Chapter 1

One

Josh

August 2018

W hat is it about the lake that makes cell service go to shit? I squint down at my phone’s screen, which I can barely see for the sunlight streaming over my shoulders and around my head. No bars. I guess really they’re dots. But anyway, there’s none of them.

Probably for the best. You always hear how it’s better to unplug and all that good stuff. Fishing’s just so boring. I should probably quit coming out, but there’s something about stepping off the dock into the boat’s hull that I can’t resist. Sometimes I bring my buddies, but honestly, I like the water better when it’s just me.

I reel my line in, lay my pole down in the belly of the boat, and use the trolling motor to scoot out of my quiet little spot, winding down a marshy inlet that makes up one of the lake’s nine fingers. It’s pretty big, as far as lakes go—80 square miles, smushed between the Alabama and Georgia lines—and on a map, it really does look like Nine Fingers Lake has nine fingers.

When I was a little kid, I would look up at the red clay cliffs that make up most of what would be shoreline, and I would imagine Native American warriors swinging down off vines, maybe battling a gator or fishing for one of the big catfish that made our lake a famous fishing hole for pro anglers. That was before I understood what happened to those people. Where they went. And how I got here.

Damned depressing. Makes me mad, too. If there's anything I hate, it's bad, unfair shit. My mom says I've always been that way. She used to tell everybody maybe I'd make a good judge one day, but that's not happening. Only judge I know of is the one that did my parents' divorce, and he's a shithead. Not looking to be like that guy.

Don't know what I will do, but I've got a year to decide how to escape Fairplay. It's early August now. Next year at this time, I might already be at college. Probably at Auburn, Bama, or UAH in Huntsville. I've got some time to pick. Not that many options, and probably none outside of Alabama due to cost, but it’ll be okay. I can still start my next chapter once I get out of this backwards place.

I'm so lost in my head, I'm almost surprised when the water turns choppy, sloshing up into the boat a little. Coming up on the channel—that's the deep part of the lake—and still using the trolling motor.Dumb.

I fix that, lowering the larger motor down into the water. I’ve gotta gun it to get planed off, but after that I'm moving at a good clip, flying over the open water, so fast that the humid air makes my eyes water. I'm passing by a bunch of little sandy islands, making sure I'm in between the red and green buoys that dot this water like tree signs on a hiking trail.

I've got a memory for almost every island, especially Snake Island. It’s a haven for water moccasins, so for Fairplay High homecoming every winter, we dare each other to jump off Harrison Point, and then you have to kick up from the depths and start swimming toward Snake Island.

It's not the sand that's water moccasin paradise, but the water all around it. It's out there in the middle of the lake, where it’s not normally marshy, so nobody knows why snakes like it there. Anyway, I know two people who've gotten bitten, but we keep on doing it. Traditions.

I think about explaining that to my new stepbrother. He’s coming down to live with his dad—my stepdad—for senior year. Coming from Richmond, Virginia. I grin, imagining what he’ll think of all us Alabama rednecks.

Is it weird I'd like to come back here one day? Long time in the future, when I'm done with school and got my degree. Maybe got a good job doing something practical. I could start a business.

If local people knew about me, would anybody come?

That's years and years away, though. I could even wait ten years. Let this place catch up to the times.

I cast my gaze out over the water. The wind is pushing it down flatter out ahead of me, and a beam of sunlight bouncing off the surface makes me squint, even with my shades on.

There's a bunch of places I could go—a lot of quieter, tucked away spots—but I always end up out here on the widest part of the lake, which flows under both the causeway—a bridge for cars—and the train trestle bridge that adjoins my hometown of Fairplay to Cillin, Georgia.

My boat’s got a depth finder; it says the water under the trestle bridge is more than a hundred feet deep. All the old folks in our town tell stories about the man-eating catfish that live under there. Local lore. Still, when my friends get drunk and try to jump 100-plus feet off the thing, I shoot that shit down real fast.

I look up at the bridge now. Looks old and unstable, but the trains still use it. I spend a few minutes just idling in its slatted shadows. I like the sloshing of the water on the bridge’s legs and against my boat. Water’s pretty smooth here, so I lie on my back in the boat's hull for a few minutes, staring at the train tracks above. As the boat drifts, the amber sunlight moves over my face in gentle waves, turning the inside of my eyelids yellow-red.

