“Hey, guys,” Reese said as she hustled toward us. She looked at my feet. “Nora, you picked the wrong day for a Gucci.”
“You’re telling me.” If I’d had time to go home and change clothes, I would’ve. Instead, the only thing I could do was take the blazer off. “Have you heard from Ezra?”
“You mean in the last five minutes since you asked?” She smiled. “Yes, he’s fine. They found Ari and Mason. They’re escorting them back.”
“Poor kids. They were really looking forward to this, then Waylon and Carol had to spoil it.”
“Every party needs a pooper,” Reese said. “The water patrol has been alerted so we can get the rest of the poor bastards off the water. Got uniforms searching the cars, the crowd, and the bank along the lake. If Waylon’s here, we’ll find him.”
I liked her optimism, but this place was packed. Needle meet haystack. “What about me?” I asked. “Should I join the search?”
“Not in those shoes,” Reese said. “Besides, Ezra said to wait for him here at dock six. He’s on his way back now, so hopefully, it won’t be too long. Broyles and I will join the search.”
Broyles took his radio off, twisted the dial to change the channel back to regular and handed it to me. “Just in case.”
“Thanks,” I said gratefully. Twenty minutes later, I was still standing in the same spot, my feet sore and my shoulders getting sunburned. I used the radio. “Ezra, where are you at?”
“Drunken idiots capsized their raft. Mounting a rescue. Over.”
Great. I couldn’t be mad because he was helping people, right? I was more mad at myself for my style than for my comfort.
“Miss,” a woman said. “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”
I shook my head. “Do I look like I work here?”
She shrugged. “Kinda.”
Six more people asked me for directions to the bar, what time the fireworks started, and where they could get more towels. My bad for wearing a suit to a resort in the middle of summer. Come on, Ezra, I thought. Hurry up.
I scanned the incoming boats. Nothing yet. At some point, I was dazing as I watched a white pickup back down into the woods using a service road entrance at the end of the docks. While the mules were more comfortable than regular heels, they weren’t tennis shoes. After another thirty minutes of being wedged in, my toes were starting to cramp.
A young woman wearing water shoes passed me on the dock. “What size shoe do you wear?” I asked.
“An eight,” she replied.
I was a seven and a half, so close enough. “Can I buy them from you?”
“I’ll trade you for yours,” she said slyly.
“Uh, no,” I told her. “How about fifty bucks?”
“Sold!” she said, already sliding out of them.
I got two twenties and a ten from my purse, then took off my mules and tucked them inside. Thankfully, the water shoes hadn’t been in the water yet, so they were dry.
I got on the radio again. “ETA to dock?”
“Another fifteen minutes,” Ezra answered.
I slapped a mosquito away, twisting as it buzzed my cheek. That's when I noticed the service vehicle at the edge of the lake, with a man crouching near the water. I pulled out my phone and activated the camera, zooming in. My breath caught. The image was a little blurry, but I was almost certain I’d found Waylon.
Grabbing the radio from my purse, I pressed the button. “Suspect located,” I said urgently. “I repeat, suspect located.”
No one answered. I checked the radio to make sure it was working. It squawked so the batteries were good. Then I noticed the channel had changed.
I switched it to two. “Reese. Broyles. I see Waylon.” Still no answer.
What had Broyles changed the channel to before he’d left?
