“But how would you know? It’s the middle of winter and you’ve never seen him with his shirt off. Shouldn’t you work through it before you dump the poor guy? It’s a minor problem.”
“Eating with your mouth open is a minor problem. Back hair is something worse.”
“Okay,” Brad said, rolling onto his side and supporting his head with his bent elbow so they were face-to-face. “What does my back look like?”
“What is this, a test?”
“Just want to see how aware you are of something that bothers you so much.”
“Okay,” Becca said. “A few non-threatening follicles on your shoulder blades and a benign tuft at the small of your back. All in all, a perfectly acceptable back.”
“You’ve got some kind of nasty fetish, huh? That was pretty accurate.”
“We’ve spent about a hundred nights lying next to each other, talking until sunrise. I think I know what your back looks like. Plus, I watched you and Jack play volleyball at the beginning of the school year. Both of your backs are acceptable.”
Becca rolled over and sunk her hands under her head. She wore a pink T-shirt that was tight around her chest, and when she raised her arms it crept up her stomach to reveal dual pelvic bones that sat just above the band of her sweats. Brad always thought she was beautiful, with her blond hair and olive skin and perfect teeth. She was a stunner in every room she entered, and Becca drew the eye of most guys she encountered. But the moments Brad loved most were these. When she was all his, no one else around to steal her attention. She was most exquisite in this intimate setting, lying in his bed, relaxed and content, and not trying to be gorgeous. He knew these short clips of time would last only until the morning light, which was why he savored them so much. There would come a time when he would tell her how he felt, but he wanted things to happen naturally, without forcing them. He knew it was the best way for a long relationship to start. And somehow, for a testosterone-riddled twenty-one year-old, lying next to Becca all night never produced an anxiousness for sex. He was always content simply talking and exploring her mind, and when she fell asleep, listening to her breathe.
There was, of course, the time freshman year when they came home from a late-night party, buzzed from vodka punch, and ended up kissing in his dorm room before they both passed out. They never talked about that night, never discussed whether feelings had developed. Instead, it was hidden away under the easy cover of drunkenness, and both pretended not to remember the incident. Now, three years later, they had never been intimate since, although this did nothing but cause Brad to fall more in love with her. He waited nearly four years for something to happen between them, and he knew it would. Maybe after graduation, when they were out of the environment of college and away from Jack and Gail. Maybe then it would be less awkward. And that was fine, he could wait.
He heard Becca’s breathing take on a slow, deep rhythm as she fell asleep. He put his head onto the pillow, resting his forehead against her temple and laying his arm over the twin peaks of her pelvic bone. Brad closed his eyes.
On these nights, the sun always came too soon.
She never stayed long in the mornings, and the bed was always empty when he woke. An avid runner and study junkie, Brad knew Becca was either snaking through campus with headphones dangling from her ears or already at the library with her hair in a ponytail, glasses in lieu of contact lenses, and a tall cup of coffee sitting next to whatever she was studying. Business Law, probably. Final exams were in two weeks, and Brad knew she was struggling.
He found her note on the pillow, where she always left them. They were not much. A sticky note or a torn piece of loose-leaf paper. Sometimes a napkin. They held her words, though, and it was something he loved. Notes like these were meant to be read and tossed. Discarded without thought. But Brad could never bring himself to throw them away. He read this one:
B—Had fun last night. Thanks for sharing your pillow. No worries, your back looks good to me!—B
Brad folded the sticky note and dropped it in the shoebox under his bed that held all the other BB notes she’d left him over the years. Then he hit the shower and worked all day on his plan. Becca told him she was in bad shape for finals, and it was all the motivation he needed. He had to come through for her.
It would take most of the day and some conniving, but when he showed up at the library that night he carried a look of satisfaction on his face. It was late. Gail and Becca had already gone home. Only Jack remained, sitting at a desk and poring over an open textbook, notes strewn around him.
“I got it,” Brad said as he walked into the dimly lit alcove that marked their study spot.
A single, recessed bulb contrasted stiffly with the dark surroundings of the library and illuminated Jack’s cubicle desk. They studied here often—a second-floor area where old periodicals were stored on brown metal shelves and covered in age. Four desks had been abandoned, but during their freshman year they spaced them out head-to-head, cleaned them off, and screwed in new lightbulbs. When serious study was necessary they used the desks, which offered privacy. When group study was easier, they sat at the large table with built-in, green awning lamps. There was no traffic in this abandoned part of the library, and they never had to worry about how loud they were. They cracked open cold cans of Newcastle beer after particularly good study sessions or at the end of finals week when they knew they wouldn’t be back in the library for weeks. Brad managed to disarm the alarm on an infrequently used emergency door, and it became their escape route when the library closed and they stayed for an extra hour of cramming.
“Got what?” Jack asked, leaning back in his chair and stretching away the stiffness in his shoulders.
Brad smiled and dangled a key between his thumb and index finger. “Access to Milford Morton’s office, and the Business Law final.”
“Whatever,” Jack said in a dismissive tone.
“Not whatever. I got the key to Morton’s office.”
