As I headed back to my cabin, glad my need to gossip hadn’t caused them to overreact, I found someone on the front steps, knocking on the door. A large man wearing a red polo shirt and holding a clipboard. It was the guy who’d checked us in. The manager. What was his name? As he turned to greet me I saw it pinned to his chest. Greg.
‘Hey, Mr Anderson. Just doing my rounds, making sure everything’s okay.’
Was I imagining it, or did he seem a little nervous? Like he’d had lots of complaints and was bracing himself for another.
‘Everything’s great,’ I said.
‘I’m so glad.’ He definitely looked relieved. He was sweating in the heat and he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. He plucked a sheet of paper from his clipboard and handed it to me, his thumb leaving a damp imprint behind. ‘I’d encourage you and your daughter to sign up for as many activities as you can before all the slots fill up.’
He carried on, telling me about all the wonderful things they had on offer. To be fair, it did all sound appealing. Rafting, kayaking, tennis, a ‘teddy-bear hunt’ for small children, even a moose safari. Horse riding leapt out at me – Frankie would love that – and I still fancied trying archery again.
‘Can I put your names down for our big campfire event? It’s on Wednesday night and there’s going to be a barbecue and live music. We have an awesome band booked. It’s a great chance for all our guests to meet.’
‘And talk about their favourite murderer?’
He froze. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m just kidding.’
But Greg’s smile had vanished and the sweat was pouring off him even more profusely. ‘That’s really not something we like to talk about. It was a long time ago and it was a completely different place then.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that David and Connie in cabin twelve told me there are lots of dark tourists here.’
His expression of shock seemed genuine. ‘Dark tourists?’
‘I assumed you would have known that. They’re all talking about it on some website for people who are into serial killers and grisly crimes.’
The remains of his smile slipped away. ‘I’ll have to look into that. Shall I put you down for two tickets?’
I had forgotten what he was talking about.
‘The campfire?’ he prompted.
‘Oh, yes. That would be great. Thanks.’
Inside, I found a note on the table.
Have gone for a walk with Ryan. See you later. Frankie.
I held the sheet of paper, trying to work out how I felt. I had been looking forward to spending time with her. That was the whole point of this trip, after all. I didn’t see her for fifty weeks of the year. It didn’t seem so long ago that she had wanted to spend every possible minute in my company. I had pictured us exploring the resort together, going out on to the lake, signing up for the activities on the sheet Greg had given me. Filling the tank before I had to go back to England and my solo existence there. Instead, she had chosen to go off with some boy . . .
I stopped myself. She was a teenager now. All that mattered was that she was happy. I would still see her plenty, and this was my holiday too. It would be good for me to spend some time alone, and the last thing I wanted to be was clingy.
I put the shopping away and walked around the cabin for a little while. It was too beautiful to stay indoors. I grabbed a bottle of water and headed down to the lake.
I sat at a picnic table by the water’s edge. Close by, families and couples were lining up to hire boats: kayaks and paddleboards and even sailboats. I wasn’t sure how big the lake was but its far shore was hazy, its surface still and blue. In the distance I could see a few people fishing and I remembered the website detailing how the lake contained trout and bass and landlocked salmon. There was the buzz of a motorboat, a water-skier gliding across the water behind it. On the edge of the lake, beneath the shade of pine trees, I could see a yoga class taking place.
‘Man, it’s beautiful, huh?’
It was David. He sat opposite me without asking. Connie was standing over by the little ice cream hut, talking to a couple in their sixties.
‘So, I learned something interesting,’ he said, leaning forward conspiratorially.
‘Oh?’
‘You know I told you how Everett Miller disappeared? And that he never showed up?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, there have been sightings of him, supposedly. One of the women who works in the kitchen was telling me about it. A few times, people walking in the woods have reported seeing a bearded guy with long hair lurking in the trees, and apparently some of the guys building this place reported all sorts of weird shit going on. Like equipment being moved. Car tyres going flat. Some of them said they were sure they were being watched. And they found food wrappers on the edge of the woods – like, candy bars and shit.’