Chapter 9: Cal's POV: The Marina

Cal's POV

By the time I got down the loft stairs, the man at the fence was gone.

There were boot prints in the wet gravel, a cigarette butt, and the tread of a car that had backed out fast.

I stood there in yesterday's jeans and nothing else, and my hand throbbed under the bandage.

Lena was upstairs getting dressed, and she hadn't said much after she showed me the window.

She had said "Rule two," once, flat, and then gone looking for her shoes.

I didn't blame her.

I borrowed the shop owner's work van, which he kept for lumber runs and let me use when my truck was dead.

I told Lena I'd be back in an hour.

She looked at me from the top of the stairs and said, "Where are you going?"

"To get your money."

"Cal."

"It's your money. I'm not making a speech. I'm just going to go ask."

She didn't tell me not to, so I went.

The Courtland marina sat on the north arm of the lake, forty slips and a glass office with a flag out front.

I knew the place.

I had spent a summer there, seven years back, washing boats for Brooks's father before the old man died.

Brooks's office was at the end of the dock.

He was at his desk in a pressed shirt with his sleeves rolled up, eating a bagel.

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