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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.
FOURTEEN
I stare into the water, but it remains inky black and empty.
There’s nothing there, Laney.
I know what I saw.
More garbage. You saw more garbage. Just this morning, Madison was talking about the corpses down there. Pale corpses.
I lower my face to the paddleboard, eyes closed as I catch my breath. That inner voice is right. My mind is playing tricks on me.
One last look over the side, and I reorient myself and get the board turned around. As soon as I try rising to sit, I know why Kit is shouting. I’ve stayed out too long. A wave hits hard on the back end, grabbing the board and slamming it toward shore, leaving me scrambling for a hold. I’m not a surfer, and this isn’t a board meant to ride the waves. The moment the first one subsides, another hits. The board zooms forward, and I’m skittering along it, trying to stay on.
That wave dies, and I see the shore less than a hundred feet away. I’m okay. I’m close. As alarming as this is, the swell is actually taking me in—
A whitecap slams into me, and the board must have turned slightly after the last, because the wave hits wrong. The paddleboard flies upsideways, and I scramble for the fingerholds, but then the board topples, and I’m plunged into the ice-cold water.