I think this would be a peaceful way to die. And that’s morbid, because I don’t want to die. I laugh softly, peeking through my lashes at the bridge’s underbelly.

Train, don't come yet . I’m pretty sure I know its schedule, and it’s due in around half an hour. This thing is mostly made of wood. I know there's metal on it, too, but man—I wonder how sturdy it is. Right about the time I'm wondering, I hear some whistling. At least I think it's whistling. Sounds so out of place over the lapping of water. Then comes little boom, boom, boom s.

Is somebody walking up there? I push up on one elbow, squinting against the sunlight that's beaming across my face.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM...

Sounds a little echo-y. I can’t see anybody yet—bright sunlight—but I can hear what I’d bet are footsteps.

Then they falter. That's when I see him. He’s tall, wearing dark pants with his arms bare, and I think a ball cap. Within a second or two, the guy’s walking right over me. I can't tell if he looks down. Doesn't slow, that's for sure. Then he's in the middle of the bridge. I hear a sound that's not the boom of footsteps before I see legs dangling off the bridge’s side.

Oh, damn.

This guy’s brave—or stupid.

I sit up more. Yeah, this dude’s definitely sitting on the edge of the bridge. He's got some long legs that are still at first...and then they start to swing a little. Probably just my imagination, but I feel like they're swinging in an agitated kind of way.

You should be nervous, I think at him.

The only person I know who jumped off the trestle bridge is Matt McGuin, when he was drunk on the Fourth of July, the summer after his freshman year of college. I guess the impact got him, and due to all the alcohol, he couldn’t swim up to the surface. Mrs. McGuin didn't even go to the funeral. Wouldn't come out of her house for months.

Something falls down off the tracks. I guess a little dirt or something. I’m frowning up at him when it happens again. This time, something hits me.

This guy's throwing pebbles? What the hell?

I shield my forehead with my hand, and right about the time I'm gonna shout up at him, there’s a creak. He’s standing. I think: good he’s leaving, he’ll be gone before the train comes .

But he jumps .

No, that’s not a jump. The mofo dove off the bridge. I see the blur of his form—fucking falling—and I note shoes on his feet. Holy shitballs. His massive splash rocks my boat pretty damn hard. I sit there with my heartbeat going haywire for a second, waiting for his head to pop out of the water. When it doesn’t happen, my heart shoots up into my throat.

Put the trolling motor down and get him!

He’ll come up below the boat!

It takes my brain another second to realize I need to dive in.

No shit, Miller.

Hesitation—thinking of those catfish. Then I tug my shirt over my head— why does that matter, dumbass? —and acknowledge that my hesitancy is because I'm hoping that his head'll break the surface any second.

When it doesn't, I do what any Fairplay guy would do. Lifeguard since I was fourteen, swimming in this lake since before I could walk. I step up onto one of my leather swivel seats and dive in after.

Motherfuckit .

There's always that initial shock of cold—even in summer. My head and shoulders break the surface, and my legs are kicking and my arms are treading. Dammit! I don't see him.

I dive under, kicking forward, maybe closer to the spot where he plunged under. Kind of don't remember where—

Oh shit! The fucker KICKED me! In the fucking temple! I surface holding my head, and the sounds of choking fill my ears. I'm wiping my eyes when he grabs onto my arm and pulls hard.

“UUUUUUUUGGHHK!”

“Uuuuuuuugggghhkkk!”

The awful choking sounds he’s making are terrible, and so loud. They would freak me right the fuck out—if I'd never heard another fucker choking.

I ignore that part and also the guy’s big-eyed face and open mouth, and when he won't stop pulling on me, I sorta lightly punch him, make my way around behind him. He’s still grabbing at me, so I slap at him again.

“Get on your back!”

He doesn’t—he’s still flailing—but somehow I get my free arm around his head so that his chin is in the crook of my elbow. There's a second where I guess he realizes I’ve got him. His hands come around my arm, squeezing, and I pant, "Better not do that."

He's still making the awful sound—wet and hoarse from low down in his throat—and I can tell he's kinda bad off because I feel his body shaking.

"Just chill, brother. I gotchu."

