47

Navigating his way to the Mitchells’ old cabin, Lazarus took a few wrong turns amid the dense forests, streams, and scattered boulders. He recalled reading the area’s Wikipedia page when he first caught Ava’s case. Ember Lake was steeped in lore about a wildfire fifty years ago, which had ravaged the surrounding woods but mysteriously spared anything near the lake. Locals talked about supernatural forces shielding the waters and preserving the nearby greenery.

The cabin, now with a fresh coat of paint and updated decor, still kept its original essence. After the Mitchells sold it, a real estate management company had taken ownership, turning it into an Airbnb destination for tourists.

Exiting his car, Lazarus took in the midday scene. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a patchwork of light and shadow on the ground, reminiscent of a painting. The lake lay still and empty, its waters untouched by any boats or bathers, accompanied only by a gentle whispering of the trees.

He admired the tranquil setting briefly before moving toward the cabin’s porch.

After entering the door code provided by the manager, Lazarus hesitated before stepping inside. The cabin greeted him with new furniture and paint, a superficial attempt to mask what had happened here. Lazarus imagined he could still smell the coppery scent of blood but knew it was in his head.

The cabin’s interior, with its cozy decor, evoked an image of a family haven where pies might be baking and children playing. But to Lazarus, it felt haunted. Steeped in a bloody history unknown to its guests.

He didn’t need to consult his phone for the layout; it was etched in his memory, even appearing in his dreams, when he did dream.

Startled by footsteps, Lazarus swiftly turned, his hand instinctively reaching for his firearm. At the doorway stood an older man, plump with gray hair and a mustache.

“Who the hell are you?” Lazarus demanded.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Police.”

“Oh,” he said, his tone softening a little but not much. “Can I see a badge?”

Lazarus showed the badge. “Now your turn.”

“I’m Norman. I do the maintenance and landscaping here.”

Lazarus glanced around the cabin. “Don’t look much different than the last time I saw it.”

Norman brushed past him and went into the kitchen. He took a soda bottle out of the fridge and popped open the top and took a long drink before saying, “Ain’t nothin’ here anymore. Whatever you’re lookin’ for.”

“You know what happened here?”

Norman’s chuckle was humorless. “Everyone knows. Teens come looking for the ‘murder house’ and I have to chase ’em off.”

Positioning himself in the kitchen doorway, Lazarus crossed his arms and leaned casually against the frame. “Is the attic accessible?”

“It’s open. Why?”

“Gonna take a peek.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

After observing the old man briefly, Lazarus turned and ascended the stairs, feeling the man’s gaze on his back. Reaching the attic door, he stepped inside. The Mitchells’ belongings were gone, their space now filled with assorted items, stored without much thought.

Lazarus flicked on the switch, illuminating the unfinished attic. It was decently maintained, with a bed and rug added by the management company, likely to advertise an additional bedroom for higher Airbnb rates. The space was simple, with no closets or separate rooms, just a window framing the still water outside. He gazed out at the lake, eerily calm and deserted, resembling a dark cavern ready to engulf anyone who came near it.

Surveying the attic, Lazarus spotted a ventilation shaft positioned about six feet up the far wall. He approached, using his phone’s flashlight to peer inside. The shaft was spacious, seemingly large enough for a person. Spotting a chair across the room, he dragged it over to stand on. After removing the grate, he looked into the shaft. It was filled with dust, grime, and cobwebs.

Navigating a bend in the shaft, Lazarus pushed through the cobwebs. A glint caught his eye—the light from his phone reflecting off something metallic. Inch by inch, he maneuvered closer until he could make out a faded orange Fanta can. He would have to get a warrant first and then send CSI to bag it so it could be used in court. If they ever returned his calls.

Exiting the attic, Lazarus traced the path of the central ventilation shaft that connected the entire house, realizing Whittaker could have secretly watched any room.

After inspecting all the shaft openings, he stepped outside, heading toward the water. There, he found Norman in a lawn chair, leisurely sipping his drink and scrolling through his phone.

Norman looked up. “You done?”

“I am,” Lazarus replied.

“Good. Guests are coming tonight.”

Lazarus gazed at the water. “You gonna tell ’em about the cabin’s history?”

Norman scoffed. “Why bother?”

“Places have energies,” Lazarus said. “Some might wanna know.”

“What you don’t know about won’t hurt you.”

Lazarus watched a fish glide near the pier, its skin shimmering in the sun. “I think I know one man who might disagree with you.”