Cradle Lake by Ronald Malfi

neighborhood men. For whatever reason, they’d just covered up a crime, and he still couldn’t wrap his mind around what he’d witnessed at the lake. He was trying to think of a way to back out of the invitation when Lydia’s station wagon pulled into the driveway and Heather climbed out of the passenger seat.
    â€œGals are home,” said Hank.
    â€œI think maybe I’ll take a rain check,” Alan said, his words ironically underscored by a grumble of thunder. “I told Heather I’d help her with dinner tonight.”
    â€œOh. Okay, sure.” Hank didn’t seem bothered or surprised by the declination.
    Heather walked soundlessly up the drive and did not look at Alan. He watched her the whole way, feeling the weight of her depression on him, suffocating him, like a physical presence.
    â€œYou don’t have to tell her what happened,” Hank said. It came out like an afterthought. “No sense hanging a dark cloud over the neighborhood.”
    Alan calmed a bit over dinner, though a needling disquiet at the base of his animal brain persisted. He had decided not to say anything to Heather about the incident after all. They plodded through dinner mostly in silence. Heather seemed content to stare at her plate. Alan could see the scars on her wrists and wondered if Lydia had questioned her about them. He considered asking her but bit his tongue at the last minute. He didn’t want to talk about scars, didn’t want to think about dead babies.
    Maybe Hank was right. Ridiculous as it seems, maybe the kid was just stunned and knocked unconscious. Dragging him into the lake had been the equivalent of splashing cold water on someone’s face after they’d passed out.
    He wasn’t so sure he could completely convince himself …
    â€œI saw a hunter yesterday morning,” Heather said. She was still staring down at her plate. “Did I tell you?”
    â€œNo. Where?”
    â€œIn the backyard. It was early. You were still asleep.”
    â€œI didn’t realize you could hunt back there.”
    â€œHe just stood there. He had a gun over his shoulder. He watched the house for a long time. Then he turned and went into the trees.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, he watched the house?”
    â€œStaring,” Heather said. “Out in the yard. I thought maybe he could see me from the window, but I’m sure he was too far away.”
    â€œFor how long?”
    â€œHow long what?”
    â€œHow long was he standing there?”
    â€œI don’t know. A little while.”
    â€œThat’s strange.” He frowned, turning back to his plate. “I don’t like the idea of guys toting guns through our yard.”
    â€œHe was barefoot.”
    â€œWhat?” He looked up at her.
    â€œNo shoes, no socks. Barefoot. And his pants were rolled up.”
    No,
Alan thought,
that can’t be right.
And on the heels of that:
Please, God, don’t let her be cracking up again. Not here, not now. Please fix whatever is broken inside her. I don’t think I can stand it if she’s hallucinating.
    Before dinner had ended, someone knocked on the front door. The sound startled him, and he nearly knocked over his glass of iced tea.
    Heather peered out the nearest window. “It’s a police car.”
    A hot ember sparked to life in the pit of his stomach. He thought of the police car he’d seen on two occasions acrossthe street. He stood, the chair scraping the floor. “I’ll get it.”
    A formidable man in his early fifties, dressed in a khaki sheriff’s uniform and a wide-brimmed hat, stood on the other side of the door. His upper lip was covered in a bristling, gingery mustache, and his eyes were small, lucid, and bright blue. Dark crescents of sweat bled from his armpits and soaked his uniform. “Good evening,” he said, nodding. “I’m looking for Alan Hammerstun.”
    â€œThat’s