Did someone in my own club see an opportunity?
Did the lake take her?
I don’t believe in monsters, but I believe in patterns. Girl’s missing. Boats damaged. Docks ripped apart. A tent shreddedfrom the bottom up. Now my wife disappears in the one window of time where Brittany was alone and scared and defending herself.
It’s too clean.
Or it’s too damn messy in exactly the right way for someone who wants a story.
We pull up outside Lottie and Holler’s place and I cut the engine. Brittany climbs off slowly, legs stiff like she’s running on adrenaline and regret.
“Where are you headed?” she asks.
“Back to the lake.”
That answer lands like a rock.
“You stay inside. Don’t talk to anyone about what happened yet.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I reply. “I’m buying time.”
“For what,” she demands.
“For the truth to surface,” I say, and it sounds like a promise even though I don’t know how the hell I’ll keep it.
She watches me like she’s trying to decide if I’m about to abandon her.
I don’t touch her. I don’t kiss her. I don’t do anything that could be turned into a headline.
I let her walk inside.
Then I ride back toward the lake. When I get there, I tell Lottie and Holler that Brittany hitched a ride back to their house and they should go check on her. They buy it.
By the next morning, the club’s already talking.
Bethany never returns. No body washes up. Her shit’s still here. No call from another town. No hospital check-in. No sighting. Nothing that gives me a clean direction to chase.
“The lake monster got her.”
Someone laughs when they say it, like it’s a joke they can hide behind.
No one laughs long.
By evening, the next version spreads.
“She ran off.”
“She was unstable.”
“She finally snapped.”
Then the one that matters.
“Oaks finally got rid of her so he could be with his new woman.”
I hear that one twice before sundown, and it makes my hands curl into fists I don’t want to use.
