Whispers of the Lake

by Shanora Williams

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A marriage on the rocks, a missing friend, and a tangle of shocking lies converge at a peaceful North Carolina lakefront cottage in this irresistibly twisty new psychological thriller from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Shanora Williams – perfect for readers of Liv Constantine, Tarryn Fisher, Kellye Garrett, and Caroline Kepnes.

Investigative reporter Rose Howard is exhausted from trying to manage her seemingly perfect life. With her marriage to the man she thought was her one true love collapsing, she desperately needs for one thing to go right.

While striving for a promotion to senior reporter, her efforts are interrupted when she learns her former best friend and travel vlogger, Eve Castillo, isn't responding to attempts to contact her at the North Carolina cottage she's reviewing. Rose knows Eve can be flaky and irresponsible. And after Eve breaks the ultimate ethical friendship code and crosses boundaries to the point of no return, Rose wants nothing to do with her. Still, Rose heads to the tranquil small town of Sage Hill . . .

Rose soon discovers that Eve has vanished without her purse and passport—even after booking a trip abroad. The personable cabin owners’ accounts of Eve's stay just don’t add up . . . and most of the town's initially hospitable inhabitants become increasingly less helpful . . .

Rose's instincts tell her the solution lies somewhere in Eve's—and Sage Hill's—past. To get answers, she’ll have to ask inconvenient questions, stumble onto shocking truths, and face vicious attempts on her life. But some truths are best left alone. And secrets Rose never saw coming could easily sink her, and her future, without a trace . . .

Release date: June 24, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

Fuck Happiness.

The fleeting thought crossed my mind as I stood in the bedroom closet I shared with Cole and stared at the racks of clothes. What would happen to me now? Where do I go next? How do I find that dreaded happiness again? When it arrives, will it come temporarily, like a visitor? Or will it stay this time? Will it hold me forever?

Only yesterday I was smiling. Hopeful even, ready to put one foot forward and focus on my future. But today, tears fill my eyes and the various colors of clothes become one irritating blur.

People speak of happiness like it’s some tangible, obtainable object—like you can simply grab hold of it, kiss it, and cling to it. Make it promise to never leave you.

Perhaps it is like an object in the metaphorical sense. You can hold on to it all you want, but the thing I’ve learned about Happiness is that it hates clingy bitches. Happiness is disloyal. Unfaithful. Unyielding. It doesn’t care what happens to you when it walks out of the door. It’s like a bad guest, one who shows up when they feel like it. Lingers around. Takes up space. Eats all your favorite snacks. It’s the kind of friend who is so charming and loving that you forget all about their flaws and the way they walked away from you the first time.

Like I said, Fuck happiness. It can go to hell for all I care. I sniffled as I stepped deeper into the closet, wiping my face with the back of my arm. The brakes of a car let off a light squeal.

Cole was home.

A sudden flash of anger wrapped around me, so white-hot that I swear my skin was sizzling. I snatched as many of his pieces of clothing as I could off the hangers. My arms were full of trousers, button-down shirts, silk ties, jeans, T-shirts—whatever I could manage. All of it had to be worth thousands of dollars. I even bent down to grab a pair of his favorite Jordans—a custom-made eggplant pair that I always hated the color of. I snatched down belts, a case of watches, a pair of Versace sunglasses.

The front door closed just as I left the bedroom and rounded the corner, hugging the items. I could smell burning wood from here. Cole’s eyes expanded when he caught sight of me. “Rose,” he said, but I was already walking in the opposite direction, toward the back door. “Rose. Hey, what are you doing?”

I ignored him and walked straight through the door I’d left wide-open. I hoped a million mosquitoes had flown inside just to bite his ass up all night long. The sun was setting, and the air was cool. The firepit was ablaze and the flames enticed me the closer I got. The heat swelled, strong enough to make a person sweat. I swear the crackling of the flames sounded like someone was laughing while chanting, Do it, do it, do it!

Cole shouted my name, chasing after me as I approached the roaring fire. I hurled all of his clothes into the firepit, pulled off my wedding ring, tossed it in too, and watched it all burn.

Three Months Later

Corporate parties should be illegal. I didn’t understand how people really looked forward to these things. Socializing outside of working hours with coworkers? Being in the same room as your boss and enjoying an alcoholic beverage with them?

There’s this odd, invisible line that lingers. Sometimes it loops and threatens to wrap around your neck like a noose. You must remain professional, but also let your guard down just a bit—but not too much, or people will judge you. If you’re too forward, they’ll think you’re doing too much. If you’re too reserved, they’ll think you’re standoffish. I was certain the latter was what some of my coworkers thought of me now.

Reserved.

Quiet.

Weird.

I checked my phone, feeling annoyed that Herbert wasn’t here. He was the only person I could tolerate during these gatherings, but he was at home tending to his sick dog, Dozer, after leaving the vet. Dozer had gotten ahold of a dropped grape, the poor thing. Perhaps I should’ve used that as my excuse too—to be there for my worried friend and his sick pet.

