Hidden Vices Read Free Page A

located next to the newspaper/magazine aisle. She glanced down, immediately catching a glimpse of her last name. As she poured the coffee, she could feel the owner watching her every move, as if he were on surveillance. Anxious to leave the store and the vicinity of any newspaper, she paid and opened the door. The wind swirled inside and caught one of the many fliers taped to the glass. One sheet flew up, detaching from the door: MISSING. A young boy’s picture dominated the sheet. The notice was aged, torn at the sides.
    Refusing to engage her curiosity, Megan climbed in her Range Rover and drove away.

    A young woman who’d been standing two aisles away as Megan got her coffee walked over, picked up the paper with great care, and placed it back on the door, pressing the tape against the glass.
    She watched Megan drive away then promptly bought the last newspaper on the stand with Megan’s picture on the front page.

Three
    Lake Hopatcong was on her left, and McGregor Avenue was within sight. Megan slowed, pulled over to the side of the road, rolled down her window, and killed the engine. She relaxed back into the headrest, closing her eyes. With the concentration of a Buddhist monk in prayer, she took a deep breath of the lake air. It was cold and fresh with a hint of pine. Pure silence fell over her, outside as well as within. The voices of guilt, sadness, and anger were muted. And if it lasted for only a moment, it was a start—anything to keep her from the memories of her last case and its fallout.
    But the first few lakefront homes on McGregor raised a flag in Megan. They were shacks with junk covering the yards, roofs that looked five minutes away from buckling, and porches that should have sported a kid playing the banjo. Worried, she checked the house number on her printed-out short-term lease again.
    â€œThank God,” she said, relieved there wasn’t a match. Driving around the bend, the street turned from broken-down lakefront homes to mini-mansions. Megan whistled. “Now we’re talking.”
    Most of the homes on the street were lakefront. A handful of residences were built into the landscape, but the waterfront views demanded all the attention. She neared the end of McGregor, where two older couples were packing up their cars.
    â€œJesus, what is this, a casting call for the remake of Cocoon ?” Then Megan cracked a smile as she pulled up alongside them, rolling down the window. “Mr. and Mrs. Mack?” She was unsure which couple were to be her temporary landlords.
    â€œHello, there.” One man stepped forward. William Mack had a sturdy, muscular build for a man in his sixties. “You must be Miss McGinn,” he said, offering his hand.
    And you must have cataracts to call me miss anything.
    â€œWhy don’t you park in front of the garage.” Most of the lakefront homes had street-level garages. “It’s the white one with black trim.”
    Megan did so and climbed out of Arnold.
    â€œHello! I’m Elizabeth Mack.” Mrs. Mack was tall, thin, and probably in her sixties, but she could pass for early fifties with her porcelain skin. She wore a gold Burberry coat, black pants, and laced black boots, and she walked with as much grace as Audrey Hepburn in a ball gown as she approached Megan. “I’m so glad we were able to connect before we start our trip.”
    Megan smiled.
    â€œMeet Mr. and Mrs. Morse. We drive down to Florida together every year at this time,” she said, hugging her jacket closer.
    Megan peered at the couple behind the Macks. Mr. Morse had more hair coming out of his ears than over his head. And the little he did have was dyed shoe-polish black, clashing terribly with his bushy white eyebrows.
    â€œPleasure. I have to say, we’re not used to having a celebrity here, especially in winter.”
    Celebrity?
    â€œJesus, Al!” Mrs. Morse hushed her husband by elbowing him in his side.
    Mrs. Mack