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Chapter One
I arrived at the lake house for the first time in ages with my best friend, Carla. It looked haunted. Shadows stretched long and thin across the porch, the clapboard siding weathered to a tired gray. Still, my chest tightened with that strange mix of fear and hope you feel when you’re about to step into a dream you’ve been picturing for years. This wasn’t just a house. It was my chance to start over. I planned to spend the rest of my life here. To be Milly Rosebush, no longer Harry’s wife or the woman who baked pies for the neighborhood potluck.
“You expect me to stay here for the weekend, Milly?” Carla said, incredulity lacing her voice. “You promised me an elegant getaway while helping you settle into your new place.” She swept her manicured hands over her immaculate pale blue outfit. “Look at me. The cobwebs alone will ruin my highlights, never mind what the dust will do to this linen jacket.”
I looked at my best friend since, well, forever, and couldn’t help chuckling at her reluctance to enter my New Hampshire abode. I’d negotiated for this lake house in my divorce, letting Harry keep our Massachusetts colonial—a house I never wanted to set foot in again. Not with his mother recently moving in right next door. No thanks. In contrast, the lake house had lived rent-free in my imagination for years. Summer sunsets dripping gold over Moonshadow Lake, the woodsy hush broken only by loons, quiet winter nights with the fire crackling. A place where my daughter, Laney, and I could breathe.
I hefted my wicker basket to eye level, my bribe to get Carla inside. “How about we talk about the state of my lake house over some food and wine?”
When she eyed the basket, I could see her wavering, practically drooling.
Bingo, I thought. My cooking always brought her around.
“Milly? What did you bring?”
I looped my free arm through hers, knowing I’d won this battle, and tugged her toward the steps leading onto the porch.
Carla inhaled deeply, as if screwing up her courage. We inched forward, stepping over a missing board. When we reached the porch, a loud hiss made me jump nearly out of my skin. Carla’s nails dug into my arm.
“Do you have a monster here?” she yelped, her voice jumping a full octave.
“Not that I know about.”
Two green orbs glowed from a mass of black fur curled up on a dirty cushion. The cat flicked its tail and bared its teeth, letting out another warning hiss.
“Only a kitty,” I assured her, just as surprised by the intruder as Carla, but I liked animals and tried to put on my friendliest voice. “Maybe it’s hungry,” I said.
I tried to sound calm for Carla’s sake, even though my heart still pounded like the drummer leading a holiday parade. She wasn’t a fan of animals. She liked them fine—as long as they kept their distance, didn’t shed, slobber, or, in this case, hiss like something out of a horror movie.
“You brought cat food in that basket?”
“Of course not, but I’ve got lemon honey chicken. Let’s get inside, and I’ll cut some up for her. I’d rather make friends than have her decide to take a bite out of our ankles.”
“Her?”
I shrugged. “A wild guess.”
Carla relaxed enough to flash one of her million-dollar grins.
Carla and I were born on the same day forty-four years ago, in the same hospital, in adjoining rooms, but we couldn’t be more different. Carla, barely over five feet tall and maybe a hundred and five pounds soaking wet, always looked like she’d just stepped off the cover of a high-end fashion magazine. Her perky blonde bob, designer wardrobe, and chatty personality only added to her always-put-together image.
Me? I was half a foot taller, auburn hair to her bottle blonde, comfortably curvy. Sexy, according to Carla, since she always tried to boost my confidence, especially after Harry walked out, trading me in for Gigi, a much younger model. Good riddance, I’d told Carla, but deep down? I wanted to kill him. Or his twentysomething girlfriend. Take your pick. I’d even vented my anger in a note to Gigi, with no intention of mailing it, of course. Just a way to purge some unhealthy emotions.
But this weekend was about my new beginning, and I felt a surge of excitement to get settled into my lake house.
That’s when I noticed the door cracked open a few inches.
Harry, my ex-husband, meticulously locked the place after he left—or so he’d claimed. But he’d mentioned Gigi—a name more suited to a Pekinese than his girlfriend—planned to come by to pick up her things before I moved in. Clearly, she forgot to lock up.
I pushed the door open all the way, inhaling the almost-forgotten scent of cedar. Beneath it lingered something else. Stale air, dust, maybe even the faintest trace of something metallic. The air felt cooler inside. Afternoon light slanted in through the tall lake-facing windows, catching on dust motes and the copper sheen of the fireplace tools. I’d barely been here since Harry and I had first purchased it almost ten years ago. Too busy with life and raising our fifteen-year-old daughter, Laney. But that would change today.
We stepped inside.
The stone fireplace stood exactly as I remembered, flanked by cushy leather sofas in the warm glow of the wood-paneled room. A few things looked dated, but no matter. I planned to turn this place into our new, permanent home by the time Laney returned from camp at the end of summer.
“What do you think, Carla?” I held my breath, waiting for her response.
