Old man looks up. “Ain’t kidding at all. She’s real.”
“She?” I repeat, because of course the monster is a she. Folks always blame women for what lurks in the dark.
“That monster,” he says. “Folks been seeing her since ’72. Big hump under the water. Moves fast. Took out a floatel couple weeks back.” He points through the window toward the far dock where a platform house lists sideways, half-submerged. “Hit it from below, they say.”
I follow his finger.
The floatel does look bad.
Still ain’t a monster.
“You selling these?” I ask, picking up a stuffed version of the creature.
“Sure am. Tourists love ’em.”
I set it down, then scan the racks and find a couple T-shirts in smaller sizes. A pair of athletic shorts. A simple bathing suit in navy. It ain’t romantic, and it ain’t a promise, but it’s clothes, and she’s stranded on a dock with nothing but pajamas and attitude.
The old man watches the pile in my hands and smiles like he thinks he understands. “She your wife?”
“Yeah,” I lie easy.
He nods like he approves. “Good man, bringing her something nice.”
If he only knew.
I pay, grab the bag, and head back toward the dock, boots thudding on sun-warped boards. The lake is flat and gray, the kind of calm that feels like a trick.
I don’t believe in lake monsters.
But I do believe in things lurking under the surface.
And lately, this whole damn world feels like it’s hiding something.
Chapter 19
Brittany
I hear the boat coming before I see him.
The low hum of an engine cutting across water has started to mean something to me. It means the world beyond this floatel still exists. It means I’m not as alone as I feel when the wind kicks up and the dock creaks like it’s thinking about letting go.
I step out onto the porch barefoot, sun-warmed boards under my feet, and shield my eyes.
Oaks stands in the boat like he belongs to the lake, one hand on the tiller, the other steadying a brown paper bag and something neon green that looks suspiciously ridiculous. His cut catches the light. His jaw is set like he’s been grinding his teeth since sunrise.
He kills the engine and lets the boat drift the last few feet. When the hull bumps the dock, he reaches up, hooks the rope around the post with practiced ease, then looks up at me with that same aggravating calm like he didn’t haul me outta bed like a rag doll.
“You alive?” he calls.
“Unfortunately,” I answer.
His mouth tilts. Not quite a smile. Like he’s trying not to show he’s relieved.
When he steps onto the dock, he hands me the paper bag first. It’s warm.
“Peace offering,” he says. “Ol’ ladies cooked for the trip.”
“Not barbeque?” I peer into it carefully. Fried chicken. Corn on the cob. A slice of pie wrapped in foil. The kind of meal that means somebody somewhere decided I was worth feeding.
