Water in Her Veins

Water in Her Veins

A girl unravels a townwide conspiracy when she moves to her late father’s family estate in this dark small-town fireside mystery. Sixteen-year-old Lola Boyd suffers from a mysterious disease. Her doctors have no explanation for the chronic lethargy, migraines, and lightheadedness that plague her. But when Lola and her mom and stepdad move to Claret Creek, a small rural Colorado town, to live in her late father’s family home, it’s a chance at a new start. Until her condition becomes even more complicated. Lola begins having memories that aren’t her own—visions from another time that suggest a conspiracy of lies stretching back over one hundred years. The more Lola researches the town’s history, the local creek known for its ancient healing powers, and its revered Dr. Clarett, the more her suspicions begin to rise. Could these visions have something to do with her illness? And why does it seem that her new friends—and the entire town—are so keen to keep her from digging into their past and questioning their superstitions about the infamous Claret creek? The more Lola discovers, the more she doubts who can be trusted—including her own mother. Now it’s up to Lola to untangle the web and get to the bottom of a multigenerational mystery. For her family, for the town, and for her future. Shannon Schuren (Shannon.Schuren.org) works as a children's librarian at a public library and writes from a cozy she-shed in her backyard. Her short stories have appeared in various journals such as Toasted Cheese Literary Journal , Big Pulp , and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine . Shannon lives in Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin, with her husband and three children. Follow her on Twitter @ShannonSchuren. Chapter 1My first memory is of blood. I was maybe four, playing outside with my friends underneath the old elm tree on the edge of the empty lot that probably belonged to the Presbyterian church next door, but the neighborhood kids have always treated it like it was ours. Jesse lived around the corner, and with his shaggy curls and Converse sneakers, he was easily the coolest boy I knew. In my recollection, he’s much older—­practically a teenager—­though since we eventually went to the same high school, he couldn’t have been more than seven or eight.All the same, I loved him. We all did.While my friends and I would play with our dolls, building houses among the roots, he’d climb high onto the branches above us. Sometimes I’d catch a flash of his blue eyes between the leaves; other times he’d call down suggestions for our play. Most involved taking off the Barbies’ tiny halter tops, but I ignored those. Wasn’t it enough that he wanted our attention? This older, shining boy who climbed so close to the sun, who was wild and free and used the word “boobs” without so much as a giggle? He was a star above us and we were content to bask in his presence back on earth.And yet I wasn’t as shocked as he seemed to be when he plummeted from a weak branch and landed at our feet. Even as a preschooler, I understood the basic properties of gravity. What goes up comes down. You climb a tree, eventually you will fall. Even cute boy-­gods. And truthfully, I was a little bit thrilled. He’d never joined our game before and now here he was, so close I could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. But this was Jesse. He was invincible. I wasn’t happy that he’d fallen, but I certainly wasn’t scared.Not until I saw the blood. Thick and rusty, soaking his jeans and pooling beneath his leg, which we later learned was broken in two places. He tried to sit up, shooting a dazed look in my direction as I rocked back on my heels, clutching my Barbie doll. He grabbed at his leg, then reached out to grab my hand, his own slick with blood. He missed, catching Barbie’s golden tresses instead, streaking them crimson.That’s where the memory stops. Because that’s when I fainted.A crash jerks me from my daydreaming, and I tear my gaze from the kitchen window, where the elm tree is just visible at the corner of the lot. The movers must have dropped something. Again. Their voices echo loudly through the house as they reassure Mom that nothing’s broken.I rub the throbbing space above the bridge of my nose. I’m never at my best in the morning. Waking up is brutal, like clawing my way out of a deep, dark cave, leaving me raw and achy and emotional, even on a good day. And today is not a good day.As the Keurig burbles to a stop, I dump sugar and nondairy creamer into my travel mug before heading to the front porch. One of the movers, a scraggly Men at Work wannabe in denim shorts and an orange running vest, nods as he holds the screen door. This small act of chivalry pisses me off and I glare at him, resisting the urge to toss my coffee cup in the bushes and chase him down before he can load the truck with all of my worldly possessions.“Wow, it’s early. Who knew there was a six o’clock in the morning?” Mom’s voice is husky with fatigue as s