The Secrets of Lake Road - Karen Katchur Page 0,73
ways she felt as self-absorbed as she had been as a teenager. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were earlier.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Patricia wiped her eye with the doll. “I was what, ten years old the last time you saw me?”
“I guess. Heil remembers you.”
“Heil’s an asshole,” Patricia said.
Jo looked at her, somewhat surprised, and then smiled. “He is an asshole. But seriously, I should’ve known who you were. I mean it.” She hesitated. What did she mean? She was sorry she didn’t recognize Patricia as one of them? Why did it make a difference whether she was or wasn’t a lake regular? A little girl had drowned. That should be enough for all them to care and do everything possible to find her. But somehow it wasn’t. Somehow, Patricia knowing Billy, being here at the lake all those summers, it made a difference to Jo. She felt connected to Patricia in ways she couldn’t explain, not logically, but she felt she owed her something.
“You’re not the only one, you know,” Patricia said. “Other than Heil, I’m not sure anyone else remembers I used to come here with my parents.”
It was true. Gram hadn’t known who Patricia was, and she had been friends with both Bob and Jean. She was certain Kevin didn’t know. If anyone else had been privy to Patricia’s connection to the lake, the news would’ve spread through the colony and the search may have gone differently. Or maybe not, based on her previous conversation with Heil.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”Jo asked.
Patricia shrugged. “I was going to tell everyone, but I never got the chance. And then, it no longer seemed important,” she said.
Jo touched Patricia’s arm in a comforting way. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.” She wiped her eye with the doll again. “I got as far as the beach on our first day here and that was it. I never even got to introduce Sara to anyone, not even the Hawkes.”
Jo waited for Patricia to continue, but she didn’t. She disappeared somewhere deep inside herself, staring off at some point in the distance. Jo flicked the cigarette butt to the ground. She watched the ember fade and burn out. Whatever Patricia hoped to gain by returning to the lake, it had ended in a nightmare. But it still didn’t explain her comment about Billy.
“Do you remember when I stopped by your cabin?” Jo spoke in a soft, soothing way, hoping to lure Patricia back into the conversation. “You mentioned Billy.”
Patricia turned to look at her. In the dark, Jo could scarcely make out her eyes.
“Yes,” Patricia said. “Billy.” Her voice lifted. “How is he? And Dee Dee?”
Jo’s mind raced to catch up with what Patricia was asking. My God, she was right. After all these years, she didn’t know what had happened to Billy. How could she tell her he had drowned? How could she tell her they may have found his missing bones while searching for her daughter? She wouldn’t tell her, not about the bones. It didn’t change anything where Patricia was concerned. In fact, it seemed cruel.
Her throat felt dry. “Dee Dee is okay. The same.” Bitter. She swallowed hard. “But Patricia,” she said as gently as she could for both their sakes. It had been so long since she said the words out loud. “Billy is dead.”
“What do you mean, dead?” She held the doll to her chest and searched Jo’s face in the dark. “I don’t understand.” She grabbed Jo’s forearm. “He’s really dead?”
“Yes.”
Patricia continued trying to see something in Jo’s face. Jo could only imagine what she was searching for—grief, guilt, truth. Eventually she released the grip on Jo’s arm. She turned away. She was quiet for some time. “It’s just so shocking.” She curled in on herself, hugging the doll. “How?”
“He drowned,” she said, surprised how much it still hurt, how raw the pain still felt.
Patricia shook her head. “No, that can’t be. Not Billy. He knew the lake better than anyone. He couldn’t just drown.”
“You’re right,” Jo said, and turned her head away. “He couldn’t.”
Not unless he’d had help.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Caroline rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed. Her mother was talking to someone in the kitchen. She picked up the old alarm clock from her nightstand. A sliver of moonlight gave off enough light to see that it was three a.m., the dead hour. She had heard the term watching one of Gram’s television detective shows. She thought it was a cool phrase.