Page 68 of On Dry Land

“Meeting up with some friends,” I lie smoothly, not speaking too quickly or placing any particular emphasis on the sentence. He smirks, and his eyes twitch away from mine, over my shoulder. I hear the scuff of footsteps.

Most people look. They put their back to the nearest hard surface and try to keep everyone in their line of sight. Which, against a single assailant, isn’t a bad thing to do. But no matter how many people are behind me, I know for a fact there is one in front. It doesn’t matter who else has arrived because I’m already at a disadvantage. I bolt.

The guy in front of me shouts in surprise. Most people look—he hadn’t been expecting me to run. I’m sprinting back down the way I came before any of them have time to react. Now I do look back, just a quick peek over my shoulder, before I’m redoubling my efforts to run. Four people, from what I could see.

Panicked, I slip on the wet pavement when I round the corner, falling hard onto one knee and becoming overbalanced from my backpack. Planting both hands on the ground, I push up like a sprinter from a starting block. I make it a handful of steps before I’m yanked backward, feet slipping on the melting snow, unable to gain traction. I fall hard on my hip, backpack thankfully providing a cushion for the rest of me against the ground. Almost immediately, hands are on my chest, tugging at the straps, trying to rip it off my shoulders.

Terror floods me, and I try desperately to get up while at the same time holding on to my bag. But it’s dark, and there are too many of them. Someone grabs my forearm and twists so forcefully my elbow pops. I gasp and unthinkingly use my other hand to try and pry their fingers away. I’m flipped over onto my stomach so fast, I barely manage to turn my face to the side before my nose is smashed into the ground.

Rocks dig into my cheek as someone presses against my head with what feels like their full weight. No amount of wiggling dislodges him. I swear I can feel my heart all the way in my throat when I hear the soft click of a knife being flicked open.

“No.” I gasp, having a hard time breathing against the body forcing my face and neck into the ground. Hands flat on the ground, I push up as hard as I can, shoulders straining. Someone stomps on my fingers, foot resting on my hand, and I barely feel the pain over the sound of the backpack straps being cut.

The nylon of my jacket is ripped as someone saws haphazardly with the knife. I’m almost hyperventilating, struggling against the hands on me and the knee pressed hard into my lower back. I’m not sure what’s scaring me more right now—the thought of getting stabbed or the fact that they’re robbing me.

“The phone,” someone hisses as the backpack is finally pulled away. I try to use this to my advantage and throw off the guy who’s leaning on my neck, but all I get is a kick in the ribs and a body kneeling on my back. I can’t breathe. I’m no longer struggling to get away; I’m struggling for air.

If I had enough oxygen to cry, I would, as a hand goes digging through my pockets. The animal part of my brain hasn’t yet realized the futility of fighting, and so I keep at it, trying to squirm my way free. When the boot holding my hand down lets up just a tad, I yank my hand away, leaving my glove behind. Immediately, I reach back over my shoulder, trying to dig my thumb into an eye socket.

“Go, let’s go! Come on!” an urgent, young-sounding voice says above the patter of feet on asphalt. They’re running away. They’re running away with my life in their hands.

“No,” I gasp, to nobody and to everybody. To the universe. “No.”

The weight holding me down is gone so quickly, it takes me a moment to realize it. A moment too long. I barely manage to look up and then tilt my face away as the man who’d been on my back stomps his foot downward onto my head. The heel of his boot catches my cheekbone—a glancing blow compared to the one he’d been hoping for, but enough to force my chin hard into the ground, teeth clacking as my jaw is snapped closed. Pain explodes in my face and ears, my eyes immediately watering. Something wet is on my cheek, and for one insane moment, I wonder if he spit on me before I realize it’s mud from the bottom of his shoe.

Kneeling, I press my bare hand to my face, trying to blink away the moisture enough to see. My face is on fire, and I can’t see through the film of tears, and I have to follow them. I have to get my backpack. My laptop. My fucking phone.

