Anne Brown - Lies Beneath

A fishing boat passed overhead, and I took advantage of its hull for cover. Its shadow was wide and deep, and I was able to follow it all the way into Bayfield. When it veered south along the shore, I swam under the pier and crawled up onto the jagged rocks. My breath came out in gray, frosty huffs, and I closed my eyes to the wisps of old spiderwebs that laced the underside of the pier. Twisting and writhing, I reopened the newest cut on my shoulder, which had barely begun to heal. The smell of cinnamon rolls was the only distraction from the pain.

When it was over, I crept up the bank, listening for voices, then flung open the door of the Impala and slid inside. My khakis and T-shirt were tucked under the seat, right where I’d left them the night before. I wrestled them over my wet body and scrubbed my fingers across my head until my hair settled into a look of precise dishevelment. Meeting the Hancocks meant looking presentable, or in other words, two-legged, well groomed, and—most of all—benign.

I turned the key, and the Impala coughed and wheezed before agreeing to move. I followed a direct path to the Blue Moon Café and the strong smell of melted butter and coffee that wafted through the screen in its bright blue door. A motherly-looking woman appeared in the front window; she taped a Help Wanted sign to the glass. When she retreated, I stole inside and loaded my arms with day-old muffins from a basket on the marble countertop. Just as I turned, the woman came back. Busted .

“Oho. And who do we have here?” She laid two white cardboard boxes on the counter and appraised me with an amused smile.

The name Hancock was written on the top box in black marker. I dropped my stolen goods back into the basket and said, “Sorry.”

She laughed and glanced at a clipboard hanging on the wall. There seemed to be some kind of to-do list with not much crossed off. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Sorry. I’m Mrs. Boyd.”

“Actually, it’s Calder White, ma’am, and I really am sorry.” I lowered my voice and locked my eyes on hers, staring into them, twisting my will into her mind, making my thoughts her own. I tried to come up with images that would make me seem trustworthy: me in one of her blue aprons, working behind the cash register.

“I don’t have any money,” I said, “but it smelled so unbelievable in here I couldn’t resist.”

Her pupils dilated, and she chuckled warmly. “I just popped a slew of muffins out of the oven.” She rested her hand on the boxes. “I’m bringing them up to the old Hancock place.”

“You don’t say.”

“My husband Bill’s up there right now, moving in some of the heavy stuff. I was just about to head up there with the goodies. I’ll tell you what. Run these up to the Hancocks and I’ll throw in a couple extra just for you.”

“Deal.”

“Let me write down the directions.” She picked up a pen and tore a sheet out of the receipt book.

“I got it.”

She looked up, her eyes still wide. “You know where you’re going?”

“Actually, I do.” I picked up the boxes and turned for the door. Too bad Maris hadn’t seen me in action. It might have bought me a nag-free night.

I’d downed two muffins before reaching the north end of town, pushing the speed limit as much as I dared. When I’d gone about a mile, I dropped the Impala down to a crawl and counted the clumps of birch trees … three, four, five … until the familiar driveway came into view. It was just as I remembered it from some forty years earlier, but more overgrown. Matted yellow weeds and leftover snow clung to the edge of the driveway. Potholes gaped in the tire tracks.

I rolled slowly over the natural speed bumps until I reached the Hancock house—two stories of weathered clapboard, with a peaked roof and a small, darkened porch that sagged in the middle. A square window was centered under the peak and above the porch. A dormer window on the right side of the house faced the lake. Plywood covered the first-floor windows. Shingles lay in the yard rather than over the black hole in the roof. Time had not been good to it.

Ahead of me, Hancock was laughing and slapping men on the back, throwing apologetic looks at his wife, who leaned on a cane. When it came to killing Jason Hancock, his wife looked like she might beat me to it.

I parked the car on the far shoulder, scraping the passenger side with the tree branches.

A parade of men, women, and a few kids carried boxes into the house and then returned empty-handed, only to grab another load and repeat the trip. Several of the people wore Northland College sweatshirts even though they were clearly past their college years. Colleagues? Was Hancock a professor? I’d never considered him anything other than prey. Someone had already worked hard enough to shed his sweatshirt and leave it draped over the back of his tailgate. I snagged it up and, though it was a little tight, managed to wrangle it over my chest.

The little Hancock girl stepped primly down the porch steps, avoiding a hazard I couldn’t see. Perhaps a loose board? She looked even younger than I remembered. What role could I play for her? Teacher? Hero? Maybe hero would work. I could lure her into the woods, where she’d get conveniently lost. After a failed search party, I could appear with her in my arms. That had to be worth some show of gratitude. Like a fishing trip out on the lake. How could Jason Hancock refuse me?

Lily Hancock came out next, wearing the same black corduroy miniskirt from the day before, a rose-colored cardigan, and a yellow beret. I smirked at the thought of her little sister’s reaction to this outfit. Lily stopped on the porch and laid her palm against the banister. She tested its strength, and it wobbled under her hand. Her eyes drifted to the porch roof.

I strolled up the driveway toward the house, carrying the boxes of muffins. A cool breeze blew off the lake. Lily wiped her hands on her skirt and pulled her sweater low over her hips. Still hasn’t confessed the tattoo , I guessed. Sophie noticed me first and smiled. She ran up to greet me while Lily stood frozen on the steps. For a second I thought she might have recognized me from before.

“Are you here to help?” Sophie asked, her voice high and hopeful.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Lily’s mouth hanging open while she watched my exchange with her younger sister. Another girl met Lily on the steps, and I listened to their conversation while having my own with Sophie.

“I’m delivering muffins,” I said, “but I’m happy to help.”

“Who is that, Gabrielle?” asked Lily.

“Good. I’ll take ’em inside. You can grab something out of the van,” said Sophie. She took the muffins and headed toward the house.

The girl next to Lily whispered, “Never seen him before, but if that’s the kind of guy waiting for me at college, I can’t wait to get there. Check out his hair. And, oh my God, check out his arms—even through that sweatshirt. I bet he works out.”

“Okay, I’ll get to work,” I called after Sophie.

“You think he’s good-looking? I guess. But he didn’t get that tan around here,” said Lily. “I wonder where he’s from.”

Jason Hancock appeared from the other side of the moving van. He looked up at Lily, then followed her gaze to me. My eyes locked with Hancock’s, and I clenched my teeth. I had to force my jaw to relax so I could speak.

“Hi,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. “Mrs. Boyd sent me up here with some breakfast for all the movers. She thought maybe I could lend a hand, too?” My voice faltered, and I cleared my throat to regain control. A second later Mrs. Hancock rounded the van, stepping cautiously on the uneven ground, leaning on her cane.