It’s open.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What?” she whispers, voice small.
I shove the panel wider and crawl in far enough to see.
Blankets.
Old beer cans.
And tissues.
Used.
My stomach turns hard, violent, instant.
Somebody’s been here. Not once. Not accidental. Long enough to get comfortable. Long enough to leave trash. Long enough to watch.
Brittany steps close enough to see it too.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, and the color drains out of her face so fast it looks like she’s about to pass out.
Someone’s been watching her.
I yank myself out, breath coming rough. I turn and scan the water through the window on instinct, because whoever did this didn’t swim out here. They had a boat.
I rush to the porch, eyes cutting the dark like blades.
And there it is.
A motorboat. Small. Fast. It’s already pulling away, racing toward the treeline, no lights, just a black shape cutting through black water.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl.
I spin back inside, mind already mapping angles. The floatel is compromised. The lake is compromised.
Brittany’s shaking so hard her teeth might chatter.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I pull her into me.
She stiffens for half a second, like her pride wants to fight it, then she folds, hands fisting in my shirt like she’s drowning and I’m a dock post.
“You’re safe,” I tell her, voice rough. “You hear me? You’re safe.”
Her breath hits my chest in fast bursts. “Someone was watching me,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t crazy.”
“No,” I say firm. “You weren’t.”
I pull my phone again and call Holler.
