The lake looks harmless from a distance. That’s what I keep thinking as I stand at the shoreline watching the Kings of Anarchy fan out into the trees like soldiers instead of bikers, their cuts dark against the bright morning, their boots hitting dirt with purpose.
The water is smooth again, sunlight flashing across it like nothing ugly has ever happened beneath the surface. If I didn’t know about the blood in the boat, if I hadn’t heard that scream, if I hadn’t seen the way Oaks’ whole body went tight when something rippled under the water, I could almost convince myself this is just a camping trip. Men laughing. Sunlight gleaming of Harleys parked in a row. Coffee brewing over propane burners. Normal.
Oaks keeps telling me to stay back, to go uphill, to let the men handle it. I’m so tired of being handled. I’m tired of being told where to stand like my presence alone is a liability. I’m tired of men talking about safety like it gives them permission to treat me like something they can move around.
“I can help,” I tell him, and my voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
His brow furrows the way it always does when he’s trying not to snap. “No.”
“That ain’t how this works,” I push.
“That’s exactly how this works,” he says, and then he turns away to speak with Royal like the conversation is done.
That small dismissal lights something hot under my skin. I’m not a child. I’m not a stray dog he can tuck behind his leg when things get dangerous. I take one step closer to the water just to prove I can, just to remind myself I’m still in charge of my own body.
The mud is soft near the edge. I can see the drag marks now that I’m looking for them, deep grooves carved into the earth and cutting down toward the shallows. My stomach knots at the thought of someone being pulled like that, heavy and helpless, while the lake kept quiet.
“She could’ve tried to crawl out,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else, because my brain wants a story that makes sense. The water laps the shoreline with a slow, lazy rhythm that feels like mocking. “She could be alive.”
Behind me, boots crunch over gravel and men call to each other in low tight voices. I crouch, squinting at the ground. There are impressions here, half-prints scuffed and ruined by water, details I can almost make out if I get closer, if I just lean a little more. If I can just see.
“Brit.”
Oaks’ voice hits my spine like a warning. I wave him off without looking back. “I’m fine.”
The mud shifts under my sneaker.
It happens so fast my brain doesn’t register it as danger at first. One second I’m balanced on my heels and the next the ground gives way beneath me like a trapdoor opening. There’s no graceful stumble, no chance to catch myself. The bankcollapses and I slide and the world tilts, sky spinning, dirt and grass tearing free with me. Then cold.
The lake hits like a slap to the lungs. It steals my breath so completely I don’t even get to scream. Water floods my ears and nose and mouth, shockingly cold, deeper than it looked, and my soaked clothes drag at me like hands. For a split second there ain’t anything but green darkness and the sound of my own panic roaring inside my head.
I kick and my foot finds nothing but water. I open my eyes and regret it instantly because the water burns and shapes blur and sunlight filters through in broken stripes that make everything look unreal. Silt swirls up around me, clouding the little I can see, and my chest screams for air I don’t have.
Something brushes my calf.
Not grass. Not weeds.
Heavy. Slow. Alive.
My heart slams so hard I swear it echoes in my skull. I kick again, wild and uncoordinated, and the movement stirs more silt until the world turns into a green fog. The brush against my leg is gone and that makes it worse because now I don’t know where it is. My lungs are burning. My hands claw at nothing. The idea hits all at once, sharp and cruel. This is how the girl disappeared. Quiet. No one hearing the scream because the water stole it first.
Then arms wrap around me.
Strong. Solid. Human.
Oaks.
Even underwater, even in chaos, I know the way he moves. He grabs without hesitation, one arm banding around my waist and hauling me hard against his chest. He doesn’t waste time and he doesn’t panic. He kicks for both of us. We break the surface together in a violent rush of air and water, coughing. I gasp so hard it hurts, lungs on fire, throat scraping raw, and my body latches onto him like it knows he’s the only solid thing in a world that just dropped out from under me.
“I told you,” he snaps, breath ragged, voice vibrating with fury and fear tangled together.
I cling to him without meaning to. I clutch his shoulders. My legs wrap instinctively around his hips just to stay above water. Another ripple rolls beneath us, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel. Oaks’ body goes tight. He shifts his grip and turns so his back faces open water, shielding me like it’s reflex and not a decision.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I choke out, coughing water, shaking so hard my teeth click.
He drags us toward shore in strong efficient strokes. My wet clothes weigh me down. My shoes feel like bricks. Every splash sounds too loud and every second in the water feels like a gamble.
