Page 14 of Buried in the Woods Below

She raises a disapproving eyebrow.

“I’m kidding. Yeah, this is pretty unbeatable,” I say, gesturing to the water. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—why did we move to Boston, anyway? I thought you loved it here.”

She squints. “You don’t remember?”

I shake my head.

She takes a long sip of her wine, her eyes drifting away from me and toward the horizon. “Oh, it was nothing, really. Just…a job opportunity came up. Fleet Bank. They made a generous offer. The school year was about to start, and we figured it was better to move quickly than uproot you midsemester. And, well…your father wasn’t exactly thriving here. I thought a fresh start might help. For all of us.”

We stare at the lake contemplating the irony of that sentence. The server stops by to take our order, and once she’s gone, my mom starts up again. “Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge. I’m so pleased you get to reconnect with the Parkers. You’re going to love their lake house.”

“I’m sure. So, where is their house anyway? On Wayzata Bay?”

“No, it’s on Big Island.”

“Big Island? I didn’t even know there were houses on Big Island.”

“Yes, most people don’t. Most of the island is a nature preserve, but a slice of it is private houses and cottages. It’s actually quite an interesting history. In the early 1900s, the island hosted an amusement park with roller coasters, carousels, the whole lot. People used to dress up in suits and gowns and steamboat to the park. Legend has it, a ghost still haunts the island.” She laughs and tops off her wine.

“Ha, I will keep an eye out for that. Which bridge do you drive? Arcola?”

“Oh, there’s no bridge. You can only travel there by boat. Eric’s going to scoop us up after dinner, and we’ll motor over.”

“Seriously?” I slug my wine.

“What’s wrong with that? I think it’s quite charming.”

“I don’t know. What if I want to leave?”

“Then I’m sure Eric or Laelynn will be happy to boat you back.”

“What about my car?”

“Eric said you can park it at the bakery. I’ll move it for you.” She raises an eyebrow. “You know you don’t always have to control everything, sweetheart.”

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get a word out, I glimpse something out of the corner of my eye that stops me.

Inside the restaurant, standing at the bar, is Vivek.

The Winthrop partner I had my “incident” with.

My throat closes like a trap.

My fists clench.

He wears a crisp periwinkle shirt, showcasing his lithe, tanned frame, and he slicks his onyx hair to the side. He stands with his wife and two other couples doing his typical Vivek thing: arm draped over a stool, ordering a round of drinks, telling stories, slapping backs, charming people into doing whatever it is he wants them to do. I squint and see that he has a large bandage over his left eyebrow and a bruise running from his prominent nose to his right cheekbone. I remember the strength of his hands, the sting in my palm.

My mom spots the blend of fear and fury in my eyes. “What is it?”

I lower my voice to just above a whisper. “Vivek’s here, at the bar.”

She scans the room and scowls as she catches sight of him. “What’s he doing here?”

“I have no idea. He works in Winthrop’s Minneapolis office. It looks like he’s out with his wife and some friends. But it’s a crazy coincidence.” I study him, those long, elegant fingers commanding attention, conjuring spells as he speaks.

“I’m going to have a chat with him.” She throws her napkin on the table and starts to stand up.

I grab her wrists like I’m going to cuff her and throw her into a squad car. Silverware rattles. She drops back into her seat.