Still Lake - Anne Stuart [34]
Still, things were looking up. She passed Sophie in the hall on her way to the shower, and for once she didn’t growl when her sister wished her a good morning. Maybe, just maybe, Colby, Vermont, wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Maybe she wouldn’t need to run away.
Sophie opened the door as quietly as she could. Gracey lay sound asleep, tangled in her soft covers, her face oddly youthful in repose. It was no wonder—after her late-night excursion she must be exhausted.
What in God’s name had sent her to the old Whitten house? She’d never shown any interest in it before now. She’d shown no sign of wandering in the past—it was all Doc could do to tempt her to have dinner with him and his wife in their little village home. Normally she kept to her room or the front porch, staring vacantly, humming beneath her breath.
It would be an absolute disaster if her mother started taking off. The money was so tight that Sophie didn’t know where she could find enough to pay for a baby-sitter, and she couldn’t add anything to her already overwhelming responsibilities. She could ask Marty, but chances were Marty would agree sullenly and then forget all about it. And Sophie couldn’t bear the thought of her mother getting lost in the woods that circled the pristine lake.
Gracey was snoring softly—more like a faint purring sound than an all-out snore. There were books piled beneath her bed, and one lay open on the plain white coverlet. Sophie didn’t have to look closer to know it was one of those lurid true-crime books—the blurry photograph on the cover was unmistakable in the genre. She supposed she should be glad. It was the first time in months that Gracey had shown interest in anything at all. Even the gloomy and macabre were preferable to the dazed dreamworld she was floating in.
She’d have to tell Doc. He’d be very pleased—he was always telling her that Gracey needed to find new interests. In this case she was simply returning to her old ones, but at least she was reading, using her mind for something other than staring vacantly at the cool, clear lake.
Gracey stirred again, muttering something in her sleep, and Sophie turned and closed the door behind her, careful not to make any noise. At least while she slept Grace would be safe. But after last night’s wandering, she doubted she herself would ever get a good night’s sleep again.
She took her mug of coffee out onto the front porch, propping her skirted legs up on the railing as she looked out over the lake. There were early morning fishermen, and over near the Whitten place some wild ducks swam peacefully. No sound of the loons yet, and no sound of motorboats and jet skis. For now all was peaceful and quiet, just the birds and the fishermen and the occasional kayaker slicing through the stillness of the lake. Gracey was safe in bed, and even Marty had been marginally pleasant this morning, a welcome change. For now she could just drink in the peace and quiet, safe and serene.
She closed her eyes, letting the scent and sounds wash over her. Then her eyes shot open again, as she realized what book Gracey had been reading.
Murder in the Northeast Kingdom. A lurid, sensationalized account of the Colby murders by a famous true-crime writer. Sophie hadn’t bothered to read it herself—Doc and the others in town held it in contempt as a lurid, inaccurate piece of trash. Obviously Gracey didn’t have any such compunctions.
Odd, though. When Gracey’s mind had begun to slip, soon after they moved to Colby, Sophie had gone into her room and taken the book out of her huge stack of paperbacks, planning to read it until Doc told