What the Lake Took

Every summer, like clockwork, I come back to the lake.

It doesn’t matter where I am or what case I’m working, how many clients are demanding my attention at the firm, or what excuse I give my assistant. When the Fourth of July rolls around, I pack a small duffel, turn off my phone, and drive four hours north to Halcyon Lake. And every summer, I tell myself I’m just going for the quiet. The view. The nostalgia.

But that’s a lie.

I come back because I owe someone the truth. And because no one else even remembers there’s a truth to tell.

Twenty-three summers ago, a girl named Marisa Clay vanished from Halcyon Lake.

And I might be the last person who saw her alive.

It was 2002. I was seventeen, all knees and elbows and second-hand tank tops, working the snack shack by the marina for eight bucks an hour. My father had just left my mother for a yoga instructor named Jen who spelled her name with one “n” and called me “sweetie” through her capped teeth. So, naturally, I was angry at the world.

Halcyon Lake was mostly rich kids—summer homes with paddleboards and imported lemonade. My family’s place was small and rusted out and technically belonged to my mother’s ex-boyfriend’s cousin. We weren’t exactly invited; we just never stopped showing up.

I met Marisa on the second weekend of July.

She had money, but not the kind you flaunted. Wore threadbare T-shirts with holes in the collar and lived off almond croissants from the general store. She was soft-spoken, with that restless, flickering intelligence that made you think she saw through everyone. And she could draw—god, could she draw. She’d sketch for hours at the dock, toes dipped in the water, capturing the lake like it was some haunted secret only she could see.

We weren’t exactly friends, not at first. More like two loners orbiting the same invisible pain. But then one day, she asked me if I wanted to skip work and go for a row, and that’s all it took.

I’ve spent years wondering if that was the moment. If I’d just said no—if I hadn’t gotten in that damn boat—maybe everything would’ve been different.

We rowed to the far end of the lake where the trees got thicker and the water darker. It was an old summer ritual, kids telling ghost stories about “Camp Killman” up in the hills. But that day, it felt more real. Marisa brought a sketchpad, and I brought a joint I stole from my brother’s sock drawer. It was quiet out there, just wind and pine and the sound of the boat creaking.

She told me she had secrets.

I remember that word exactly. Not “things on her mind.” Not “stuff I can’t talk about.” Secrets. The kind that change everything once they’re out.

I asked her what kind.

She didn’t answer. She just looked at the trees like they might talk back.

That was the last time I saw her.

By morning, she was gone.

The official story was that Marisa left.

She packed a bag. Walked off. Her father told the police she’d been acting “moody” and suggested she might’ve taken a bus to Albany or New York. The sheriff halfheartedly canvassed the lake houses, asked a few of us kids some questions, then shrugged it off.

No signs of struggle. No body. No case.

Just another teenage girl with a taste for drama and escape.

But I never believed that. Not for a second.

Because Marisa didn’t take her sketchbook. Didn’t take her pills. Didn’t even take her favorite denim jacket with the lightning bolt stitched on the sleeve.

And because the next night, I found something in the boathouse.

Something I’ve never told anyone.

It was barely midnight. I couldn’t sleep—guilt twisting my stomach like a wet rag—so I wandered down to the dock. That’s when I saw it: a sliver of yellow light leaking from the boathouse.

Inside, it smelled like oil and damp wood. There was a shadow—someone crouching near the shelves. When I called out, the shape froze, then slipped behind the racks of life jackets. I caught a glimpse of a face. Just one flash.

Derek Madson.

Nineteen. Lacrosse scholarship. Local golden boy. And Marisa’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.

The next morning, I told my mother I wanted to go home. And I didn’t return to Halcyon Lake for a decade.

Until last year.

I was two years into partnership at Rosen & Hartwell. I specialized in white-collar crime—money laundering, SEC violations, wire fraud. The kind of cases that made people nod politely and change the subject.

Then I got a call from Ethan Clay—Marisa’s brother.

He told me he was thinking about filing a civil suit against the county. Said they’d mishandled the case. Never interviewed witnesses properly. Never followed leads. He asked if I’d be willing to look at the file.

I didn’t hesitate.

The file was a joke. A couple of typewritten statements. No forensics. No interviews after the first week. And nothing—nothing—on Derek Madson. Not a single mention.

So I dug.

And what I found scared me.

Derek’s father, Russ Madson, had been county treasurer. A good old boy with a grin like a used car ad. Pulled strings, covered tracks. I learned from a private investigator that two campers claimed they’d seen Derek and Marisa arguing behind the marina the night she disappeared. Their statements were never filed. One of them swears a sheriff’s deputy told her to “drop it.”

I went back to the lake that summer.

I walked the trails. Visited the dock. Even broke into the old boathouse. It had been gutted—no records, no gear, just dust. But someone had taken the time to strip the wood paneling along the north wall. Like they were hiding something.

I found a single nail, bent sideways. Like someone had pried something loose.

And that’s when I remembered: the shelves. That summer, they had an old storage bench along the north wall. We used to stuff life jackets in there.

The kind of place someone might hide something.

Or someone.

Now, I sit on the porch of the rental cabin with a cup of burnt coffee and a legal pad, staring out at the water. Ethan is supposed to meet me in an hour.

He doesn’t know everything yet. Just that I believe him. That I think he’s right.

But I’ve made a decision.

This summer, I tell the whole story.

Even the part that makes me complicit.

Because the night I saw Derek in the boathouse, I didn’t go to the police. I didn’t follow him. I just turned around and walked home.

Because I was seventeen, scared, and stupid.

And because part of me didn’t want to know what he was doing in there.

When Ethan arrives, he looks older than I remember. Worn thin by years of grief that never had a body to bury. He’s holding a manila envelope.

“You were right,” he says, before I even ask. “The sheriff’s log from that night? Missing. And someone paid cash to replace a section of boathouse paneling three days later. I pulled the invoice.”

He hands me the envelope. Inside is a receipt. Dated July 17, 2002. Signed by Russ Madson.

We sit in silence for a long time.

Then I say it.

“I saw Derek that night.”

Ethan doesn’t flinch. Just nods like he’s known all along.

“I didn’t go to the police,” I add, my throat dry. “I was scared.”

“So was she,” he says quietly.

It’s not forgiveness. But it’s not condemnation either.

We decide to file a motion to reopen the investigation. With the new evidence, we might get enough traction for a grand jury. Maybe even compel Derek to testify.

And maybe—just maybe—someone will finally dig under that boathouse.

I still don’t know exactly what happened to Marisa Clay.

But I know she didn’t just vanish.

And I know the lake took something that summer.

Something sacred.

But I’m done letting it keep its secrets.

END