She looked around. “Oh, my stilettos, Milly. The inside is two hundred times better than the exterior. No, make that a thousand times better.” Carla twirled, taking in the whole room. “Who did the decorating?”
“You like it?”
“Love it.”
I grinned, feeling on top of the world. “Well, my dear Carla Perry, believe it or not, it was I,” I said in a coy voice. Only one word fit Carla’s shocked expression: priceless.
“Of course, I did all this before Harry took up with Gigi,” I added. “I’m glad she didn’t change anything.”
“It belongs in a design magazine,” Carla said, still wide-eyed with amazement. “You did it all by yourself?”
“Yup,” I said, smug now. “From the leather sofas to the maple chairs, and even the watercolor bird drawings, I picked out everything.”
“I admit. I’m totally impressed.”
Feeling triumphant, I set the wicker basket on the table, flipped the lid open, and pulled out a bottle of crisp chardonnay. “Time to get this celebration started.”
Then the black cat strutted across the floor, tail high, and darted upstairs.
“Oh, my word,” I said. “I’d completely forgotten about the cat.”
Carla recoiled, as if the cat had lunged at her. “That cat cannot sleep in my room, Milly. Get her out.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
With a sigh and a longing glance at the bottle of wine that would have to wait, I followed the cat upstairs. She sauntered down the hallway and disappeared into the master bedroom.
“Kitty, kitty, come here,” I called as I stepped inside a room with none of my personal touches. Instead, I saw pinks and frills, the black cat perched on a mauve comforter.
I moved toward her, holding out my hand. My foot knocked against something hard, sending it skittering across the pine floor. I stumbled against the four-poster bed and stared at a gun spinning in the center of a small round cream-colored rug.
When did Harry start keeping a gun here? And why?
A chill ran up my spine.
I crouched, hesitating before picking it up, but curiosity won. The gun was heavier than I expected. My heart pounded. The cold metal chilled my palm, and a faint smell I couldn’t identify curled up into my nose. Somewhere in the silence, I heard my own breath, shallow and fast.
“What is this doing here?” I murmured.
The cat flicked her tail, watching me with unreadable green eyes. Her gaze shifted past me, ears tilting back just enough to make me turn.
That’s when I saw the woman who destroyed my marriage. I’d only seen her once—on Harry’s arm at a coffee shop—but the way she’d looked me up and down, smirk curling like she’d already won, was seared into my brain.
Gigi.
A motionless heap against the far wall. Limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Blonde hair fanned across the floor like a halo. And so much blood.
I sucked in a breath. My stomach flipped.
The silent room seemed to close in. The air felt heavier, pressing against my skin, and somewhere downstairs a floorboard creaked—slow, deliberate.
I turned, ready to bolt.
And then—
A shadow filled the doorway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The faint scent of sawdust and lake air grounding him in this place even as my heart jumped into my throat. Messy dark brown hair, darker eyes. His gaze flicked from the gun in my shaking hand to the body, then to the cat.
Without a word, he stepped forward, grabbed a hand towel, and took the gun from me, his grip steady.
“Maybe you should come downstairs.”
I backed away. “Okay?” My voice sounded like a scared little girl’s. “I have croissants.”
He choked out a strangled laugh.
Did I actually just offer this stranger food? I had to be in shock. And shock sent my thoughts straight to food.
The cat darted downstairs, and we followed.
“I’m Brody Drake,” he said when we reached the living room—friendly-ish, but cautious. “I live in the house next door. Harry Rosebush asked me to keep an eye on the place. You are?”
My mind went blank. Fortunately, Carla hadn’t lost her gift for gab. “She’s Milly Rosebush and I’m Carla Perry,” she said brightly. “You dashed inside and up the stairs so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to say hello. Nice to meet you, Brody Drake.”
Carla had opened the chardonnay. “Want to join us? We’re celebrating Milly moving in here.” She raised a perfectly plucked brow at my neighbor while handing me a glass.
I took it and drained it in one long swallow as Brody watched.
“Carla,” I said, wiping my lips with the back of my hand, then burping. “Gigi’s upstairs.”
Carla leapt to her feet. “Are you kidding me? What’s she doing here?”
“Nothing. She’s doing nothing.” I paused and polished off the last couple of drops of wine. “She’s dead.”
The reality hit me like a twenty-pound brick. I collapsed into one of my fancy maple chairs.
Carla snorted. “Serves her right. What happened? She trip over her high heels and hit her head? Harry won’t be happy about this, Mil. Are you going to call him?”
Brody’s gaze bounced between us like it was a ping-pong match. He dangled the gun between two fingers. “Ladies? I’m calling the police. I’m sure they’ll have some questions for you. And I can call Harry, too, if that’s easier.”
As reality set in, Carla sagged onto the sofa, her face as pale as the cushion beneath her. For once, she had no words.
End of Excerpt