Grabbing my glove, I stagger to my feet, leaning hard against the brick wall beside me. My throat feels bruised as I swallow, hand trembling as I look in the direction I think the group ran off in. There’s nobody there. Entire body shaking with adrenaline, I turn and squint down the opposite way. Nobody there either. I wipe my sleeve across my face, trying to clean off the moisture. When I lower my arm, blood is smeared across the fabric. Gently, I work my jaw, skin stinging as it pulls at the cut on my chin. Leaning against the wall, I force a few more swallows, breathing deeply through my nose and trying to calm down. Tugging my glove back on, I wipe gently underneath my eyes, unsure whether the moisture there is from lying on the ground, sweat, or tears.

Chapter Twenty-Two

DRYDEN

The fog is so thick we can’t see the buoys until we’re nearly on top of them. Even Cody is annoyed, tossing the eggers and shorts back into the water a little more forcefully than usual. Judging by my mental calculations, we’re an hour and a half behind schedule. If we haul all the traps we wanted to do today, we’ll be hours later back to the wharf than usual.

One at a time, Cody rocks the traps along their runners and sends them splashing back into the water. I throttle the boat forward, checking the coordinates of our next buoy. The engine feels loud, competing with the sound of the water and the seagulls. I wish it were louder. Or, rather, my thoughts quieter.

“My boy Jimmy said they started ripping your place up,” Cody says later, standing next to me as we empty a trap. I barely refrain from sighing. I’ve never made that sound more than when I’m around him.

Cody, young and horny and cute enough to get away with bullshit, is always providing commentary on what “his girl” or “his boy” said or did. I truly don’t know where he’s finding these people and am wary of asking, lest I get an answer I don’t want. It’s exhausting, listening to the names change seemingly every day. I can hardly manage to spend time with myself. I can’t fathom juggling a string of lovers as well.

“Yes,” I agree, deciding to let the Jimmy name drop float away with the wind. I can’t, and won’t, concern myself with his dating life until it gets him into trouble and keeps him from working.

“Rad. Can I come by one night and watch it fall?”

“Nobody says rad anymore, Cody.” He laughs. I sigh. Again. I wonder if his boy Jimmy would miss him if I pushed him overboard. We’re far enough away from land and the water cold enough that I could almost guarantee he wouldn’t survive.

The Drifter is already in her slip when we make it back in, Shiloh and his crew moving aboard. Sans Oliver, from what I can tell from a distance. Hopefully.

I let thoughts of Oliver distract me while Cody and I unload the catch, wondering if I should be stopping by to visit him again or if the text messages will suffice. I’m not eager to put myself in anyone’s company for long these days, and I’d prefer to avoid Oliver specifically. He’s better than an interrogator at getting me to talk about things I’d rather not. He’d ask about Spencer; this I know for certain. I know that he’s aware of the fact that Spencer is gone, the same way the rest of the town knows about it.

The thought of speaking to people is exhausting enough. Knowing the conversation would revolve around Spencer adds a slimy layer of guilt, self-hatred, and nausea to the fatigue. I don’t want to think about him. I can’t stop thinking about him.

By the time Cody and I finish and I’m sliding into the driver’s seat of the Porsche, I’ve decided against stopping by to see Oliver. I’ll just text him again, and that’ll be fine. Nobody expects much of me in this town anyway. There is no need to rise above it. Rolling my head from side to side, I wait for Cody to pull out of the spot beside me. Both Shiloh’s and Nils’ vehicles are already gone. I sit quietly for a moment before lifting the hatch on the center console, arm as light as air, as though it’s not my arm at all and I have no control over it.

Spencer’s note is folded up inside, the paper already looking older than it was the day I picked it up off the bed in the cottage. I probably shouldn’t keep folding and unfolding it. I should throw it away.

But instead of doing the sensible thing, I’ve been carrying it around. I put it in my wallet, or the front pocket of my sweats, the center console of the Porsche, or on the nightstand. I recognize it’s a disgusting and embarrassing thing to be doing, yet I cannot seem to make myself stop. Each time I make the effort to toss the damn thing in the garbage, somehow, it always resists leaving my hand. Carefully, I unfold it, looking down at the scrawl of words across the paper. Spencer has terrible handwriting.