountains, and it was better to be safe and sore than sorry.

Wait. Was one door ajar?

“Don’t get spooked,” she told herself. “It’s just loose. There’s no one here.” When her mother asked her help getting the lake place ready for the summer and making a plan for the future, she’d warned her that the lodge needed serious cleaning. Sarah could deal with that. She’d dealt with worse than a little dirt.

Even so, her mother would have expected her to stop by the house in town first.

Not yet. Sarah could not stomach the thought of staying in Seattle one more minute, but she wasn’t ready to be smothered by mother love.

Tomorrow. She’d call her mother tomorrow and let her know she was here.

The words “better safe …” echoed in her brain. It had been seventeen days since her husband’s death, and she had not felt safe for one minute.

Nothing in reach might double as a weapon. She stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running. Opened the rear door and dug in her suitcase for her heavy black flashlight, its heft a comfort.

The ten-foot-high garage door groaned at her touch, then slid open with a squeal. Her headlights picked out a white van, mud-splashed, Missoula County plates reading CKLDY.

She caught her breath. It had to be—it couldn’t be anyone else.

But why was the woman here?

“Janine?” Sarah called into the darkness. No answer. She tried the driver’s door. Locked. Circled the van, straining to see in each window. Empty, as far as she could tell. Touched a muddy tire. Fresh. Laid a palm on the hood—not hot, not cold.

What was going on? She slid open the other door, then pulled her SUV inside. She’d come back for her bags later.

The lodge loomed, tall and dark, casting deep shadows over the circular drive. She strode past the stone steps of the front porch, aiming for the forest path that led to the three log cabins. The evening clouds had begun to part, but there was no moon, leaving only the last hint of twilight to guide her.

It was enough. Her feet knew the way, and she didn’t want to telegraph her presence with a stray flashlight beam. Because who knew why her old friend was here, or if she was alone? With all the time and distance between them, Sarah could not count on being welcomed, even though this property belonged to her family.

Between the first two cabins, she paused to gaze out at Bitterroot Lake, listening to the

waves lapping on the shore. Its waters ran deep, frigid even in summer. Now, not quite mid-May, the lake could be deadly.

Her steps slowed. She paused and took a deep breath, intent on the last cabin. The curtains had been pulled tight, but a soft glow leaked out, and she could see a battery-powered lantern on the window sill. Whitetail Lodge and its grounds had been a haven and retreat since early in the twentieth century, when a railroad tycoon built the lodge as a summer home. Her family had acquired the property—several hundred acres and a long stretch of lakeshore—in 1922. Her mother would have told her if any cabins were occupied.

No, this visitor had come here on the sly. Sarah did not begrudge the refuge or the intrusion. But she deserved to know the reason.

She strode to the weathered pine door. One foot on the path, the other on the stone step, she raised her hand and knocked. Heard the silence within. Knocked a second time.

“Janine? It’s Sarah Carter. Sarah McCaskill Carter.”

Silence, then footsteps, followed by a soft sound—a meow?

The door opened a few inches, a narrow swath of light playing on the worn wood floor. Janine Chapman peered around the edge of the door, gripping it with both hands. Her dark eyes were huge and red-rimmed, her olive skin tear-splotched. Was that blood on her white T-shirt?

“Lucas Erickson is dead,” she said. “And they’re going to think I did it.”

And with those words, all the ghosts in Sarah Carter’s past came back to life.