“I’m not accusing you,” I answer, still watching the water. “I’m ruling things out.”
Her breath shudders out. “I didn’t touch her after she fell.”
Good.
There’s no second set of deep tracks. No trail in the mud that screams body being hauled. No clean line that says a man carried her away over his shoulder.
Just scuffed gravel and a smear of blood.
My eyes go back to the lake. The surface sits there like glass, and I want to put a bullet in it just to see if it bleeds.
“Did you hear anything when you came back,” I ask.
“No,” Brittany says. “Just the water.”
No scream. No splash. No engine. No brothers calling out. Just silence.
That’s what bothers me most. This lake’s been loud with rumors and fear and engines and radios, and when something real happens, it goes quiet like it’s holding it in its mouth.
I turn toward Brittany.
“You’re going back to Hell.”
Her chin lifts on reflex. “What? No. I’m not running.”
“This ain’t running,” I snap, then force my voice down because she’s already shaking and I won’t add to it. “This is strategy.”
If Bethany turns up hurt and Brittany’s still at the lake, it looks bad. If Bethany doesn’t turn up at all and Brittany’s still at the lake, it looks worse.
I glance once more at the water. It looks back blank.
“You stay here and people will decide the story before the truth even gets a chance to breathe,” I say.
Brittany’s eyes flash. “So you’re hiding me.”
“I’m buying time,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
She searches my face like she’s trying to decide if I’m protecting her or protecting myself.
Maybe both.
We walk back toward camp without touching. Not because I don’t want to. Because touching her right now will be read the wrong way by the wrong eyes.
I don’t announce anything. I don’t tell Royal. I don’t tell Holler. Not yet. If Bethany resurfaces screaming, I need control of the first version that gets out, and I’m not letting the club decide it for me.
I swing a leg over my Harley and hand Brittany a helmet.
“Get on.”
She hesitates for half a heartbeat, then climbs behind me. Her arms wrap around my waist, not possessive, not flirtatious, just holding on like the ground under her keeps giving way.
I kick the engine to life, and I don’t look back at Herrington Lake.
The ride back to Hell is a quiet roar. Wind tears at us. The road hums steady under the tires. My mind runs faster than the bike.
Did she wake up and leave?
Did Pearly Gates grab her?
