Murder at Sunrise Lake

His arm tightened around her. “I came here to find a different way of life, to be a different person. Not the way I grew up, and not the person I’d been for our government. I found this place and you.”

“No one is going to take that away from you, Sam.” Stella said it fiercely, determined she spoke the truth.

CHAPTER TEN

Harlow Frye had flaming-red hair and jade-green eyes. Freckles dusted her nose and high cheekbones, scattered across her shoulders and arms generously, adding to her beauty. She was tall with long legs and generous curves. By turns she could look elegant, a temptress or girl next door, depending on what she wore and how she did her hair and makeup. Even with all the varying looks she had, she always appeared to be a fiery flame. There was no getting around that, not with her hair.

Today she wore her thick mane of red hair up in a simple ponytail. She had little makeup on, jeans rolled up and a golden sweater buttoned with tiny pearl buttons. Her boots came up to her calves, a soft golden leather that matched her sweater. Stella could never figure out where she found her clothes or boots.

Harlow studied the sketch that didn’t really show much of anything while she digested what Stella had revealed to her of her true identity. Beneath the artist’s table in Harlow’s studio, Stella pressed her fingernails deep into her own thigh through her jeans. She’d told Sam she wanted to talk to Harlow alone, so after a curt nod that clearly conveyed his displeasure over her decision, he had stayed at the resort to ensure the last of the guests renting the cabins had left without mishap. They were officially closed for the season, a true relief. Tonight there would be a party for her longtime employees. They certainly deserved their break, and then she and Sam would have time off as well. Hopefully they would have time to develop their relationship and catch a serial killer.

“When you have these nightmares, Stella, you’re aware that you’re dreaming? Are you an active participant in the dream?” Harlow asked, still studying the sketch. She was frowning in concentration.

“I’ve never been before,” she admitted. “I was always terrified, but I was a little child the first time and a teen the second. The first series of nightmares was so unexpected, about the fisherman, I was just concentrating on trying to find the place around the lake where it might be. Zahra suggested I might be able to widen the lens. I never thought of that. I never even considered looking at the lens itself.”

“Have you ever changed a dream?”

“I’ve woken myself up by telling myself I was dreaming, but I never changed anything significant. When I liked a dream, before I went to bed, I told myself I wanted to dream that particular dream again and I did,” she admitted.

“I’m sorry about your father, Stella.” Harlow looked up for the first time, meeting her eyes, looking sincere. “We can’t choose our parents, can we? Thankfully, they don’t necessarily have to reflect who we are.” She looked down again at the sketch. “This doesn’t really give me a lot to work with, but you could try experimenting. I know you’re not a camera person.” She glanced back up at Stella, who shuddered and made a face. Harlow burst out laughing in spite of the seriousness of their conversation.

Stella covered her face with her hands and peeked out between her fingers. “You’re going to make me touch a camera, aren’t you?”

Harlow studied her. “Why do you have such an aversion to them? Do you think it was because you grew up surrounded by the media after they found out about your father?”

Stella took her hands down, considering Harlow’s question. “No, there were always reporters around. My mother was involved in multiple charities and sat on several boards for opera, ballet and theater houses. She was big in the arts. That translated to numerous articles in newspapers and magazines. At the time, my father was considered quite the handsome philanthropist. They were quite a couple and made a splash everywhere they went, always camera ready. I had to be as well if I went outside the house.”

Harlow nodded in understanding. “I know what that’s like as a child. My father was always in politics as far back as I can remember.” She made a little face. “God forbid you get dirt on your shoes or scuff them up in the garden in case someone needs a family photo. That’s one of the reasons I don’t do portraits.”

Stella knew Harlow rarely took photographs of people. When she did, the pictures were private ones, only of her friends and their activities. It was her landscapes that were considered breathtaking and captured so much attention.