Thirteen

I can't quite fathom what I'm seeing. I actually have two kayaks, both single-person, plus a canoe, and looking around, I'm not sure what's what. The boathouse is littered with pieces of fiberglass. Chunks of it. Twisted chunks.

"I… I don't understand," I say. "What would do this besides a bomb?"

Kit bends to examine a scrap of wreckage. It takes a moment to recognize what it is—part of a kayak seat, melted.

"Can any bomb do this without damaging the shed?" I say.

He picks up a shard and turns it over in his hands. He's not giving an answer because there isn't one.

Kit straightens and raises the lantern to look around.

"One door," I say. "I boarded up the windows, and they're still boarded." I stomp the ground, dirt flying up. "There's no floor, but unless someone dug their way in…?"

They didn't. We can both see that. I'm looking around when I notice something overhead.

I take the lantern and lift it. My paddleboard sits in its spot in the rafters.

"Tell me that's not damaged," I say.

He walks to the front of the board and reaches up, then shimmies it down and out the door. I follow him as he sets the paddleboard onto the ground. It's in pristine shape. Not a scratch that I didn't put there myself by scraping against rocks.

I run back in. The paddles for the canoe and kayak are among the twisted pieces, along with tufts of stuffing and scraps of fabric from the life vests. I use another paddle for the board, though, and it's still in the rafters. I yank it down and carry it outside.

Kit looks from me to the board.

Say something, damn it. Say what you want to say, what you're holding back because you need to be "nice." I'm the former wife you walked out on during a pandemic, and now you're treading eggshells to be nice to me. Just say it, damn it. State the fucking obvious.

"Well?" I snap, when I can't hold back any longer. "Say it."

"I don't need to. You already know it."

The wind falls from my sails. Did I want him to say the words, as if he thought I was too dense to figure it out? Give me a reason to take offense?

"Fucking useless," I mutter.

His head shoots up, genuine shock on his face.

"Not you," I say. "The board. It's useless."

I drop the paddle onto it, and I don't even get a satisfying clank, the aluminum falling with a dull thump on the fiberglass.

"There's no way in hell we can get to shore on that." I glance up at him. "Right?"

"Right."

I slump. Did I want him to say I could do it? Not to overestimate my ability but tell me I'm exaggerating the danger.

Sure, you can do it, Laney. It's only five miles.

Five miles across the open water of Lake Superior, which might as well be the ocean.

I walk down to the water. While I did pick this spot to hide my private boathouse, it's also near the perfect launch spot for the smaller watercraft, in the shallow side of a cove. The main boathouse is on the other side of that cove, on deeper water better suited for the motorized boat. Here, though, once you get past that treacherous stretch of rock, there's a strip of actual beach.

I take off my shoes at the rock edge and walk onto the water-smoothed pebbles and tiny rocks that approximate something like sand. There's no tide on the Great Lakes, and the wind dictates how far the water reaches. Today, it comes all the way to the edge, and I'm sloshing in it as I walk along that beach strip, looking across the seemingly endless water.

The last time Kit and I were here, we sat on this beach gazing out over the water as I told him the plot for my second novel. With anyone else, that might have been a quiet, thoughtful conversation. That wasn't us. It was me waving my arms and gesticulating wildly while Kit scratched a stick in the sand, mapping out my scenes and brainstorming ideas for the plot holes.

Yesterday, my agent had called to ask about the third book. I told her it was almost done.

I lied.

I have fifty pages written, and they don't even form fifty pages of coherent plot. I haven't written for nearly a year. I want to. I desperately want to escape into my stories, but every time I try, real life intrudes. My sister is dead, my husband left me, I'm not sure I can be a good parent to my niece, I'm not sure I can be a good teacher to kids traumatized by the pandemic.

Rocks crunch as Kit walks up. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't fall in step beside me or behind me. Just finds his own path to wander in the same direction, and when I glance back, he has his sneakers tied and hanging from one hand, the other shading his eyes against the morning sun.

