The sun was directly overhead now; it beat down on him with unforgiving potency. He felt like a solo performer spotlighted onstage. The heat felt good. Despite the rising summer temperatures, the lake water was as cold as an ice bath. Alan found it invigorating. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his damp hair. It had already begun to dry in the heat. He went to the sliding patio doors. Paused. Stared. He had one hand outstretched, reaching for the door handle, frozen in the air as if in a photograph. A single vine, thin as spaghetti, had wound its way around the handle. His heart seemed to freeze in his chest. Noise off to his left. He jerked his head in that direction and felt his blood turn to ice when he saw Cory Morris standing at the edge of the yard, partially obscured in the shade of nearby trees. Even from this distance, he could see the beads of sweat rolling down the boy’s plump face and the darkened stains spreading out from the armpits of his T-shirt. The boy’s hands were covered in blood.