“How?”
Brad walked closer. “Mike Swagger. Said he got it from someone last year but old Professor Morton was out on sabbatical, so he never used it. I had to beg him for it. Told me if it ever got back to anyone important that he gave me this key, he’d chop my nuts off—and that’s a direct quote.”
Jack took the key and studied it. Throughout the year it was a mythical thing, a drudged-up story that went around the fraternity and around campus and especially around the hundred or so kids of Professor Milford Morton’s Business Law course that somewhere, someone had a key to the professor’s office. And in years past, stealth operations had been conducted during finals week to perpetrate a heist of the final exam. The stories were large and embellished and mostly bullshit, Jack thought. Until now. Until he held what was supposed to be the key to the professor’s office.
Jack studied it for a while longer. “No,” he finally said. “It’s all part of the myth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brad, you’re not going to be this naïve when your opposite tries to paint you into a corner in the courtroom, are you? Think about it. The key shows up the year after Morton’s sabbatical, so no one’s around to confirm if it really works. The two of us take all the steps to use it—including breaking into the building—and then we look like idiots when we’re standing in front of ProMo’s office in the middle of the night jabbing at a lock with a key that doesn’t work.”
“Swagger said he got it from a senior last year who broke into Morton’s office the year before and had a copy of the exam. The exact test—word for word.”
“Right. All once removed and three years ago. It’s like the guy who has a cousin who knows a guy who had his kidney stolen.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He meets a girl and goes back to her hotel. Next thing he knows, he wakes up in a bathtub filled with ice and a note that tells him to call 911 immediately because his kidney has been stolen for the black market.”
“Shut u
p, Jack. This key is the real deal.”
“So’s the story about the guy’s cousin’s friend. Woke up, no kidney.”
Brad grabbed the key from Jack’s hand. “Trust me. It’s legit.”
“Says Mike Swagger. Isn’t he in his seventh year of college?”
“Are you scared, Jackie Boy?”
“Do you even need a copy of the test?” Jack asked. “I thought you were acing this course.”
“I’m doing fine. But ProMo is notoriously boring and vague, so who couldn’t use a little help?” There was a gap of silence. “I know Becca could use some. She’s struggling big time.”
“Struggling for our dear little friend means she might not eke out an A, and the perfect student will have a B for the first time in her life.”
“She’s saying a C if things go badly. Maybe worse.”
“Becca’s always on her way to a C until her scores come in and she keeps the 4.0 GPA she’s had since first grade. It’s Becca’s little thing she does. It gets her attention and then everyone congratulates her for rising to the challenge and pulling out an A. Don’t fall for it.”
“You’re not getting out of this, Jack.”
“Out of what?”
“We’re friggin’ breaking and entering.”
Jack smiled. “We’ll get the boot if we get caught.”
Brad raised his eyebrows. “Let’s not get caught.”
CHAPTER 6
Kelsey Castle
Summit Lake
March 6, 2012
Day 2
On her second morning in Summit Lake, Kelsey woke under a down comforter in the Winchester Hotel, wrapped in thread counted sheets higher than anything she would purchase on her own. Pulling herself from the warmth of the bed was not an easy task, but she came to Summit Lake to chase a story and today the race began. She also came to heal, and in the last many weeks exercise had not been part of her routine. Typically a morning jogger, the four-mile path along the beach in Miami was a common route she took a few times each week. The doctors restricted her activity during her first two weeks of recovery; lack of motivation and fear had prevented her after that. But today she woke with an eagerness to move and sweat and burn her lungs.
It was a cool morning in Summit Lake as Kelsey took off along the canopied path that wound through the forest and led to the waterfall. There was a moment of hesitation just before entering the forest. Leaving the open area of the town center—where other people walked and shopped and gave off a general vibe of presence—to enter the dark, empty forest put a flutter in her heart. Being alone in her house for the past month was one thing. There, she could lock her door and close her windows. It was where she felt most comfortable. But running alone in the forest brought back the fear she was trying to rid herself of. The fear she was growing to hate.
Nope. Won’t let you do it to yourself, Castle.
With a deep breath she took off into the forest in a slow jog. She wore shorts and a long sleeved running shirt, her auburn hair held back in a headband. After a quarter of a mile, she’d worked up a decent burn and her long, muscular legs glistened with perspiration. She found it was a popular trail, offering waves and “good mornings” to other joggers. The more people she passed, the more she calmed down. After half a mile, she stopped peering into the dark brush on each side of her. She was safe.
It was dark along the running path with only glimpses of sunlight poking through the foliage, but a cloudless spring morning welcomed her when she emerged at the falls a mile later. Several other joggers gathered around the lagoon and stared up at the falling water and the morning sunlight that caught the mist. Others sat on rocks and hung bare feet into the blue water. Kelsey took a quick count and settled on thirty people milling around the waterfall. Yesterday, the place was empty.
With her hands on her head, Kelsey made her way over to the water. Her lungs ached, something a mile run would not normally do to her. When she reached the lagoon she took deep breaths and stared at the water like everyone else.
