The Lake

Not really seeing them, because her mind was elsewhere. She’d gone way back; saw her ten-year-old self in class. Big for her age, awkward, alone. Writing wasn’t her strong point, but here she was, struggling with an essay on the life of a fuckin’ sperm whale. She looked at her spidery joined-up writing, all blotchy with ink.

Then, behind her, the fuckin’ teacher said in that cold, icy voice of hers, “Sheena Hastings. I do declare, the standard of your work gets worse. See me after class!”

All eyes turned toward her. Mary Jo Hassler sitting in the row behind, sniggered. Titters rose in waves from the rest of the class.

Her head jerked back.

Mary Jo. Tugging at her long dark braids.

She remembered how her eyes had watered up, how ashamed she’d felt…She’d never been much good at writing.

Christ. She’d hated her childhood. And school most of all. Who fuckin’ said schooldays were the happiest days of your life?

Whatever goddamn motherfucker it was, they wanted to come up with one more thing like that and then go blow their fuckin’ brains out.

But all of that was a long time ago. Those lousy schooldays; her lousy childhood. Only thing kept her going was beating the hell outa them kids on the sports field. Yeah. She was the greatest at sports in those days.

THE BEST.

Was then, is now.

Pumping iron in the gym, judo, karate, kickboxing, you name it. She’d done it all—and better than most men, too. She knew all about the pain barrier. Going through it, stretching her muscles to the max. Almost passing out. She’d been there. Done that.

And when she figured her body could take no more—there were plenty of other ways to feel pain.

Oh yeah, other ways.

Sheena’s lips curved in a triumphant smile.

In the early days, only one other person understood her. Really knew what made her tick.

Kat Tod, her partner.

Kat knew about pain; she’d had a cartload of it herself. Bad childhood. Bad marriage at thirteen years of age.

All of them, painful experiences.

Kat had gotten herself killed last October. Memory of it still hurt Sheena. It’d had been a bad business. S & M, the cops called it. Okay. That’s what they called it. But she knew Kat was following her own path of redemption.

Redemption?

Self-destruction, more like.

Yeah.

Ended up a mess a’ bloody ribbons in some shitty back alley…

Jesus. What a gal. She’d gotten mixed up with a real bad crowd. Rented herself out. An’ paid for it in full that one last time…

Sheena turned away from the window. Contemplating her “insight.” Her gift for premonition, whatever. She hated it, yet loved it, all at the same time.

It was part of her.

What she was.

Love it or loathe it, that gift was an important part of Sheena Hastings. Life as a kid hadn’t been a whole lotta fun, but she sure knew that her special talent—and her sporting prowess—set her way above the rest.

In the bad times, she held on to this.

Mom and Dad had tut-tutted her claims that she “knew about things before they happened.” They’d chastised her. Called in the local priest. Encouraged her interest in sports.

Finally, there’d been the psychiatrist.

He’d prescribed Prozac. Why the hell Prozac, for godsake? She was happy the way she was. Only person who understood that was Warren. They trained together. They talked together. She was a few years older, but she hung around with him most of the time.

Warren understood her. Like now. He knew she was happy at Pacey’s Place. Among her own kind. Problem people. Misfits. Weirdos. They got together, understood each other. No questions asked.

Now there was this “midnight runner.” Who in hell was she? Whomever, whatever, she turned out to be, she was involved with Warren.

Without knowing why, but trusting her instincts, Sheena felt a squirm of apprehension.

FORTY-TWO

It was Thursday evening. Night of the get-together with Mom and Warren.

Mom wasn’t home yet.

Warren wasn’t due for a couple of hours.

In her bedroom, Deana stripped to her bra and panties.

“Hope everything works out okay,” she murmured to herself. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Two nice people. Civilized guys who know the score. They’ll get along fine.”

She peered into the dresser mirror. Inspecting herself. Practicing how she’d look. A dry run for later.

She went over to her bed. Laid out were two outfits—her final final selection. A maroon cotton pantsuit, and a blue jersey crossover blouse and short denim skirt.

Smart casual, she’d told Warren.

No way was the black dress an option. Far too formal for a muggy evening.

It’s gotta be the crossover blouse and denim skirt, she decided. The blouse would be great, if…

If what?

If Warren wanted a closer inspection?

She hugged herself.

I know he likes me.

She could tell by the way his eyes swept over her in an approving, but not suggestive, way. Maybe he’d guessed she wasn’t interested in sex at the moment. Understood it was too soon…

Her relationship with Warren would grow, gradually and at her own pace, she decided.