They drove past ruins of what might have once been camp cabins or cabins used on a retreat or something. A construction crew was now building a house on the site.

“Nancy Moore’s new residence?” Win asked.

“Maybe.”

A pickup truck was parked at the top of Hunter Moore’s long driveway, blocking access.

“Seems he doesn’t welcome visitors,” Win said.

They parked on the road. Myron and Win got out of the car. Everything echoed in the stillness—the car doors closing, their feet hitting the dirt road. Myron had read once that a sound never fully dies, that if you scream in woods like these, the echo will just keep reverberating, traveling, growing fainter and fainter but never disappearing in total. Myron didn’t know whether that was true or not, but if it was, he could imagine a scream here staying vibrant for too long.

“What are you thinking about?” Win asked him.

“How screams echo.”

“You’re fun.”

“Remind me never to buy a lake house.”

They walked past the pickup truck and up the drive. Up ahead, in a front yard overlooking all of Lake Charmaine, Hunter Moore sat on an Adirondack chair. He didn’t get up when he spotted them. He didn’t wave or nod or show any signs he saw them coming. He just kept his gaze on the horizon, on his perfect view of Lake Charmaine. A whiskey bottle sat on his right.

There was a rifle on his lap.

“Hey, Hunter,” Myron said.

Win moved to the side a bit, putting distance between him and Myron. Myron got it. Don’t give anyone two targets so close together.

Hunter smiled up at him. It was the smile of the heavily inebriated. “Hey, Myron.” The sun was in his eyes, so Hunter used his hand to block it. “Is that you, Win?”

“Yes,” Win said.

“You’re back?”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“I’m kidding,” Win said.

“Oh.” Hunter’s cackle-laugh ripped through the stillness. The sound almost made Myron jump. “Good one, Win.”

Win looked at Myron. The look said that they had nothing to fear. There was no way Hunter would be able to reach for his rifle and aim it before Win, who was always armed, took him out. They moved closer.

“Look at that,” Hunter said with awe, gesturing at the vista behind them.

Myron looked. Win didn’t.

“Unbelievable, right?” Hunter said. “This spot”—he shook his head in wonderment—“it’s like God painted this giant canvas himself.”

“If you think about it,” Win said, “he did.”

“Whoa,” Hunter said, like a stoner. Myron wondered whether he had consumed substances other than alcohol. “That’s so true.”

“Where’s Patrick?” Myron asked.

“I don’t know.”

Myron pointed to the house behind him. “Is he inside?”

“Nope.”

“How about Nancy?”

Hunter shook his head. “Also nope.”

“Can we all go inside?”

Hunter kept shaking his head. “No reason to; no one in there. A beautiful day like this is to be cherished. We got a couple of chairs, if you want to sit and enjoy the view with me.”