When I'm on the island alone, I often rise early to enjoy the sunrise with my morning coffee. Sunsets on the lake get all the attention. They are breathtaking, with reds and oranges that turn the sky into a screaming portent for the end of days. I prefer sunrise. So much subtler, with the sky suffused with soft layers of pink and purple. I picture sunrises as the day waking, slowly stretching, while sunsets are the day flaming out in a blaze of riotous glory.

This morning, sunrise has stolen the cloak from her sister. She's blood red, a fiery warning. Storm's coming. I can feel it in the wind, hear it in the slap of waves, even smell it, I swear, whipping over on the breeze.

Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.

I shiver, and Kit says, "That's not good," making me jump to find him so close.

"Hmm."

"If you're out here because you're even considering paddleboarding, I hope that sky is your answer."

I wrap my reply in a look that has him twisting a smile.

"Okay," he says. "Obviously."

"Yes, I was taking a look, but I already knew the answer." I cross my arms as a gust cuts through my sweatshirt. "I'm mostly concerned about whether Sadie can send anyone for us today. I'm afraid the answer is no."

"Not this morning, at least. It'll calm down later, and she's not going to leave us overnight again."

I tighten my arms. "What if she doesn't send anyone?"

"You really think she's going to strand us out here?"

I hesitate, and then shake my head. "Not Garrett. Not you. Not Madison."

"Not even you and Jayla. I know there's history there, and I know why, but everyone makes mistakes, and I really think she regrets hers."

He doesn't know the whole of it, and I'm not about to explain. Sometimes, I think I should, so he can make a fully informed decision about any relationship he might have with her. But then I don't because, deep down, I'm afraid he has a point. She did make a mistake. She does regret it. Or, at least, she regrets it enough that I can't write her off as an evil backstabber I don't want anywhere near my ex.

"I know you two have issues," he says. "But you're still in touch, which tells me you know she regrets it."

"I haven't talked to her in years, Kit." I glance over my shoulder as I continue walking. "Sure, she sent flowers when Anna died but—" I wave it off. "Yes, I think she'll send a boat for us. That's all that matters."

"When exactly did you last speak to her?"

After we got married. When she called to accuse me of stealing you from her.

Jayla said that's ridiculous—no one marries a guy to spite an old friend—but could Sadie have thought it started like that? I hooked up with Kit knowing she liked him, and then I fell for him?

Damn it, the last thing I want is to feel bad for Sadie. Especially now.

"She'll send someone," I say. "Eventually. But all this has made me think you were right. If I'm not going to get a ham radio license, then I need to invest in a satellite phone. Not for the renters, but for me."

"Thank you," he says, coming up beside me. "Can I get one for you? Please? I run a tech company. I might not be an expert myself, but I can have someone find the most reliable one. If you're going to do this, I'd like it to be done right. Let me get it."

I push back the instinctive denial. He's right. I need one that's reliable, which means it'll be more than I can afford. This is about safety—mine and Madison's.

I shade my eyes to look out at that blazing sun rising over the horizon. "Okay."

"And I know I shouldn't push my luck," he says. "But there have been some real advances in satellite internet. You like being offline to write. I get that. But as a backup emergency contact system?" He shoves his hands into his pockets. "I think it'd make everyone feel better."

If you plan to keep coming here.

Those are the unspoken words. I'm acting as if I'm not letting these assholes steal my island—steal my love of it—but that's half bravado and half stubbornness. I found my caretaker's severed hand. I found his body.

I cross my arms and gaze out over the choppy water. Something nudges the crook of my elbow, and I give a start, spinning to knock it away. A candy bar tumbles to the ground. Kit picks it up and squints into the sky.

"Damn seagulls," he says. "If they're not shitting on us, they're dropping chocolate."

I take the bar and read the label. "Microbatch single-origin chocolate, no less. Damn foodie seagulls."

"Right?"

I peel open the wrapper. I break off a square and hand it to him. He takes it, and we stand there.

"I love storms," I say.

"I know."

"Got a feeling I'll love this one a lot less."

"It'll pass," he says.

I shade my eyes, hoping to see a fishing boat, but the lake is—

"Kit?"

"Hmm?" He leans in to steal another piece of chocolate.

I point. He pops the chocolate in his mouth and shades his eyes.

"Those white things out there," I say.

