Six Years After the Lake Trip, One Blue Envelope Upended Everything Clara Believed
My hands lay in my lap, turning the silver band on my right ring finger around and around.
My mind went to the heavy brass padlock on the wooden tackle shed at Blackwood Lake.
Three nights earlier, when Sophie and I stood in the cold wind by the boat ramp, that padlock had opened without a sound.
The iron shackle was clean, with no marks from bolt cutters or a crowbar.
How had Dean opened the locked lake shed the night we were there?
He’d come out of the dark with no flashlight and no tools.
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