The Whole Enchilada by Diane Mott Davidson

shorts he’d needed to wash. It contained a cell phone. Hadn’t Father Pete said Drew needed to take his phone and charger to Alaska? And hadn’t Tom told me that Drew had called 911 from a disposable, which deputies had taken down to the department?
    I picked up the phone. On the back was a piece of adhesive tape where Holly had penned Mom’s . This was a cell phone Drew had had in his pocket? Or maybe Holly had had it, and he’d used it . . .
    Curiosity cut through my brain’s fog. The whole thing had happened so swiftly, and been so odd, so heart-wrenching. Feeling only slightly guilty, I pressed the button for Recents . There were calls to the church, to me, and to Marla. There were no voice-mail messages. I tapped the icon for text messages. What harm could it do? I wondered. Holly was dead.
    There was only one: it was from a cell-phone number I did not recognize. I stared at the message. Not another cent. Don’t ask, or you will regret it.
    I blinked, then took a small sip of the whiskey. The bourbon burned my throat, then my stomach. I glanced at the lake. Would Tom want to know about this? Yes .
    Yet I did not want to call attention to the message, to arouse more grief and curiosity from Drew, by taking the phone upstairs to Sergeant Jones. My own cell was in the van. Better to call Tom from Holly’s cell, I figured.
    Would Drew be able to hear me from the kitchen? What if he made a sudden appearance? No matter what, I did not want him to hear me phoning the sheriff’s department. I slid through the glass doors to the upper deck, doubting I would be audible to Father Pete and the boys. The window on the second floor must have been to a hallway. The voices inside were muffled. Outside was better than the kitchen, but I would still have to whisper.
    Holly had planted long containers of pink and purple petunia blossoms at the far end of the deck. The blooms fluttered in the breeze, now sharpening with the advent of evening. Sticking up from the planter was one of those plastic holders that florists put in bouquets. Instead of a card, though, was a business envelope.
    I punched in the numbers for Tom’s cell as I walked to the planter. Words on the envelope, written in marker pen, were legible: DREW! HERE’S YOUR MONEY! Oh, good, I thought, there was one problem solved.
    A few steps onward, there was a horrific cracking noise. What the hell was that? I wondered. Then I felt myself losing my balance. As my body slid sideways, I tried to reach out for something, anything.
    But the deck railing was too far away. The boards under my feet gave way.
    Down I plummeted, down past the second deck, down past the outside staircases, down, down, down, for what seemed like forever, or a blink. I could hear my own scream, but as in a nightmare, wasn’t sure anyone else could. I choked on my shriek once I plunged into the icy lake.
    My leg hit something hard under the lake’s surface. I screamed and inhaled way too much water. Then I blacked out.

7
    J ulian, that champion swimmer, hauled me out of the water. At least, that’s what the paramedic told me in the ambulance, when I awoke, shivering, with excruciating pain running down my left leg. I was on my stomach, and the medic was tending to my thigh. An IV drip snaked into my right arm.
    â€œHow did you know Julian was a swimmer—” I began, before the ambo swayed precipitously. I leaned off the narrow stretcher and was sick.
    â€œDon’t talk,” the medic commanded. His gloved hand offered a wipe for my mouth. Actually, the guy looked familiar. Did I know him? I couldn’t remember.
    â€œThere was a note,” I said, defying his command. “On the end of the deck. That’s why I walked out—”
    â€œStop talking.” He finished taping my leg.
    â€œYou have to call the sheriff’s department,” I ordered him. He was right: talking made my leg shriek with pain.