Chapter 5: The Boathouse

On Wednesday morning I was sitting on the cot in the boathouse loft with a mug of Rowan's coffee.

Then we heard a car on the lane.

It was Santino's gray Honda.

I knew the sound of that engine from four years of rides home.

Rowan had climbed the ladder five minutes before with a space heater under his arm.

He was still on his knees on the loft floor, plugging it in.

He went very still.

"Don't move," he said.

"He wasn't supposed to be here until Friday."

"Neither was the electrician. People come early."

Car doors slammed.

Bailey's laugh came across the yard, bright and easy, and it made my stomach turn.

"Rowan?" Santino's voice called from the dock. "Hey, man! You around?"

"I'm the one he'll look for," Rowan said under his breath. "If I go down, he'll ask where I came from."

"He'll come to the boathouse."

"He always does."

The boathouse door groaned open beneath us.

There were two sets of footsteps on the planks.

There was no room in the loft to hide.

Rowan pulled me back from the edge, behind the support beam, and sat down with his back against the wall.

I ended up between his knees.

His arm went around my shoulders to keep me flat, and his other hand came up and settled over my mouth.

It was warm, and rough, and it smelled like coffee and cedar oil.

He didn't press hard.

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