Bitterroot Lake

Now everything was different. The sun had set and the air had turned cool. She shivered and headed up the lakeshore, drawn by the comforting lights of the lodge.

Inside the front door, she hung up her jacket and kicked off her shoes. Tomorrow she’d give them a good scrub. In the living room, Holly sat on the floor at the end of a couch, the canvas bag from the mortuary next to her. Cards and letters surrounded her.

“What are you doing?” Sarah’s hands clenched and heat shot through her. “Those are mine. Mine and my children’s. You have no right—”

Then she noticed her sister’s eyes, wide and afraid. She sensed rather than saw Nic standing a few feet away. Holly’s hand shook as she held out a sheet of paper. A single sheet, just like the ones they’d seen before.

God damn you, Lucas Erickson. God damn you.

16

“I was coming back from the bathroom,” Holly said, gesturing. “I tripped over the bag. I didn’t see it, I swear. We were going to play Scrabble.”

The board lay open on the game table in the corner. Sarah sank into a chair, the letter in her hand. The cat jumped into her lap, and she steadied the wiry little creature.

“I—I left it there,” she said. “Friends, business acquaintances—they sent cards and notes, but I didn’t have the heart to read them. I thought it might be easier here.” Ha. The joke was on her.

The kitchen doors swung open with their rhythmic thump and Janine pushed through with her backside, a tray with glasses and a bottle of sparkling water in her hands. “Oh, you’re back.”

“I’m back,” Sarah said. “To this.” She lifted the letter, then dropped it on the table.

Holly scrambled to her feet. “I think we could all use something stronger.”

“Don’t you think you drink enough?” Nic asked.

Sarah’s eyes slid to her sister. Fair question.

“Don’t, Nic,” Holly said, her voice sharp. “Not tonight.” She walked to the buffet where a bottle of cabernet sat uncorked and held it out, a questioning look on her face. Sarah nodded and Holly poured two glasses, setting them on the table next to the mound of Scrabble tiles.

“It’s identical to the others,” Janine said. “The envelope, too.”

“You found the envelope? Who was it addressed to?” Sarah demanded.

Nic picked a plain white business envelope off the floor and handed it to her, then slid the rest of the cards back into the canvas bag and tucked it out of the way.

It was addressed to her. Had whoever sent it known of Jeremy’s death?

The familiar numbers and letters of her address in Seattle blurred. Vomit swelled in her throat and hit the back of her mouth. She swallowed instinctively, the hot, sour taste burning as it slid back down. But why? Why send her a letter like the ones he’d sent Holly and Janine? She hated to touch the foul envelope, but she couldn’t read the postmark in the dim light.

“Why send me a letter?” she finally asked. “Did he know—about Jeremy, I mean? He might have heard through friends or the alumni network. Plenty of people did hear, obviously.”

“He must have known,

” Nic said. “I wonder if that’s why he decided to send the letters. He knew that with Jeremy gone, there was no reason for you not to speak out.”

“What are you saying?”

“What if he thought Jeremy was the reason none of us ever talked about the assault? By the time we knew Jeremy would recover from the accident, it was too late to say ‘oh, and by the way, this all happened because Lucas was pissed that Janine didn’t want to have sex with him.’”

“He tried to rape me,” Janine said.

“I know that. We all know that.” Nic’s hand shook as she poured herself a glass of wine. It was the first time she’d been snappish since she got here, though they’d given her plenty of reason. “What’s different now is that Jeremy’s gone.”

“And the anniversary,” Holly said. “The letters must be connected to the anniversary.”

Twenty-five years next week.

“Why not send one to you?” Janine asked Nic.