His fingers claw my arm. The choking sounds keep coming. I’m almost glad he’s clawing me because at least he hasn’t croaked yet, but his hand is strong. He’s hurting my arm, and it’s keeping me from swimming as hard.

"Stop, dude! Relax and trust me."

I don't know if he does, or if maybe he passes out. His body feels near limp except the shaking and the awful gasping as I swim with long, hard strokes toward the mound of rock that marks the base of the bridge.

Jesus, it's a long way off.

"I gotcha, man. It's okay."

I feel panicked that I can’t do more than swim and drag him. He’s still gurgling, choking, and that sound is getting to me.

Long strokes, Miller. Focus .

Then he's coughing—which sounds milder, like when you sputter on some pool water. Dammit, I wish I could see his face, look at the color of his lips but I can't; the lifeguard hold I’ve got him in means that I’m basically dragging him through the water by his head, so I can keep his mouth above the surface.

Can't do anything but kick and pull...and kick and pull with my free arm. Inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. Just when I’m feeling dizzy from the strain of dragging him, I remember: the boat .

Shit! I can’t call 9-1-1 without my phone. I cut my gaze down and back, trying to get a look at his face, and the guy gives a rumbling cough. I can hear his breath after—a shallow wheeze. His hand closes around my forearm again, and then he's prying my hand off his shoulder, causing me to lose my rescue grip on his head.

I grab at him, and he whirls around with a splash. I'm opening my mouth to ask if he can swim on his own when his cold hand gives my chest a shove. For a second as he coughs and his lips tremble, I just stare.

God, his eyes are made of river water. Deep gray-green with flecks of gold-brown. I take in his face—the stark cheekbones and lush mouth, slightly parted around chattering teeth. He's got hair flopping into his face, over dark, strong-looking brows. He coughs again, and I realize his lips are just a touch blue at the corners.

"Hey—" I reach for him.

He's treading water, clearly struggling, but I see him recoil.

"You don't want help?" I gesture at the boat. "Let’s swim to my boat. I'll take down the step ladder—"

He doesn't even shake his head. He just starts swimming toward the land bank that the bridge connects to. I swim after him because I'm scared he'll drown or something.I’m about to tell him to kick his shoes off when he turns around, splashing his hand toward me. "Get the fuck back!”

He’s angry, and I’m so surprised that I say, "Fine."

Ungrateful asshat. It’s not like I wanted to pull his half-drowned ass out of the water. I watch him for another second, confirming that he’s swimming okay. Then I turn back toward my boat and start swimming.

I can still hear his “Get the fuck back” as I pull myself onto the boat. After I get to my feet and dry off, I cast my eyes up to the trestle bridge, finding the fool perched right back where he was before.

Dripping.

I idle the boat closer. I can see the drips from his shoes and his pants hitting the water’s surface. I look up, but he’s not looking down at me. I’m sure he must be watching the boat, though. I grit my teeth as he coughs. He shouldn’t be up there. Dumbass.

I wrap my hands around my mouth. "Dude," I shout.

He doesn't bat an eye. His feet are swinging off the bridge’s side again.

He still has his shoes on. Just...wow.

I'm toweling my trunks off, wondering if the guy has got a death wish or something, when I smell smoke. Not the kind from a fire. That fucker is sitting up there smoking a damn cigarette.

"Dude, what are you doing?"I shout.

"Fuck off," he snarls. But his voice is raspy.

Shit, it’s almost time for the train! I pick up my phone and find the fucking thing is dead. God, I’m such a fuckup. Didn’t even notice the low battery .

"You need to get down off there,” I shout into my cupped palms. “There's a train coming."

He starts whistling between drags of his cancer stick.

What song is that?

“Sympathy for the Devil.”

Of fucking course it is.

"Dude, get down! For real. The train'll be here in a few minutes!"

He leans between the rails of the trestle, his hair flopping down into his face. "Go the fuck away."

He sounds genuinely angry.What the fuck? I just saved his ass. "People have died up there. Are you from here?"

I idle closer to the land bank and drop the heaviest anchor I have.Then I jump off the back of the boat, swimming fast toward the grassy arm of land that extends from the Georgia side all the way out to the trestle bridge.

