at rocks in the high bush country. Then back to her little castle and moat.
Had she chosen to live her life the way sheâd wanted, or had she been running away? I thought about Dad. Which one had he been doing?
Here I go again, I thought. Questions and no answers. I canât even answer why my own father left two years ago. How could I possibly find out why Frances Rain came here all those years ago?
All I knew was that Iâd live my life the way I wanted, too. And I wouldnât leave anyone behind. Because I wouldnât get married. Iâd become a writer or artist. Definitely
not
an archaeologist. Feeling good about my mature decision, I watched the sun go down. Pink and orange edged clouds drifted above the cabin and lit the veranda with a warm glow. The low putt-putt of a small boat moved across my line of vision. Alex angled the boat towards shore. Tim lumbered onto the dock and held the boat while Erica scrambled out, batting mosquitoes with her hat. The three of them swatted bugs, talking and laughing. They stampeded up the path and crowded onto the steps trying to escape the vampire horde.
âHey, Lizzie,â said Erica, âguess how many I caught? Six! Big ones.â She held her arms wide apart.
The argued for a while about who caught the biggest.
âWeâll fight this out in the morning, little one,â said Tim. âRight now, your eyes are at half mast. Bed!â
Erica was too tired to fight it. She mumbled something about a zillion pound pickerel and wandered sleepily out of the room. Tim sank into one of the big chairs. I expected Alex to make up some excuse to go home, but he sat down beside me. I was glad that it was dark enough to hide the stupid grin on my face. We settled back and looked out over the dusky lake. Bugs tapped and hummed against the screens.
âDo either of you believe in ghosts?â Tim asked casually.
âGhosts?â we repeated in unison. Only in my case, it kind of croaked out.
âNot ghosts necessarily,â said Tim, âbut something paraphysical or otherworldly, if you like.â
Alex stared at him. âWhy are you asking us? Planning on a good ghost story?â
âNo. Itâs just that ... well ... the funniest thing happened when we were out on the lake,â said Tim. âIâve always been a bit ... what the Scots call âfey.â My grandmother was a Scot and she knew when something was going to happen. I canât do that, but Iâve been into a few houses where I felt ... something. A kind of pressure. Anxiety. And a few times, Iâve been told that the house was thought to be haunted.â
âA pressure?â I gasped. âLike when someone pushes on you?â
âA bit like that. But as soon as I leave, the feeling just goes, and I usually convince myself that I ate too many onions for dinner or drank too many beers. Speaking of beers.â He got up.
âWait a minute,â I demanded. âYou canât just leave. What happened on the lake?â
âYeah.â Alex leaned forward. âThatâs dirty. Tell us.â
Tim fell back on his chair and laughed. âTell you so you can jeer at me and make fun, huh?â
âNo,â I said. âHonest. Come on. Give.â
âYouâll be disappointed, kiddo.â
âIf you donât tell me, Iâll tell Mother that youâre dying to go back to the city tomorrow.â
He guffawed. âAnything but that! Jeez! Youâd make a good interrogator. Get âim where it hurts. Okay, what happened was this. We were just on our way back and we were passing that big island ... the one over there ... you can almost see it from here.â
I felt my scalp prickle.
âWe putted around it, trying for that one last bite, eh, Alex? Well, thatâs when I felt that pressure I was telling you about. And when I looked over at the island, I thought I saw someone standing on