Fifty feet before the boathouse, she tripped badly, falling to her knees, skinning the palms of her hands. She stood. Brushed them off. Continued.
She opened the door.
The boathouse was shadowy, darker even than it normally was. Spectral watercraft stood on stands in three neat rows. She moved to the aluminum rowboat. She’d never before tried to lower it from its stand on her own, but she thought she could do it.
Several tugs. A clatter. One oar skittered over the ground.
She dragged it, with effort, to the ramp that led down to the lake. She was sweating, despite the cold wind that was blowing up from the water. Her movements were clumsy, disjointed.
From behind her, suddenly, the sound of the boathouse door.
Alice
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975
She didn’t know where she was. She opened her eyes. Her mouth was so dry that she couldn’t swallow. Above her, the room rotated slowly, the overhead light making slow arcs in the air.
She had the sensation of being unable to form words. Even her thoughts were wordless. Water, she thought—but it was an image, not a noun. She looked around the room for a sink, turning her whole torso in one direction and then another. Her neck was stiff, as if she had not moved her head for days.
There were windows in this room, but they were darkened by closed shutters with tight slats and exterior latches. She couldn’t tell if it was day or night outside.
The bed she was on was so firm that it felt like a plank of wood.
She stood up from it unsteadily. She was wearing a dress, she saw. Its material was stiff, as if soaked and then hung out to dry.
Toilet, she thought. The image of one. The urge to urinate was suddenly so powerful that she doubled over.
Where was she? She had the sensation that the answer would come to her shortly, and with it some terrible knowledge that perhaps she did not want. Slowly, she straightened again.
There was no toilet. Only a few meager trappings that indicated she was in someone’s bedroom, long disused. A sturdy dresser. A bowl for water. A mirror: this she avoided completely.
She saw a door. She moved to it, pushed against it: locked. She knew somehow that it would be.
She lay down on the floor, barring entry to the thought. Something terrible had happened, she knew. If she went back to sleep, she wouldn’t have to learn it.
She closed her eyes.
The door opened.
Through it came Peter’s father.
Judyta
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day Three
It’s nearing the end of her shift. She has to find Hayes; she can’t risk talking to anyone else about what Mrs. Van Laar told her. She can’t afford to be wrong in front of LaRochelle again; not after yesterday.
Perhaps you should interview him. He’s such an interesting man.
• • •
When she reaches the Director’s Cabin, two investigators, smoking outside, tell her that Hayes is gone for the day.
“Shit,” she says, and the investigators straighten.
“You got a mouth on you,” one says.
She doesn’t reply.
“Anyway,” says the other, “he left this for you.” Begrudgingly, he holds out a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Denny. Home, the paper says.
“You two got something goin’ on?” the first investigator says. His buddy smothers a grin.
Judy ignores them. Pushes into the house.
• • •
Alone, she feels better.
There’s a long hallway that runs to the back of the house from the main room. At the end of it is a bathroom—practically destroyed, now, by its constant use over the past few days.
But there are other rooms, too. And according to Mrs. Van Laar—one of them is, or has been, Vic Hewitt’s.
Judy walks down the hallway, toe to heel, making as little noise as possible.
She tries the first door. Inside is a neatly made bed, a stack of reading material on the nightstand, a magazine called Camp Life. She opens the closet door; inside she finds several articles of androgynous clothing and a neat row of fishing hats.
At this point, Judy has no guess as to whether she’s in Vic’s room or T.J.’s. She walks to a dark wooden dresser and pulls open one of the two small top drawers.
