Not when the club girls circle her like vultures and call her names they know will stick.
Not when Bethany stands nearby, too still, pretending she’s above it while she lets it happen.
Not when Brittany walks away stiff-backed like she’s swallowing something sharp enough to cut her throat.
Legend’s voice cuts through the clearing. “We’re expanding the grid. South bank and into the timberline. Royal, take two prospects. Holler, swing the marina side.”
I nod like this’s all that matters.
Because it should be.
A girl’s missing. Reverend’s probably behind it and points fingers at the club. Blood showed up in a boat. Drag marks cut through mud like someone was hauled. And the sheriff keeps shrugging like this is a rumor he can out-wait.
That’s real.
My current problem.
My problem with Brittany ain’t supposed to be real.
But it is.
A boat shows up just before dusk.
Not the missing girl’s. Another one.
It’s half-drifted against a stand of cattails near the cove, rope snapped clean like something yanked it hard enough to tear the hardware loose. The hull’s gouged along one side, fiberglass chewed and splintered.
“Rock?” one of the prospects asks.
“There ain’t rocks out that deep,” Holler mutters.
I crouch near the dock and run my thumb along the damage. It ain’t a clean scrape. It’s uneven. Jagged. The kind of mark that makes your brain try to name it and then refuse.
I don’t say teeth out loud.
The owner’s a middle-aged guy from Danville, sunburned and shaking. He swears he anchored it right. Swears it was fine at midnight. Swears he heard something heavy move under him when he went out to take a piss.
“Like what?” Royal asks.
The man swallows hard. “Like something big, fifteen feet long.”
Everyone goes quiet.
Somebody behind me mutters, “Herry, that Lake monster.”
Damn thing has a name now. I stand and look at the water.
Flat. Shiny. Harmless.
Bullshit.
But the air feels wrong.
It gets worse overnight.
A dock on the far side collapses. Posts ripped sideways, boards floating loose like snapped ribs. No storm. No wake big enough to do that.
A prospect’s tent is found at dawn, canvas torn open from the bottom up. He swears he heard breathing outside before it ripped. Says he saw something pass between trees on two legs before it hit the shoreline and slipped under.
