His boat is listing sideways.
Water is pouring in through a jagged hole just above the waterline.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
He jogs down the dock, crouches, inspects it, runs his fingers along splintered fiberglass like he’s reading braille.
“Shot clean through,” he says.
I look around wild. “Do you see anyone?”
“No.”
No other boats. No movement on the water.
Just his boat, slowly filling and sinking like the lake itself is swallowing the evidence.
He climbs back up onto the dock, jaw tight. The sun is starting to dip, shadows stretching long over the water, and the whole world suddenly feels smaller.
“You’re stuck,” I say faint.
He meets my eyes.
“Yeah,” he says quiet.
The weight of it settles between us, thick as the humidity.
He exhales once, looks back at the floatel like he’s deciding how to survive a night with me without crossing lines he built for a reason.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.
My stomach flips anyway.
The lake stretches out around us, wide and dark and suddenly not as peaceful as it was an hour ago.
And Oaks is stuck here with me.
Chapter 20
Oaks
The lake don’t make a sound after the shot.
That’s what gets me. Not the hole in my boat. Not the fact that I’m stranded on a floatel with a twenty-one-year-old woman I shouldn’t want and can’t stop thinking about.
It’s the quiet.
Quiet means somebody’s disciplined. Quiet means they knew where the hell to aim. Quiet means they didn’t fire a second round because they didn’t need to.
Brittany’s still on the porch, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around herself like she’s holding her bones in place. Her eyes are wide and furious and shaken all at once, like she’s trying to decide whether to scream at me or thank me or do both.
I pull my phone from my pocket and step just far enough away that she can’t hear every word.
Holler answers on the second ring.
“You good?” he asks, no greeting.
“Boat’s fucked,” I say low. “Somebody put a round through it.”
