9:08 a.m.
My numb fingers fumble with the handle. I have opened a car door before; now, I cannot remember how. Clouds of breath puff from my mouth; the urge to stop breathing overwhelms me. I pinch an eyelash from my stinging right lash line; a small patch of ten to twelve remain. I’ll have to switch to my eyebrows again soon.
Because I’m sitting in the car, I must have figured out how to finagle the door while contemplating how poorly I cope with stress. The rest is so automatic, it barely warrants brain space: start car, turn on heat, crank stereo, put on seatbelt. I put the car in reverse and crack my ankle into the gas pedal. Not how I want to start moving.
Shards of light, striations of dark, a rising sun, and finally I’m at the small parking lot meant for the part of Lynn Pond I need to visit. A thin layer of snow coats the four-car-space blacktop. My tires mar the pristine surface.
The accidental slamming of the car door breaks the stifling silence only a heavy snowfall brings. Birds awaken.
Snap, zip. Puffy layers of fabric add an inch to my body. It may be a short walk, but I have no idea how long I will need to be where I found Laura, where I nearly drowned in the freezing lake. Dread rears its ugly head. I become a calf, my limbs fresh and wobbly.
Two steps away from the steaming car, and I am six-years-old. My gloves and layers upon layers of clothing do not protect me from the imagery.
Bits of frosted grass and snow mounds crunch under my too-small Mary Janes. I rub my gloveless fists into leaking eyes, smearing snot onto the inside of my sleeve. Shivering, I grumble at my backpack for shifting my skirt up as wind nips through my leggings and panties.
Stepping towards the frozen-over Lynn Pond, I am myself again as something yellow flowing in the breeze under the bridge catches my attention. Never mind that it’s the brick structure that has haunted me for decades, morbid curiosity draws me closer; it is few pieces of drooping barricade tape. I thought Jane Doe was found near it. They could have told me that to see my reaction, try and trip me up.
But as I get closer, I see a slightly more weathered piece of caution tape sticking up from the snow further to the left; she may have been found near the bridge after all, just as the under-qualified officers said she was. Then, wait. A thought pops into my head—ludicrous though is it. It could be another crime. Two crimes in Silynn in the same location? If I weren’t standing in front of the crime scene, or scenes, I would laugh. And why, oh why, do bad things happen when I’m here? This damned place hates me.
There are too many thoughts in my head. I will have to go into town, sit in the car, and call Rachael the moment I leave. I can’t just journal this one through.
“I’m worried the cops will think I was revisiting my crime when I was just really trying to get over seeing a little dead girl when I was six. I didn’t do it—I should write that down here in case anyone finds this. Right? I didn’t murder that woman.”
How’s that for a journal entry?
Whistling wind fills me as the Haystack Rock-shaped stone comes into view. Half-buried under snow, it marked Laura’s spot. My muscles tense as if I were in middle school awaiting the head mean girl’s chubby hand to slap me when she thought I kissed a boy she liked. I hope Lucy grew up ugly and alone.
I brush white fluff away and sit on the rock. The spot draws my attention once again. I digress to memories, jeans soaking through with every moment I’m lost. Laura Hurst’s presence is beside me. I remember very little of the time we spent together: a pool, fairy wands, crowns drawn from yellow chalk, screams—of laughter or fear, I’m not sure.
Is my mother to blame for thirty years of emotional damages? The desire to say yes is irrationally strong. If Hailey had never stopped babysitting Laura, we might have walked home together the afternoon she was murdered.
Pine and snow fill my lungs as I breathe in. Something moves beneath the surface of the water, and fragments come to me. My book bag was filled with a folder, some papers, a lunchbox, and a pencil. I threw it down before I ran to the edge of the lake. Someone screamed my name then, or as I was on the ice, or as I was falling in. I think it was a male voice, but I must have shrugged it off. I don’t remember turning. When asked by police and reporters, I told them I climbed out. It made me heroic and brave; it also made me a liar.
For the longest time, I was convinced I had crawled out—memories are very pliable. Only a few years ago, I was honest with myself. I stopped and thought about that day; I rationalized and figured it had been Peter. He’d probably followed me home like a good big brother and pulled me out of Lynn Pond when he saw the ice give way under me. It explained why when I came to, there had been a Lucky Charms marshmallow near my book bag. He had taken some to school, I guessed. He couldn’t have told anyone he had saved me after the claims I made without making one of us a public liar.
Staring at the fish swimming under the water, I wonder if it could have been the Lake Killer. Could Laura’s murderer have been my savior? Goosebumps erupt on my skin. I whip my head all around, looking for something, someone. My imagination runs wild: her murderer is in Silynn on the same day I am, and they have decided to revisit the site where they dumped her body at the same time as I did. What of the latest murder? I wonder if that was the Lake Killer’s handiwork too. I laugh at myself. The sound brings an unease as I hear a wheeze from the trees.
A shiver that has nothing to do with weather shocks my spine, and I decide to sift through the rest of my thoughts later. I will tear the memory to shreds and choose which pieces to keep on my shelf once I am settled in front of a roaring fire with two new bottles of wine. For now, I will listen to the instincts I wish I’d had decades ago and leave.
I shake as I stand. The rental car is a million miles away, uphill in the snow. The same walk that held a solemn quiet now feels eerie and dangerous. Every small crack of an icicle or hoot of an owl in the distance is threatening.
Behind me, snow crunches off-beat with my steps. A wheeze punctuates every few feet. Sweat prickles my palms, and I pick up my pace. The steps keep up.
I dare a glance.
A shadow enters my vision and confirms I’m not hearing ghosts. It’s a man, I think. I take off, feet pounding. The solid ground sends shockwaves up to my knees. They are going to catch me.
Their breathing gets louder, feels closer.
Running in the cold makes my lungs ache, eyes dry up and water. I slow out of necessity, and they get closer. Grunts of exertion match rhythmic thuds. Two coughs they don’t try to hide sound inches away. I feel them breathing down my neck—the Lake Killer?
When I see the limp plastic tape, dagger-like fear spikes—I will add to the body count. What’s the end game?
As if the crime scene is an electric fence, the steps stutter behind me. Though I want to face whoever it is, see them after all these years, I don’t dare turn around. Pushing the skin-encased beaten muscles previously known as my legs past their limit, I keep running until I see my car.
My sigh of relief is lost to the returned silence ringing in my ears.