Chapter Eighty One - Lies At The Lake

The lake stretched out like a sheet of hammered gold beneath the setting sun, its surface trembling with light. The tall pines surrounding the Baldwin's rented lakehouse whispered in the evening wind, casting long shadows across the porch where Aura moved quietly, barefoot, carrying a cold pitcher of lemonade between her arms.

Dinner was nearly ready — with grilled corn, pan-fried salmon, and leftover pasta tossed with olive oil and basil. The scent of it lingered in the air, homey and warm. But inside her chest, Aura felt nothing of that warmth. 

Harper should have been here. Her plate should have been set at the table like everyone else's. She should've been lying on the hammock by now, being teased by Aura and Jackson for being a grandma, or laughing too hard at Cody's stupid dumb jokes.

Instead, her chair sat empty. 

Aura stepped into the open plan kitchen, her feet pressing against the cool wooden floorboards. She stopped when she heard voices — her parents. Not arguing, exactly. But not talking lightly either. Their voices were low, hushed, tangled with something darker.

She froze before the corner, heart thudding in her ears.

"I looked at the medication list again that got sent over." Camila said, sitting at the table with a few pieces of paper spread open before her. Her eyes were rimmed red, her mouth tight. "There's nothing in here that should cause memory loss. Not at this level."

Thomas stood by the sink, arms folded, his brow furrowed. "Did you ask the nurse? If it's recent?"

"I did." Camila replied. "She said Harper's doses were reduced weeks ago. She's been very stable. Very calm. This 'fog' she's claiming — it doesn't match what's in this file."

Thomas glanced at the folder. "You think she's lying?"

Camila hesitated. "I think she's scared of something. I think she's... hiding something. The detectives questioning her too.."

Aura's stomach twisted. Her arms tightened around the lemonade pitcher, condensation dripping down her wrist. A flicker of panic rose in her chest.

Thomas exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Cami, she's been through hell. The camp, in and out of that damn hospital... you saw her. She looks well but she may never be mentally ok again."

"I know." Camila said, her voice cracking. "But that's what scares me, Thomas."

Thomas turned toward her.

"She didn't flinch when she saw us. When she talked about the detectives coming in to talk to her." Camila continued, more quietly now. "She flinched more when we offered for her to get out of that place to join us here."

Thomas didn't speak.

Aura's chest constricted.

She thought of the gun again. The one hidden beneath the bed in their bedroom. Aura had touched it. Held it. It was cold and small, but the weight of it had been enormous — like holding a secret with the power to destroy everything.

"Look, she's been through too much to think straight, you know that." Thomas said gently. "That doesn't make her dangerous."

Camila raised her eyes to him — tired, glassy. "What if it does?"

There was silence.

"Do you think she's capable of it?" He asked, barely above a whisper. "Of... doing something to your mother? Her own grandmother?"

Camila leaned back against the counter, a long breath escaping his lungs. "I don't want to believe that. But... if she was pushed far enough — if she felt trapped, or threatened, backed into a corner then — maybe."

Camila's face contorted as though she'd been struck. Her fingers curled into fists.

And if she did do something..." Camila's voice broke. "If she hurt my mother, or... worse... then I don't care. She's still our daughter. I will never walk away from her. Do you understand me? We almost made that mistake once before. It won't happen again."

Thomas nodded slowly. "I understand."

"We'll protect her." Camila whispered. "Even if the truth ruins everything."

At that moment, a soft creak betrayed Aura's presence.

Camila's head turned toward the door, her eyebrows raising in surprise.

Aura stepped into the doorway, lemonade still in her hands, her face pale. The weight of what she'd heard — what she knew — hung around her like fog.

"Sweetheart?" Camila asked gently. "You okay?"

Aura looked at her mother, then at her father. There was no judgment in their eyes. Only worry. Only love. For her. For Harper. Even for the girl they suspected might not be innocent.

"I..." Aura started, her voice barely audible. "I was coming in to get the glasses."

Thomas smiled, trying to ease the tension. "You've got them all in one, huh?"

Camila stepped forward and touched Aura's arm. "You sure you're alright, honey? You have been quiet since coming here.. Jackson wants you to go swimming with him tomorrow. You love swimming."

Aura hesitated. The words were there, lodged behind her teeth.

I found a gun under Harper's bed. You deserve to know the truth.

She wanted to say it.

She almost did.