As I sipped red wine, my eyes traveled across the room to my boss and Premier Daily’s senior editor, Twyla. She was flashing all her teeth as she spoke to a cluster of other correspondents, waving her hand dismissively at the appropriate times (likely from a compliment) and giggling when necessary. She’d gotten veneers. They made her teeth look like Jim Carrey’s when he starred in The Mask. No one had the balls to tell her how bad they looked, though—not even me.

Her eyes swung my way, and she threw up a hand, as if pausing the entire party, before scuttling across the room to me in her Italian leather heels. I didn’t miss the way some of my coworkers glanced my way, then rolled their eyes.

“Rose! Girl, what are you doing over here all by yourself?” Twyla pressed a hand to my shoulder, scanning me with big hazel eyes.

Twyla was light-skinned with brown freckles and big, bushy curls that took up a lot of space. She was mixed and often talked about not being able to properly identify with either race—Black or white. Some days she was too Black. Others she was too white. I always suggested she be herself. It seemed she still didn’t know how to do that. In a month, she’d be getting cheek fillers. I couldn’t imagine how that was going to look with her teeth.

“I’m just enjoying the view,” I said, bobbing my head to the right.

Twyla glanced out of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the Charlotte skyline loomed above. “Isn’t it a great view?” she marveled.

“It is.”

She batted her long lashes as she pulled her hand away. She was giving me that look again. The same pitiful look she’d given me when I returned to work two days after I’d called and told her I wouldn’t be able to come in because I was mentally unwell.

Somehow (probably because of Herbert), Twyla found out Cole had cheated. But I bet it was when she found out who he’d cheated with that she developed pity for me. Since then, she’d been giving me sad, sympathetic looks. I couldn’t stand it. It made me feel weak and stupid, like I didn’t have a handle on my life.

“Are you doing okay?” she asked, like she’d done this morning and for the past three months.

“I’m good, Twyla. You really don’t have to keep asking me that.” I laughed it off, but I was dead serious.

“Yes, yes. Of course. So, how is the article on Cowan coming along? You’ve done great investigating on that so far.”

“It’s getting there. I’m still digging but I’m sure it’ll turn out great.”

“Good, good.”

My phone buzzed inside my clutch bag. I placed my wineglass on the nearest surface. I saw the name Zoey pop up on my screen, so I silenced the call.

“Sucks Herbert couldn’t make it,” said Twyla. “Oh—by the way, good job on that interview with the business owners of South End. Keep going at this rate and you’ll be moving up the ranks in no time.” She passed me a wink.

I couldn’t help smiling. As of that very moment, I was an investigative reporter. I worked mostly in politics, but also dabbled in city and business conflicts that happened in or around the Charlotte area. I was relieved to hear she’d liked my last one. Granted, it was a piece any junior reporter could’ve conducted, but I’d put my own spin on it. I made talking about city codes for breweries, shops, and boutiques sound like the next hot thing.

Lots of traffic made its way to Premier Daily and I caught a comment here and there about how people loved the reports by Rose. The next step was to move up to senior reporter, have a more serious status in the company and, eventually, branch out and travel to other states for grander stories.

“Twyla!” a deep voice called.

I looked as she did at Benson Parks, the only person in the room that made me feel slightly inferior. Not even Twyla could make me feel that way. Benson was just too damn good at everything, even looking like a snack, with his warm honey-brown skin, pale green eyes, and clean-cut hair. His shirts were always fitted just right. He looked good . . . and it was clear Twyla wanted more from him than just a few stories to edit. He waved for her to come back with a smooth smile that I’m sure made my boss’s panties twist.

“I should get back over there.” Twyla placed a hand on my arm. “You know how the younger reporters get when they’ve had one too many.”

Benson was one of those younger reporters. I’d been reporting for three years more than he had, yet he was on the same level and vying for the same position I was. And they say misogyny is fading. Bullshit!

Twyla took off and I watched for a moment as she stood before him, looking into his eyes with stars in her own, nodding, grinning. My phone buzzed again. It was another call from Zoey. I’d have to call her back when I left . . . which was most likely going to be in the next ten minutes.

First, I had to pee. I polished off my wine and ventured out of the room to find the restrooms. A man and a woman brushed past me, nearly knocking me a step backward as they made their way toward the elevator. I peered over my shoulder, scowling at their backs.

Once I got to the stall, I heard giggling women enter the bathroom.

“I wish Twyla would just let her go already,” one of the women said. Through the thin slit of the stall, I saw them stop in front of the mirror.

One wore a blue dress, the other a gray one. Janna and Bree. Of course. Girls who wrote columns on fashion trends, donuts, and the best bikes to ride in the city. Newsflash, no one should ride a bike in this fucking city unless they want to be flattened like a pancake.

“Right?” Bree said. “She’s not even that good.”

“Did you hear about her husband?” Janna said in a lower voice.

“No.” Bree gasped. “What are you talking about? Details, bitch.”

“So, I don’t know how much of this is true, but apparently, she walked in on her husband cheating on her. Like, right in her house, Bree. Can you fucking imagine?”

My throat thickened with a mixture of emotions.

