Bitterroot Lake

2

Half an hour later, Sarah clutched a mug of hot tea and stared across the kitchen table. Her mother may have started cleaning the lodge—a bucket and sponge had been left in the deep white farmhouse sink—but she hadn’t gotten very far. Sarah had wiped down the chrome-trimmed Formica table and chrome chairs, their red vinyl seats showing wear at the corners, while the kettle heated. The tea was old, Twinings in bags, the sugar clumped with damp. She’d picked up a few things in a market not far from the train station, but tea and sugar weren’t among them—she’d make a full grocery run in a day or two, if she decided to stay.

But tea wasn’t the point.

“Tell me again,” Sarah told the woman she’d known since the seventh grade but hadn’t seen in years. “Start from the beginning.”

Janine spread her hands across the wrinkled letter that lay between them, smoothing the white paper. Capable hands, the fingers strong and supple. No rings, not worth the trouble of scrubbing them clean of flour and sugar, let alone keeping a shine. Despite their strength, the baker’s hands could not iron out the angry marks she’d made when she’d crumpled up the page and thrown it at the unseen, anonymous writer.

But the folds and furrows in the paper did not obscure the words, typed in a standard font, undated, unsigned.

“Only you know the truth of what happened twenty-five years ago,” the letter read. “Only you can decide what to do.”

“Did you bring the envelope?” Sarah asked. The cat—compact, its fur dark chocolate, coffee-tinged at the ears and paws—finished its circuit of the room and jumped into her lap. Her hands instinctively steadied the creature, and she added cat food to her unwritten shopping list.

Janine’s dark, wiry curls swung back and forth. “No return address.” Sarah had lent her a clean shirt, Janine’s bloodied T-shirt now draped over the back of a chair.

“The postmark?”

“Missoula.”

Montana’s second-largest city, home to the University of Montana. One hundred and fifty miles south. A long drive, simply to confront a man.

Nothing simple about it.

“But he lives here, in Deer Park. Why would you think he sent it?”

“Post office closed the sorting facility years ago. All the mail in western Montana goes through Missoula now. Unless it’s local, from one Deer Park address to another. And he might have gone down there, for court or legal business.” Janine drew her tea closer. “But it has to have come from him, doesn’t it? No one else …”

Her voice trailed off, not saying what didn’t need to be said. Twenty-five years ago this month, Sarah had graduated from the university, along with their friend Nicole. The new grads and Sarah’s sister Holly, a year younger, had come to the lodge to celebrate, Janine in tow. For a week, the four friends and roommates had been the only ones here—swimming, hiking, laughing, drinking too much wine, and falling asleep in the sun. Enjoying their last carefree days before time and plans separated them.

Then Lucas and his buddies showed up. And everything changed.

“Oh, God, Sally, it was awful. It was hideous. I wanted to throw up.” Janine bent over, clutching her elbows. Then she stood and began to pace between the ancient white enamel range and the equally ancient refrigerator.

No one had called Sarah “Sally” in decades, except occasionally when someone in the family slipped. Or a friend from way back.

“He wanted to make sure I kept my mouth shut. Rumor is he intends”—Janine paused—“intended to run for office.”

“Political office?” As if there were another kind. But Lucas?

“Congress, I heard. He might have lacked political experience, but he never lacked confidence.”

Why not Lucas? He’d been smart and ambitious. Lawyers often leaned toward politics. And officially, he had no criminal record.

“Lucas?” she repeated, this time out loud. The cat shifted in her lap.

“I thought—I thought—” Janine stopped, then grabbed her chair and rocked it backward. “He always blamed me for the wreck. Because I said no, because I wouldn’t sleep with him—”

“He attacked you. He all but raped you.” Sarah didn’t bother stemming her anger as the memory spilled out of her. “I saw you, we all saw you, racing out of the cabin, your shirt ripped, your shorts half off. Running barefoot down the gravel driveway to get away from him.”

“Instead, he jumped in Jeremy’s car and tried to leave.”

“I remember,” Sarah said, her voice breaking. She would never forget. Jeremy had left the keys in it. He and Michael ran after Lucas. Somehow, both young men—boys, really, barely older than her son was now—had ended up in the car, too. Trying to get Lucas to stop, to figure out what had happened, to keep him from careening up the road and down the winding, two-lane North Shore Road in a blind, foolish rage. Holly had jumped in their father’s old Jeep and raced after them. She’d seen Lucas picking up speed on the blacktop, weaving across the center line and back again. Seen Jeremy trying to wrench control of the car. Seen the moose amble up out of the borrow pit and straight into their path.

Sarah could see it all as if she’d been there. She could hear the squeal of rubber, the rip of metal on asphalt, the wild bellowing. The terrible sounds had rolled down the slope to where the other three had stood, clinging to each other, in front of the lodge. Nic—Nicole, always the sensible one—had run inside to call for help while Sarah and Janine rushed up the hill, terrified of what they would find but too terrified to stay put.

“Lucas may have blamed you,” she said quietly, “but Jeremy never did. He knew what Lucas had done. Even though you’d told him no over and over, all weekend, Lucas boasted that he could get you into bed, one way or another. Michael and Jeremy told him to shut up, to let it go. He always knew it wasn’t your fault.”