To get up to the bridge, I have to pick my way over a bunch of little rocks and shit. It takes maybe three minutes, and my heart’s pounding the whole time. When I get up onto the bridge, I try not to look down between the slats.

"Listen, man. I don't know you. Or what you're doing. But you need to come down. Like, I'm serious."

His eyes find mine, and I’m surprised at how hard they are. "Like, are you?"

"By the time you hear the train, sometimes it's too late to get down."

He smirks. "Take you a while to make a leap, do gooder?"

"Sometimes people get scared and freeze up."

"So go down now. Before it happens to you."

I look at him. At his face, which looks like something from a movie. Really all of him does. He’s very pale, with these striking, dramatic features. It's almost strange. Maybe he looks too thin. Too many angles. And he has those lips. Fish lips. Angelina Jolie on a boy. Sharp but bulky shoulders. He's lean, lanky, but he’s clearly large-framed. And then those lake-green eyes that are staring through me, round and somber.

"What do you want?" He sounds fed up. He looks tired.

"I don't want to see you turned to burger meat by a damn train on a Sunday afternoon. Dripping blood all into my boat."

He smiles grimly. "Move your boat."

"You're not from around here."

He takes a long drag of his cigarette and stares out at the water. I can't read his face. Nobody could. He looks almost fake. Like a picture come to life. I wish I had my camera. I could take a good shot of him. Here. Smoking the cigarette and being stupid.

"Smoking isn't good for you."

I don't know why I say it. Buzz kill's not my normal MO.

There's no time to wonder—because I hear the train’s whistle and my heart slams into my ribs.

"We still have time if we run!"I move toward him on instinct, reaching for him, commanding him with the force of my will to get up and hurry off the bridge with me.

He just laughs. It's so strange because the laugh is low and soft and rough; it moves through me like a physical thing—even as his face is so blank he looks almost frozen.

"Go," he says. To my ears, filled with the whooshing of my heartbeat, it's barely a whisper.

" You go!"

He grins again, but it's smaller this time—just one side of his mouth. "Nah."

I see the train's light as it barrels out of the woods behind the old, decrepit Isabella mansion on the cliffside, clacking loudly on the tracks—now maybe fifty yards away. Holy shit, it's just like in the movies. I close the distance between myself and the guy at the same moment he gets to his feet.

“C’mon!” It’s a groan .

For the longest second, our eyes lock. Then his hand claps my back, shoving me off the side of the bridge.

I see the boat as I fall, trailed by my own bellowing scream. Even as shock numbs my mind, I know it's gonna be bad. I twist my body, trying not to hit the damn boat. The last thing I remember thinking before impact is nice guys really do finish last .

Then I'm choking, and a heavy hand is slapping my back. I'm coughing up water, and my eyes are stinging. My head hurts .

"It's okay," someone says. I feel like I’m in a dream.

I wake up to the amber glow of later afternoon. My head’s throbbing so hard, I feel like I’m going to be sick, and there’s blood in my right eye. That’s because there’s a gash on my forehead.

Fuck .

I sit up slowly, feeling weak and weird and dizzy. The first thing I do is idle the boat back to the land arm, drop my anchor again. I hike slowly up to the trestle bridge, letting out a little moan because my head is hurting and I’m so damn scared of what I’ll find.

My hands tremble with relief to find there's nothing splattered on the trestle.

I walk back down to the boat, and that's when I remember hands on my back. Someone saying something to me in the water. So he must have jumped behind me. Reckless fucker.

I haul ass back to the marina, gritting my teeth at the stabbing headache caused by the boat’s bumping. Once I’m there, I pay a freshman from my school to rinse it down and dock it for me.

“Are you okay?” he asks me.

“Fine.”

In my car, I’ve got a spare set of clothes. I crawl into the backseat and slowly change. Then I pull a camo ball cap down over my aching forehead. I still feel dizzy and off-kilter by the time I park in front of my house. Walking up to the porch, I feel like the ground is just a little tilted.

I take a deep breath, gripping my dead cell phone in one hand. I’ve got my keys in my other hand, positioned to unlock the door, when the thing opens.

My mom’s in the doorway, wearing her red apron and a strange, wide-eyed look.

"Josh, I’m glad you’re back,” she whisper-hisses. “Your stepbrother is here."