Frustration.

Rage.

Sadness.

“Stoooppp,” Bree said, exaggerating the word. “She did not.”

“I swear that’s what I heard. Apparently, it happened months ago, but Hailey saw a note about it or something when she was clearing Twyla’s desk. Now Rose is clocking all these hours and coming up with all these stories because she has so much time on her hands. She’s kissing Twyla’s ass so hard, but I keep hearing Benson is going to get the senior reporter position. Poor woman is going to get her heart broken again.”

“Well, he should get it.” Bree chortled. “He doesn’t come with all that baggage. Seriously. Rose is so fucking weird. She makes all of us look bad.”

That’s it. Time to shut that shit down.

I flushed the toilet, unlocked the stall door, and trotted out. Both girls peered over their shoulders at me before looking at each other and fighting smiles. I took the sink between them, giving my hands a wash before reaching around Janna for a paper towel. After drying my hands and tossing the damp paper in the trash bin, I made a show of running my fingers through my box braids, completely unbothered by their presence. I even applied a new coat of lipstick to add to the nonchalance.

They fingered at their mascara-heavy lashes, swiped their lips with gloss, pretending not to notice me. Done with my show, I started to leave the restroom, but a darker thought snuck its way in and made me stop in my tracks.

“Janna, didn’t you bring your boyfriend with you tonight?” I asked.

Janna gave Bree a nervous glance. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure I just saw him sneaking to the elevator with Virginia,” I answered. “And I’m pretty sure they’re going to her office right now so she can suck his dick and then ride it. But I could be wrong.”

Janna’s jaw dropped. Bree’s eyes widened. She was lucky I didn’t have petty dirt on her. I’d seen her washing up in the restrooms one early morning before anyone else was in, and she had a duffel bag next to her feet. It was dirt, but I wasn’t low enough to make fun of a homeless person.

With a smirk, I twisted on my heels and left the restroom. If there was one thing about me, it was this: Even if I felt weak, I’d be damned if I let anyone shit on my job and how hard I worked.

Having a cheating husband was one thing, but being stellar in my career was another. I was good at what I did.

Janna and Bree knew this and were simply jealous of it. Normally I ignored them and their snobby looks, but things were changing now. I was done being the nice girl—the sweet lady who takes the high road. Sometimes it felt good to unleash my pettiness and hit people exactly where it hurt.

“This is really starting to stress me out, Rose.” Zoey’s voice cut through my phone’s speaker again as I sipped the last dregs of my coffee.

I’d stayed up way too late working on details for my investigation and fact-checking things with Herbert over the phone. I meant to call Zoey back after the party last night but was too frustrated to do so. Instead, I drank half a bottle of wine and dove straight into work. Work was the only thing keeping me sane, it seemed.

“It’s been too long,” Zoey went on. “Do you think she’s okay?”

I refrained from rolling my eyes just as a I heard a knock on my office door. Herbert stepped in, waving a few sheets of paper in the air with a huge grin pasted on his face.

“More info on Cowan,” he mouthed.

I silently thanked him as he slid the paper across my desk. I picked it up with eager hands, perusing the papers, studying the violent domestic report from Cowan’s wife, Melissa. One he desperately tried to hide by paying off a lead detective on the case.

Robert Cowan, CEO of a massive tech company with headquarters in Charlotte, was “allegedly” drugging and raping some of his female employees. Melissa Cowan allegedly found out about this and reported it to the police. News leaked and I’d been on it like Winnie the Pooh on honey. The next thing we know, Cowan’s wife revokes her statement and they’re traveling to Ibiza and wherever the fuck rich people travel to these days.

On one of the papers were photos of Robert’s wife smiling from ear to ear but there was no spark in her eyes. It’s almost like she was being forced to smile, forced to enjoy their escape to restore their marriage. In other words, forced to live a lie. It made me wonder what Robert had on her.

This carried on for a month before video footage came out showing Robert Cowan at a bar with a twenty-four-year-old girl named Anabel who worked for his company. Allegedly dropping something into her drink. The footage was released yesterday morning.

This story was the only thing I could focus on at the moment (or perhaps it’s what I chose to focus on). If executed well, it could top me with that senior reporter hat, the one Twyla so happily liked to dangle above my head like a carrot. What I should’ve been doing was sending an email to Anabel to see if she’d be interested in meeting with me for an interview, but that couldn’t happen because my ex–best friend’s little sister was on the phone.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” I said. A grin split my face in half as I read over Melissa Cowan’s revoked statement. It had taken some digging to get it.

“Rose? Oh my God, are you even listening?” Zoey’s voice crackled through the speaker again and I briefly averted my attention from the report to the phone screen.

Sighing, I reluctantly set the paper down to pick up my phone. “Zoey, I’m sorry. What . . . uh . . .” I rubbed my forehead with the pads of my fingers, trying to remember what she was talking about. “What did you ask me again?”

“I asked if you’ve heard from Eve,” she said, and I could tell she was talking through her teeth.

“Oh. That’s an easy one,” I told her, snapping my fingers. “No.”

“No? L. . .