“I’m not high,” I tell her, though I now know just how fucking horrible I must look right now. “I just was… watching… the search.” I make a half-hearted gesture to the lake, as if I’m just some curious bystander.
“Oh,” she makes a face at me that tells me she absolutely doesnotbelieve me. Before she can say more, however,Danshows up with a bottle of water. The reporter takes it from him and hands it to me, her perfectly styled dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders. The breeze doesn’t even seem to move it.
That takes a lot of hairspray.
“Do you want me to call someone?” Dan asks Reporter Lady. “She looks like?—”
“I’m not high,” I cut in and reiterate, my voice suddenly sharp. “I think I’ve already made that clear. I just know what happened here, so excuse me if I don’t look like I’m ready to hop on TV and talk about it.”
Both of their eyes grow wide.
And then Reporter Lady brightens. “You were present when murderer and escapee Thomas Peterson was cornered on the docks and subsequently shot?”
It sounds like a newscast in the making. So fucking clinical and detached.
“Can you tell me about what you saw?” She gestures to the bottle of water in my hand. “We can be off record. It’s not every day a fugitive hunt leads to Moccasin Cove.” Her tone is rushed, articulated, and just…fucking annoying.
I narrow my eyes at her, my heart skipping a beat. My skin suddenly feels hot, and the way she’s looking at me—it’s everything but bared teeth.
I don’t like you, Reporter Lady.
And before I even realize what I’m doing, I open the water bottle and dump it out on the ground between us. She jumps back with a gasp, the mud splashing on her white tennis shoes.
“What the hell?” She looks at me like I’m crazy.
I crush the plastic in my fist, piercing the quiet morning. The thunder cracks overhead as I toss the water bottle at her, startling her all over again.
Fuck you. Write a story about that.
Spinning on my heels, I head for the red tape strung between the trees.
“Bitch is definitely high,” Cameraman Dan says from behind me. “We should call it in.”
“No, just watch her,” Reporter Lady calls from behind me. “You never know who she could be. Maybe she knew him. She’s clearly been here a while.”
I clench my fists and push the words away. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but no one seems to notice when I dip under the red tape. No one stops me as I charge toward the waters on the opposite side of the dock. Everyone is lookingat the sky, and the way the lightning is striking across the darkening clouds.
“Call it, boys! The lightning is here,”a voice crackles over a radio nearby.
My eyes stay fixated on the debris of logs and trash on the far side, the catch-all that’s already been gone through multiple times.
Maybe he’s holding his breath.
A deep bay cracks through the morning air, and I glance back over my shoulder, finally. There, a team of big, black Bloodhounds cry out to the incoming storm. They’re greeted by law enforcement, and the wind carries their voices to me.
“Bodycam footage shows it was a good shot. He’s gotta be in the water. I think a bank search right now is useless.”
“If it starts to rain, it’ll wash away the scent,” the handler argues. “If he made it out of the?—”
“He didn’t make it out of the goddamn lake,” the officer snaps.
“Then why are we here?”
The thunder cuts off the rest of the conversation, along with the sudden icy wave of water over my ankles. My eyes drop to my feet, covered in murky water. The incoming storm has the lake disorganized and dangerous, and the air is tinted with the scent of rain.
I don’t move, letting my feet sink in the sticky mud a few inches. I focus my attention to the rotting pile of debris, my eyes scanning every log, gap, and potential place he might be.
He’s not here,my gut screams at me.He’s not here.
