Mercer whispers, “Shit.”
Royal steps into the shallows without hesitation, jeans soaking and swims out. He steadies the empty boat and drags it closer until it scrapes rock with a slow, ugly sound. Holler climbs in careful, bracing his weight like he expects it to tip.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
Legend’s voice cuts through. “What.”
“Blood,” Holler confirms. “Lots.”
Bethany’s voice carries faint from the treeline, still throwing poison like it matters more than what’s in front of us.
“You see? This is what happens when y’all playhouse instead of minding business…”
I tune her out.
Royal squats at the waterline and points. Drag marks. Deep grooves carved into the mud bordering the shallows. Not footprints. Not someone walking in.
Something heavy was pulled. From land into water, or from water onto land. Hard to tell. The grooves disappear where the lake deepens, and my stomach goes cold because I’ve seen plenty of ugly in my life, but I don’t like not knowing the direction of it.
“Split up,” Legend orders. “Half circle north along the treeline. Holler, take two and check that inlet. Royal, you’re with me.”
Nobody argues. This ain’t club drama anymore. This is real, and real don’t care who’s married to who.
As the men start moving, I feel it again, that wrongness. The same kind I felt at the floatel when the wall gave up its secret and showed me a sick bastard’s hideout. Something’s off here. I glance back toward camp and see Brittany near Lottie’s cabin with her arms wrapped around herself, pale, watching the shoreline like it might swallow someone she knows.
Bethany is still pacing ten yards away, trying to keep the fight alive like she can out-scream the lake.
“Don’t you walk away from me!” she yells again.
I do. Again.
I head straight for Brittany like my feet already decided before my brain could argue. Bethany’s voice spikes behind me, but it fades the closer I get to Brittany’s side, like the world narrows down to what matters.
“You need to go inside,” I say.
Her eyes flick to mine, wide and sharp. “Was that blood?”
“Maybe.”
“That ain’t a good maybe.”
“No,” I agree, because there ain’t a good version of blood in a boat that wasn’t supposed to be there.
The lake surface ripples, subtle, not from wind, not from a fish. Just a long disturbance rolling out from near the dock like something underneath shifted its weight. Holler notices it too and freezes mid-step in the boat.
Mercer’s voice cracks. “Y’all see that?”
Royal straightens slow, shoulders tight. The ripple grows. Not a splash. Not a wake. Too big and too deliberate, like a thought moving under glass.
A dark shape passes under the surface, long and thick as a fallen tree. For half a second it breaks close enough to distort the light like a back, or a shadow, or my brain trying to make sense of something else. A real big fish. They say fish can get big if they have room to grow. Then it’s gone. The water smooths again and nobody breathes for a beat.
“Boat wake,” one of the prospects mutters, trying to hand the fear somewhere else.
“There ain’t no boats out there,” Holler replies, flat.
Mercer swallows hard. “They say there’s something in this lake.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, but my skin feels it, like it’s being watched from below. I hate that I can’t shake it.