"Huh, they're on every wave. Weird."

I sock him in the shoulder. "Not the whitecaps. The floating things. I noticed them earlier. That's actually why I fell into the crevice. I was getting a closer look, stepped too close to the edge and freaked out Jayla."

"Who startled you into falling?"

"Something like that. But with everything that happened, I forgot what I'd been looking at."

"Which was…?"

"I had no idea. Things floating on the water. They're closer now."

I pocket the candy bar and take off jogging along the beach. When I first saw the white objects, they'd been east of the island. Now they've drifted west, and they're heading for shore.

The beach part soon ends, and I'm climbing on rock.

"I'm going to the point for a better look," I say, though he hasn't asked what I'm doing.

I need to fight my way past some treacherous boulders and twisted trees, but finally I'm at the tip. The debris is less than a hundred feet offshore. And it is debris. Pieces of something.

"Kit…" I say as my stomach twists.

"I see it."

"Is that…?"

"I can't tell anything from here."

I run past him.

"Laney?"

"I'm getting the paddleboard," I call.

He says something, but I don't hear him. I keep running along the interior where it's mostly lichen and flat rock. I reach the boathouse and lift the board under my arm.

"You're not going out on that," Kit says.

I heft the board.

He crosses his arms. "Laney…"

"I want a closer look."

"Whatever's out there will come to shore."

"We don't know that. It's not far. If I get in trouble, the current will bring me in."

"What do you think it is?"

"Can I just take a look, please? I will be careful."

When he hesitates, I could say I'm doing it either way, but that's never been our style.

"May I run and grab you a life vest?" he says.

I nod, and he lopes off.

I carry the board to the beach. I'm not lugging it all the way to the tip, not when it'll be impossible to launch from the high rocks. Once at the beach, I roll up my pant legs and dip my toe in, yanking back as if scalded. More like frozen. Yep, feels like Lake Superior in October.

I wait until I see Kit. Then I wade in, braced against the icy water, and lay the paddle over the board.

Kit already has his feet bare from earlier. When I lean out to get the vest, he waves me off and steps into the water with a convulsive shiver.

"That's why I reached for it."

"Bracing," he says. "It's refreshingly bracing."

I snort and take the vest. As I slip it on, he holds the board. Then I settle onto it, kneeling. He gives me a push. Once I'm out, I don't rise to my feet. I stay on my knees and start paddling along the shore.

"Thank you!" he calls.

I give him a thumbs-up. Being on my knees is slower but more stable. I hug the shoreline, which will also keep Kit from worrying. Once I'm near the tip, I veer out.

Here's where I'm really glad I stayed kneeling and even wondering whether I should have just sat my ass on the board. Or lain down and doggie-paddled surfer style. I love my paddleboard, but it really is meant for calmer water. Even these small waves have my every muscle tensing as I find my balance. I don't have the ankle strap on. Yep, technically that's a safety no-no, but Kit didn't comment. He knows the strap is intended for calm water, where if you take a tumble, you don't want to lose your board. Out here, with the chop, I'd rather rely on the life vest and my swimming skills and buy myself a new board if I lose it.

It's been a while since I've paddled in rough water. I sure don't do it when I'm alone. But soon I remember the rhythms and fall into it, working with the waves instead of against them. Paddle, paddle, pause. Paddle, paddle, pause. Water hits the side and sloshes over me, and my sweatpants are soon soaked, along with the baggy sleeves on my sweatshirt. I take a moment to focus on staying in place as I reorient myself.

Kit shouts from shore, barely audible over the slap of surf on the board. I look to see him pointing to my left. I squint and notice that one of those debris chunks is only about ten feet away. I turn and make slow progress in that direction.

What the hell is that?

I thought I knew. I'd been terrified that I knew, and told myself I was overreacting, but seeing this, I relax. What I'd seen looked like pieces of a boat, and my mind automatically jumped to images of my boat, Sadie on my boat, some horrible accident…

Yeah, that doesn't make sense, does it? There's nothing to hit out here. Okay, yes, there are islands, but Hemlock Island is unique, in a way that has had locals scratching their heads for decades. Lake Superior has plenty of private islands—and some big enough to host communities. But the ones around here are all close to shore. The locals say there shouldn't be an island out here. But there is, and that's all that matters.

