wedge sandals.
Without giving myself time to second-guess my appearance, I head out, taking the keys to Dad’s Jeep. The air has cooled off after the storm, so I double back into the house to get a sweater, and then have to go around checking the locks before I can go out and come home an hour or so later without freaking out.
“This house has so many windows,” I grumble, turning on the upstairs hallway light to make it look like someone is home. Silver Ridge is a small town, but it takes a decent amount of time to get into the downtown area from the lake house since I have to drive all the way around the lake. It’s nearing ten-thirty when I pull into the bar’s parking lot. The place is packed, though Silver Ridge’s definition of “packed” is different than what I’m used to from living in LA.
I haven’t been here in years, and it looks—and smells—the same. It’s supposedly part of the charm and the reason the owners have hardly done updates over the years. People like knowing what they’re coming to, and while it’s mostly an excuse to never update lighting or decor, this place is nostalgic for many people, from the locals to the people who come to Silver Ridge on vacation to use our lake and our hiking trails.
There was a time when I wouldn’t be caught dead walking into a bar alone. Just thinking about it would cause my chest to tighten and my stomach to clench up. I’ve gained a lot of confidence over the years, though it didn’t come easily, and I still find myself slipping back from time to time.
I’m actually smiling when I step through the double doors, emerging into the dimly light bar. Sahil is behind the counter, filling beers and talking with his customers. He looks up after he passes out the glasses and waves. I wave back, and he shoos someone away from the bar, giving me their stool.
“Damn, Fisher,” Sahil says, coming around the bar to give me a hug. “You look good.”
“I’d say the same about you, but that would be a lie,” I shoot back, and we laugh. Sahil is five years younger than me and was quite the pain in the ass when Farisha and I were younger, mostly because she got tasked with looking after him when her mom got caught at work, filling out paperwork or coming up with new health protocols for the school.
“Rish said your dad’s house is haunted now?” He raises an eyebrow and goes back around the bar. “Or should I say again?”
“There’s a good possibility.”
“Wouldn’t it have had to be haunted before? Unless someone died there recently or something, and as far as I know, there have been no murders in Silver Ridge in over fifteen years.”
“Don’t jinx it.” I pull my hand through the strap of my wristlet purse and put it on the counter in front of me. “And you mean there haven’t been any murders that we know of. I stand by what I said before and there has to be at least one body dumped in the lake every other year.”
“The lake is pretty populated this time of the year. Wouldn’t one end up floating up to the surface?”
“Not if you know what you’re doing.”
He laughs and reaches below the bar for a glass. “You’re so weird, Fisher.”
“And you’re boring.”
We both laugh, and he makes me a cocktail. I take a few sips and turn in my chair, looking out at the patrons, seeing if there’s anyone I know. My heart speeds up a little at the thought, and I’m torn either way on someone recognizing me. I love to talk about my books, and I’m so fucking proud of what I’ve accomplished. It wasn’t easy, and I hope my story of refusing to give up after seventy-six rejection letters can give another aspiring writing some hope.
Mrs. Clemmons, my high school English teacher, is sitting at a table with a few of her girlfriends. She has to be nearing retirement now, and her whole face lights up when she sees me. Waving like mad, she turns to her friends, no doubt telling them who I am before getting up. As she weaves her way through the crowd, a blonde woman takes a step back from her friends, who are hanging around a pool table, and accidentally bumps into Mrs. Clemmons. The blonde turns to apologize, and I recognize her right away.
It’s