Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,76
Anne headed for the door, following Macy in. Scooter sat at the back door, his attention on the yard it barred him from, and whined again, fur bristling.
“Clary! Let’s go, sweetie. We’re all hungry.”
“You two check upstairs,” Brent ordered. “Anne and I will look down here.”
Macy took the stairs faster than even Stephen’s long legs could manage. At the top she went right, to the master suite, and he turned left. The girl’s name echoed through the house, and something awful—primal fear, he thought—soured his gut. She’d been standing at the French doors, looking out after Anne. She’d given him and Brent the thumbs-up, then took off around the family room with Scooter, and now Scooter was standing at the door, staring into the backyard.
Not just standing there, he thought, recalling the dog’s stiff posture and his hair on end. Alerted there. Scooter saw or felt or sensed something wrong outside.
He was leaving Clary’s room with long strides just as a scream came from down the hall, a piercing cry, and commotion sounded in the corridor. Macy, face contorted in pain, raced from her own room and tore down the stairs, whimpering, “Oh, God, no, no!” Lungs constricting, he ran after her.
She skidded around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, banging her shoulder against the wall, losing one of her flip-flops. She didn’t notice but ran to the back of the house. Brent appeared from Mark’s office, face going stark at his sister’s panic, and Anne came running from the utility room. “Macy, what—”
It seemed to hit the rest of them at once: the swimming pool. Dear God.
They raced together out the door and toward the pool, Brent jumping a row of shrubs to reach it first. He stopped abruptly, breaths heaving, and looked from the pool to Macy. Her cry peaked, and she clapped both hands over her mouth to stop the keening.
The surface of the pool was smooth, serene as ever. Nothing more than a leaf disrupted it; nothing but the intricate tiles down the sides and across the bottom showed through the water.
They stood silent, one horrible moment turning into relief. Then, remembering that the child was still missing, Stephen turned to scan the yard. “Clary! Where are you, Li’l Bit?”
A sweet face popped up over the back of a wooden chair in front of the fountain, in the far corner of the yard. “Here I am. Are we ready to go eat yet?”
Brent trotted toward her. So did Anne. Stephen stayed where he was, near Macy, who stared at the quiet pool. Her expression was still horrified. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and a look of such anguish twisted her features. “I thought...” Her weak whisper trailed off. “I saw...”
“What, Macy?” When she showed absolutely no response, he stepped closer, cupped his hands to her cheeks, forced her to look at him. “What did you see?”
Her eyes were sad and haunted, haunting. “I saw Clary. My baby. In the pool. I saw her, Stephen.” Her hands gripped his wrists so tightly that her nails left impressions. “I didn’t imagine it, Stephen!” she said in an urgent whisper. “I saw her! I saw...something.”
He didn’t try to reassure her, to dissuade her. He just pulled her snugly against him, his arms wrapped around her as if simple proximity could protect her, make her feel safe, keep her safe. He held her and smoothed her hair and whispered, “It’s okay. She’s okay. She’s safe, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
His body absorbed her trembling with an ache. After a long moment, she raised her head, her face no more than an inch from his. “Stephen...am I crazy? Again?”
“No.” He put as much conviction into the syllable as he could. He’d seen the terror. She’d truly believed her daughter was in the pool. He was no expert at psychology, but even he knew that visual hallucinations weren’t typical of a diagnosis of depression and anxiety. She was stressed, no doubt about that. Misplacing things, sure. But seeing things that weren’t there?
Though she’d thought that the day she’d seen movement in the guesthouse.
Nails clicked as Scooter trotted to them then rubbed against Stephen’s leg with a whine. Stephen lowered one hand to rub his head, quieted him with a low word, wondering. Had Scooter been at the back door simply because Clary went out and didn’t take him with her? That would be enough to make him pout, maybe enough to make him whine. But to make him bristle?