That means Sadie did not accidentally steer into a neighboring island and dash my boat on the rocks. Even if she'd somehow dashed it on the shores of Hemlock Island, it's not going to be in tiny pieces like this.

What I see isn't part of a boat. It's trash. I can't quite tell what it is yet, but it's obviously garbage bobbing along.

A paper cup? Yes. An oversized paper cup. As it rolls on a wave, a familiar logo appears. Where the hell did someone get that? The nearest Starbucks is a hundred miles…

I flash back to yesterday. Jayla climbing on the boat with a venti Starbucks cup in hand.

"Isn't that cold by now?" Madison said.

"I like it cold." Jayla slurped to demonstrate, and we all shuddered.

I reach out. The cup rolls away from my fingers, and the order section appears. It's a venti cinnamon latte… for "Kayla."

Hairs on my neck prickle, but I rub them down. Yes, it's Jayla's, but either it fell out when Sadie sped off or Sadie pitched it over the side in her annoyance.

I'd take the cup to shore if I could, but I'm not toppling off the paddleboard to retrieve garbage, as much as it bugs me. I'll get it if it washes to shore. As for the rest…

I shade my eyes and squint at the other floating objects. Now that I think I know what I'm looking at, I can tell that one is a white plastic bag… like the ones I keep on the boat. It floats, empty, on the waves, and I can make out what looks like a paper napkin and a takeout bag and whatever else recent guests decided they had to eat on the short boat ride and couldn't bother discarding at the marina like I ask.

Garbage. That's all it is. When I think back, I recall Jayla stuffing her empty cup into the trash bag, which hadn't been empty. Either the bag fell in or Sadie threw it overboard. I can't see her doing that, though. Whipping Jayla's cup into the waves? Yes. Dumping an entire bag of trash? No. That's the fine line where Sadie lives.

I eye the trash bag and consider whether I can scoop up the garbage. My neighbors in Fox Bay like me well enough. I shop locally, I hire locally, and I recommend that my renters do the same. Still, when renters are entitled assholes, I'm not the only one who has to deal with their shit, and if anything in that trash identifies it as coming from my rental, I'll hear about it—in person, via the local Facebook group, and even possibly in the community paper. Also, that's mostly an excuse for the fact that I hate seeing trash on the lake. It's disrespectful. We do enough to the environment.

I paddle out to the bag. That's easy enough to snag on my paddle. I bring it in and confirm that it's definitely mine because it has the damn bag tag I buy to pay for local disposal.

Kit shouts something. I glance over. He jabs a finger at the dark clouds.

There's a freaking storm coming, Laney. You can play anti-litterbug crusader later.

A wave hits the board, enough to make me drop onto all fours to steady myself. Okay, Kit has a point. I start turning the board in a wide circle. The waves are heading toward the island. I can trust that the rest of the garbage will wind up there.

I'm half turned when the crosswind catches the bag. As it flies off the board, I lunge for it, realizing at the last second just how stupid that is. I've shifted to one side of the board and the wind snatches hold of the other, tipping it up. I grab the edge and belly flop down. On the beach, Kit's yelling, but all I pick up is the faint sound of his voice.

I'm gripping the right edge with both hands, and the wind is coming from my left. I need to adjust before it flips me. I get my legs to the left. Then I swing my left arm—

A wave hits hard. The board teeters up, and I overcorrect, twisting to look over the right side. I pause there, holding tight as I adjust. I'm still looking over the right side when the damn bag appears. It's underwater, maybe five feet down, teasing me as it bobs along.

I grit my teeth, and I'm about to wriggle back to center when the bag flips over… and long pale hair floats out around it. My heart stops. I blink hard, and then it's gone, and I'm staring down at black water.

I know what I saw. A pale shape that I'd mistaken for the bag, which made no sense—an empty bag would float. Then whatever I saw had turned over, and there'd been hair. Unmistakably hair fanning around a pale face, the rest of the pale shape shrouded in the dark water.

I saw a body.