The Lake’s Secret A Samantha Leary Short Story

This story contains themes suitable for adults. Please proceed only if you are 18+

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By J.E. Nickerson

Samantha’s car hummed along the narrow road, the tires crunching over scattered gravel. Gilbert’s Creek wasn’t on her usual running route—she knew the bends and the low stone bridge, the way the trees leaned toward the water—but she hadn’t been here in months. Her mind kept replaying Greg’s words: “Body of a young woman was found. Parents reported their daughter missing two days ago. We think it might be her. Since you covered the case, I need your eyes on this.”

The late afternoon light slanted through the bare branches, casting long, skeletal shadows over the asphalt.

She noticed the discarded bottle at the edge of the road, the broken twigs where something—or someone—had brushed against the undergrowth. Her chest tightened. It wasn’t the road itself; it was the quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against her ears until she start noticing everything.

Her mind drifted back to the Crime Time post she’d been working on—a piece about Katie Strongs. Now she was driving to the place where Katie had been found. Another life ended. Questions loomed, leading to interviews she would rather avoid.

By the time she pulled up, the scene was already alive with movement. Police lights flickered across the low mist rising from the creek. Officers crouched along the bank, carefully photographing the area, taking notes. Moving methodically. 

Samantha parked, cutting the engine. The cold seeped in immediately through the rolled-down window, brushing her hair against her face. She let out a low sigh. The heaviness in her chest remained. She stepped out, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, as she let her eyes take in the scene.

She moved slowly through the  brush, careful to not disturb the scene. Officers moved carefully in the same prints they had left. 

As she approached the body, boot prints pressed into the mud along the shoreline caught her attention. Large, deliberate, paused in spots as if whoever had left them had stopped to survey the scene—or the victim.

Greg knelt near the prints, examining them with a practiced eye. His suit stretched tightly against the muscles in his back. 

“You think we’re looking at the killer’s prints?” Samantha asked, keeping her voice low. Her eyes scanning the area. Broken twigs and branches were pressed into the earth near the boot prints. 

Greg shook his head. “Impossible to tell. Casting molds filled the ridges. This area is pretty remote.” He stood bracing his hands on his knees as he stood. “No ID on the body yet. Description matches Brenda Strong. Nineteen. Bruises on the face suggest she didn’t go quietly. She was wearing a school uniform. Blazer was ripped in several places.”

Samantha’s gaze didn’t leave the young woman. She’d seen crime before—brutality that lingered in dreams and haunted quiet hours. But this… this was different. A story etched in the bruises, the position of the body, the faint dark marks on the neck that looked like fingerprints. A betrayal. A trust turned deadly.

“You think she met someone here who killed her?” Samantha asked. “Brenda’s parents said she was going out all the time. They couldn’t keep track of who she spent time with.”

Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag. She knelt beside the body, leaning slightly toward the prints. Whoever had done this had left a signature, a pattern. And patterns were never accidents.

“Could be.” Greg said, his voice heavy, measured. “This isn’t an area where people disappear. Too remote. Too quiet. A nineteen-year-old doesn’t wander here without a reason.”

The creek whispered water lapping the shoreline rhythmically. Samantha took a slow breath. There would be no quick answers here. Not today. Not yet.

The officers moved carefully, lifting the young woman from the shallow edge of the creek. Water dripped from her uniform, pooling in the mud beneath her. Samantha’s stomach tightened—not from shock, but from recognition. The physical evidence was precise, cruelly deliberate. Bruises lined her face, blouse torn open. Faint scratches along her thighs and neck told a story of resistance.

“Maybe there’s DNA under the nails… but this water has likely washed away every trace,” Greg said, letting out a heavy sigh. His mind went to Ella—the way she liked to run in remote places. Did she still, now that she was with Jack?

He tried to shake the thought of her ending up like Brenda. It tightened his chest, a cold knot of fear he couldn’t loosen.

