Chapter 1

      “A lake monster?” The elderly man peered at Rance Sleighter as if he’d shown up drunk at church on Easter Sunday. Never mind that they were standing in front of Rex’s Hardware store on Main Street in the small town of Forestwood, New York. Upstate New York, which Rance understood as anywhere north of New York City.

      “Yes, a lake monster,” Rance repeated patiently, mentally wishing, as he still did several times a day, for a beer. The craving never went away, but at least now he knew he was strong enough to resist it. He hadn’t been once, right after his wife, Violet, had died. His drinking had cost him too much for him to ever go back.

      Meanwhile, he had to think of Eve. As usual, the thought of his tiny stepdaughter made his gut clench. He’d loved her since the moment he’d met her, when he and her mother had started dating. Luckily for all of them, Eve’s human father, Jim, and her mother had remained on civil, almost friendly terms. Rance and Violet had even invited Jim to their wedding.

      Now Violet was dead and Eve lay seriously ill in a hospital bed in Houston, silent except for the steady beeping of the machines. Though Jim had taken custody, he’d allowed Rance full visitation. The two men had remained friends, sharing Eve’s love.

      She couldn’t die. She wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t let her. The thought strengthened his resolve. Eve was why he’d come here. No matter what, he refused to let her down. He’d do anything for his little girl. Even find a lake monster.

      “The story has traveled all over the country. It’s the reason I’m here. You can’t tell me you haven’t heard about it.”

      The old man puffed up at that. “Harrumph. I might have heard nonsense, but you won’t catch me discussing it. You want to talk lake monsters, go talk to the witch’s family.”

      “The what?”

      “You heard me.” Pointing a shaky finger north, the codger grimaced. “Burnett family. Daughter is a witch. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to discuss lake monsters with you.”

      And then, while Rance struggled to formulate a reply, the old-timer stomped off, heading across the street toward a restaurant titled Mother Earth’s Café.

      As small towns went, Forestwood had a picturesque, holiday-postcard-type of appeal. The brilliant reds and orange of the fall leaves helped. In Houston, where Rance was from, they didn’t have much of an autumn. When the trees did shed their leaves, they just sort of turned yellow and fell off.

      He took another glance around him,