But her mother's eyes — red, but soft — were clinging to hope. To some version of Harper that might still come back. And her father looked like he was barely holding himself together.

Aura swallowed. "I just miss her. That's all."

Camila pulled her into a gentle hug, holding her close, her voice muffled by Aura's curled hair. "I know. We all do."

"We just have to keep showing her she still has a home here."

Aura nodded, blinking fast.

But the truth sat like a stone inside her. Not all wounds could be bandaged with hope. Some things — like the cold steel of a hidden gun — didn't vanish with time.

And some daughters, no matter how much you loved them, might be hiding more than just pain.

The screen porch hummed softly with the warm chorus of cicadas and the gentle lap of lake water against the dock. Lanterns hung from the rafters, casting pools of amber light that flickered like tiny fireflies, mingling with the fading blush of the sunset. The scent of pine mingled with the sharp, smoky aroma from Thomas's grill, where salmon and corn sizzled, promising comfort in a world that felt anything but.

The Baldwin family gathered around the rustic wooden table, its surface scarred and weathered from summers past — a symbol of endurance in the face of time and turmoil. Camila moved with a practiced grace, carrying pitchers of sparkling water and a bottle of crisp white wine, her fingers brushing the rim of the glasses as she poured, careful not to spill.

She finally settled into her seat, smoothing the fabric of her flowing sundress, her eyes scanning each familiar face — Harriet's and Cody's easy smile, Jackson's newfound energy, and Aura, seated quietly beside him, her plate nearly untouched.

Camila's voice was soft but steady, the kind of voice that could soothe storms, even if only for a moment. 

"I just want to say how grateful I am that we're all here. Together. Away from Glenwood. Away from everything." Her gaze lingered on Aura, as if searching for a sign, before continuing. 

"Despite all that's going on—the investigation, the questions, the long days—it means so much to me that we're sticking together, honestly and openly. That we're trying for some normality."

She reached for Thomas's hand across the table, their fingers intertwining, grounding one another in shared strength. "It's not been easy.. But times like this remind me of what is most important. Family."

Thomas nodded, his deep voice calm but tinged with exhaustion. "It's peaceful here. A chance to breathe without the weight of Glenwood pressing down on us."

Harriet raised her glass of soda with a half-smile, the clink ringing gently in the quiet. "To the Baldwins, for somewhat keeping it together."

Jackson snorted, shaking his head. "Mom gets all mushy every time we're at the lakes."

Cody jabbed him lightly in the ribs, chuckling. "Shut up. It's nice for once."

Aura forced a smile but her stomach churned, twisting like a knot that refused to loosen. The salmon on her plate looked foreign, the steam curling upward in a mocking wisp she couldn't face. Her fingers hovered, restless, but never quite grasped the fork. The familiar scent made her stomach roll with sudden nausea she wouldn't admit.

Jackson's eyes flicked to her, narrowing with concern. "Aura? What's wrong?"

Camila's voice was gentle, threaded with worry. "Honey, are you sure you're feeling alright? You barely touched your food."

Aura's throat tightened painfully. She shook her head quickly, forcing words out before the tightness could choke them away. "I'm fine. Just... not hungry."

Jackson's gaze lingered, perceptive and sharp. "You said that yesterday, and the day before."

Aura's heart thudded in her chest like a warning drum. She hated the attention. The scrutiny. The silent expectations she couldn't meet. The secret she couldn't share.

Camila reached across, placing her hand softly on Aura's. "You've seemed different since we got here. Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell us?"

Aura swallowed hard, the old familiar panic curling around her ribs like cold fingers. She was about to speak — to tell them about the gun she'd found hidden beneath Harper's bed, the terror it sparked in her chest — but the words caught, lodged in the tight throat of fear and doubt.

She blinked rapidly, pulling her hand away gently. "No. I'm fine, really."

Camila's eyes searched hers, a flicker of something deeper — worry, sadness, maybe even helplessness. 

Aura sighed, but inside, she felt the walls close in tighter.

Her breath hitched, her hands trembling faintly as she clutched the edge of the table. The room felt suddenly smaller, the candlelight harsh and flickering, shadows twisting across the worn wood.

She swallowed the truth back down, biting her lip until it bled silent regrets. 

"I'm just really tired." she whispered, barely audible.

Camila's hand stayed hovering, a lifeline in the gathering storm.

The weight of silence stretched, filled with unsaid fears and looming questions, while outside, the night deepened and the lake whispered secrets to the stars.