Samantha’s eyes caught the flicker of rhinestones on a small purse, half-buried in the wet earth. She moved toward it, pulling off her white latex gloves. The soft snap against her skin made her pulse jump. She bent slightly, careful not to disturb anything, and examined the purse. Its contents were modest: a wallet, a phone, a compact mirror, some loose coins—things a woman Brenda’s age would carry.

Nothing immediately identifying. Then she saw it, a cared for Nick’s Ink world. A tattoo parlor on Trenton and fifth. 

Samantha stood. “Got a card for Nick’s Ink world. If she worked there, might be a start.”

Greg moved to her side, snapping a photo of the card before placing it in an evidence bag.

He slipped the purse into another bag, marked it with his signature, and handed it to an officer. “Make sure this gets logged with the other items. Set it aside for immediate processing.”

The officer nodded and took the purse. 

Samantha crouched near the boot prints again, tracing the outline in her mind. Whoever had been here had paused in places—patterns emerging in the mud, deliberate enough to suggest observation, hesitation, calculation.

Greg was already noting the impressions in his tablet. “These boots… size twelve, tread’s partially worn on the outer edges. Whoever it was—well, they’re not sloppy.”

Samantha’s eyes drifted back to the victim. She had seen countless crime scenes, but this one pressed differently, as if it wanted her to notice the story written in bruises, mud, and discarded belongings. Someone had led this young woman here. Someone she might have trusted.

The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and cold water. Somewhere, a bird called. The creek lapped gently against the bank. And beneath the surface, Samantha felt the lingering question: who had been here, and why?

She stood slowly, surveying the scene once more. The patterns, the evidence, the young woman’s belongings—all of it waiting for interpretation. In the quiet tension of Gilbert’s Creek, Samantha knew the first hours would be crucial. Every misstep could mean losing the story this scene was begging to tell.

Samantha stepped back slightly, letting her eyes drift over the scene once more. The young woman, the boot prints, the scattered purse—it all pressed against her in a way it hadn’t in months. Her mind flashed back to last year, to David. The boy kidnapped from his family’s camping trip. Police had searched every trail, every campsite, every shadowed corner of the forest, and still, they had never found him, only the backpack and toys he had brought with him. 

The memory hit like cold water. Hours, days, weeks of trying, failing. The helplessness. The parents’ faces. And now—here—another young life taken, brutalized, left at the mercy of whoever had chosen this spot along Gilbert’s Creek.

She swallowed, her throat tight, and turned toward Greg. “It’s… it’s hard not to think of last year,” she said quietly. “David. We never found him. And now… seeing this…”

Greg’s expression tightened. He nodded, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder—a rare, grounding gesture. “I know,” he said softly. “I was thinking the same thing. You okay?”

She nodded, though it felt hollow. “It hits differently when you’ve already seen—” Her voice drifted as her mind returned to the way she’d felt after David. A week of Crime Time posts about missing persons and warnings to watch kids in public places hadn’t eased the weight of his absence.

Her gaze flicked back to the bruised, scraped young woman at the water’s edge. “Every detail matters. Whoever did this left traces. We can read them if we’re careful.”

Greg’s eyes roamed the scene again, tracing the boot prints. “These prints… they tell a story too. And I want to see it before anyone walks over them.”

Samantha crouched beside him, but her eyes kept drifting to the body and the purse. The damp cold, the stillness of the creek, the weight of the past—it all pressed in together. This wasn’t just another case. It was a reminder. Trust was fragile. People vanished. And sometimes, people never came back.

Greg’s eyes roamed the scene, tracing the boot prints. “These prints… they tell a story too. I want to see it before anyone walks over them.”

Samantha crouched beside him, but her gaze kept flicking to the body and the purse. The damp cold, the stillness of the creek, the weight of the past—it pressed in on her. This wasn’t just another case. Trust was fragile. People vanished. And sometimes, people never came back. Yet this—the purse, the prints, the fragments left behind—was the next piece. Nick’s Ink World. The piece that might finally make Brenda’s life start to make sense. And maybe, where the answers began.

There‘s more to the story. Dive into the full length novel here.