“What’s the attraction this morning?” Kelsey asked a woman who stood with her head cocked upward.
The girl smiled. “The morning falls.”
“Yeah? Everyone comes just to look at the waterfall?”
“Yes. Well, no. Not just the waterfall. On clear mornings with no clouds, when the sun gets to a certain point over the horizon it hits the water just right and ricochets off the granite behind the falls. For a few minutes it’s really pretty.” The girl pointed. “There!”
Kelsey watched as the sun penetrated the falls and highlighted the rock face behind the water. The streaming water became backlit, and for two minutes the mountain bled orange-glowing liquid from its side. It was a magical sight Kelsey had never seen in the flatlands of Florida.
“Ta-dah,” the girl said. “The morning falls.” A few seconds later, the sun hit the water at a different angle and the orange glow faded. “That’s it.” The girl shrugged.
“Pretty amazing.”
The girl paused when she looked away from the waterfall and made eye contact with Kelsey. Her sentences were slow and calculated.
“The sky has to be just right. No clouds, or not many. And the sun has to be at just the right angle. Some of us are fanatical about it. That’s why it’s so crowded on clear mornings like this. I assume it’s your first time here?”
“Yes, first time.”
“Sorry to put you on the spot,” the girl said. “Aren’t you Kelsey Castle?”
Kelsey smiled. “Yeah.”
“I read your stuff. I mean, I read Events. And I read your novel.”
“It’s actually a true crime book. Nonfiction.”
The girl laughed, a little nervous. “That’s what I meant. It was crazy good. I recognize you from your author photo. Can’t miss those pretty, brown eyes.”
“Thanks,” Kelsey said.
“Welcome to Summit Lake. I’m Rae.”
“Nice to meet you, Rae.”
Rae tapped her chin with her index finger, building up the confidence to ask her next question. Finally, she tapped one more time and then pointed at Kelsey. “Are you here to look into the Eckersley murder?”
Kelsey cocked her head. “I’m here to ask a few questions about it, yes.”
“This thing’s getting pretty big. Are you writing a piece about Becca in Events?”
“Depends what I find.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Figured anything out yet?”
Kelsey smiled. “Haven’t interviewed anyone yet, or written one word. I just got here a couple nights ago.”
“The town is in quite a tizzy over this, you know?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Mostly because the police won’t say anything about the case. It’s always ‘no comment’ on this and ‘no comment’ on that. No one knows what’s going on and people are really frustrated. Scared, too. We just want some answers, and the way the police are being so quiet about the details is weird. But that’s a small town, I guess. Lots of weird stuff goes on.”
Kelsey shrugged. “I’m from Miami, so I don’t know small towns. But one thing I’m sure of. Someone always knows something. So either that person hasn’t been found yet or hasn’t decided to talk.”
The crowd began to thin. Many took to the trail back through the woods, others followed paths on each side of the lagoon and disappeared around switchbacks.
“I hope you have some luck while you’re here,” Rae said. “Just remember, Summit Lake is not the same as Miami. People do things differently up here, especially the locals. They’re very protective, so be careful in your approach.”
Kelsey raised her eyebrows. “Good advice.”
“I work at the coffee shop in town. Come by sometime and we’ll have a latte.”
Kelsey smiled. “I will.”
“You a runner?”
“I’m getting back into it.”
“Yeah? Me too. But not usually in the mo
rnings. I’m always at the coffeehouse. Are you heading back to town?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not.”
They jogged into the cover of the forest. Kelsey ran next to the girl without talking, working hard to keep pace and happy for the company. Her lungs ached and her legs burned—a good ache and a good burn. She was on her way back, emerging from a crumbling building in life many others get trapped in, but one from which Kelsey Castle was determined to escape.
Showered and dressed an hour later, Kelsey found the Summit Lake Police Department. Located next to the firehouse on Minnehaha Avenue, one block west of the town center, the redbrick building was aged and tired. Gaps of missing grout sat between many bricks, and the concrete steps were chipped on the edges. Rust residue spilled from exposed rebar throughout the façade and stained the brick like bleeding wounds. An optimistic person would describe the building as having character, others would say it needed a massive renovation. It wouldn’t fit on Maple Street, next to the impeccably manicured shops and galleries, but tucked away on a side street it was inconspicuous and invisible. Kelsey walked up three steps and pulled open the door. Inside a pleasant man with a security badge asked how he could help her.
“I’m here to speak with Commander Ferguson,” she said. “My name’s Kelsey Castle. I’m from Events magazine, running a piece on the Becca Eckersley case.”
The man smiled. “A few other reporters have been asking around.”
Not a good sign. “The case is drawing some attention, I know,” Kelsey said.
“Wait just a minute, I’ll see if the commander is in.”
Kelsey strolled around the reception area of the small headquarters building and read headlines from framed articles that hung on the wall. This was truly a small town, Kelsey thought. The headlines were of store openings, an elderly couple’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, and of the Winter Days Festival. A murder was something not only foreign to this quaint town, but unwanted. She wondered how well equipped the police force was to handle it.
Summit Lake Page 3