Charlie nearly chokes on his water. He sputters droplets all over the table.

  “You don’t strike me as a prude, Charles,” she says.

  “I’m not. I wasn’t expecting that answer. You do you, Angela, or I guess you do him. I think it’s great.” His eyes shift to me as he tries to telegraph his shock.

  “Ooh. I see an opening.” Angela rises to her feet. “I’ll catch up with you later.” She’s drawn to Herb like a heat-seeking missile, or like she has a glass of tonic water and he’s a bottle of gin.

  “I didn’t understand why a woman like Angela would come to a place like this until now. Camp is the ideal hunting ground for her.”

  “It’s best not to date other campers,” I say.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because it ruins the vibe for everybody when the relationship inevitably ends.” I gnaw on the corncob and push the intrusive thoughts from my mind. This is my happy place, and I refuse to give it up, not for the Prick, not for LandStar.

  Not for anybody.

  Man, I really wanted to nail that hero activity, if only to show Courtney that I don’t need lessons on heroism. I’m perfectly capable of putting others’ needs ahead of my own. Stupid expensive shoes.

  I remove the shoes in question and jump in the shower. I should’ve done this straight after my unexpected dip in the lake, but I didn’t want to miss the conversation in the cafeteria. Sometimes people let details drop that could be useful in my ‘investigation.’ Thankfully I only have one message from work and it’s from Jeannie asking me to send pics. Unlike everyone else at my office, she means actual pretty pictures of the lakeside setting and not evidence to use against Courtney and the camp.

  This isn’t a vacation though. My entire future is riding on what I accomplish here these next two weeks.

  I check the schedule for the evening’s activities. S’mores at the main firepit are happening in ten minutes. Everybody loves s’mores. It could be the ideal opportunity to sneak into the office and search for information. While everybody else is busy getting their fingers sticky, I’ll be using mine.

  Despite the late hour, there are remnants of daylight, so I forgo the flashlight I packed and saunter toward the office trying to appear casual. As I round the corner of a cabin, I spot Courtney outside the office door, chatting to a couple campers I haven’t met yet.

  I’ll have to try the office another time. It won’t be easy. There always seems to be someone lurking in the area. Courtney is too popular with her campers. They aren’t content with her joining in their fun and games; they want to be around her twenty-four seven, which makes my job more difficult. Maybe I should schedule an ice cream truck. There’d be a line a mile long and nobody would venture far with a melting ice cream cone. That would give me plenty of time to root through the files.

  Could I expense an ice cream truck? At this point, I’m fairly confident my client will pay for an entire ice cream company if it means getting his grubby hands on the land. I have to admit, I’m beginning to admire her moxie. Nobody says no to James Riggieri. Even the partners at the law firm are loath to tell him he can’t do something, which is how I ended up with this assignment in the first place. If it goes to shit, they can point the finger at the senior associate, nothing to do with them. If I fail, I’ll be out of a partnership and a job. Not loving those stakes.

  Suddenly Courtney’s moxie seems less admirable and more frustrating. It would be bad enough to lose out on the partnership, but to lose my job…

  I’ve never been fired before. I can only imagine how that would go over at my parents’ anniversary party in August. Knowing my parents, they’d disinvite me to avoid the shame of their less-than-superhuman eldest child. I suspect that’s part of the reason they’re riding me so hard about this promotion. They don’t want it for me; they simply want to brag to their friends about yet another Thorpe accomplishment. So far, I’m the dud. If they can claim the youngest partner in my firm’s history, then they’ll feel like they haven’t failed as parents.

  “Hey, the melting marshmallows are over yonder,” Courtney says when she spots me. The other two campers make themselves scarce at the mention of marshmallows.

  I freeze like a deer in headlights. “Me?”

  She strolls toward me. “Not a s’mores fan?”

  “I’m not a dessert person in general.”

  “Wow. That’s a tragedy of epic proportions. What kind of monster doesn’t like dessert?”

  “I thought this is supposed to be a judgment-free zone.”

  “Not when it comes to your lack of a sweet tooth. We are all free to judge the shit out of you for that.” She glances toward the orange glow in the distance. “You said you play baseball. How’s your throwing arm?”

  “I said I played baseball, past tense.”

  A tiny wrinkle appears between her eyes. “How past?”

  “High school.”

  “What position?”

  “Pitcher.”

  “But you didn’t play in college?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wanted to focus on my studies.” I don’t offer the real reason—that my parents tried to make baseball my entire identity. They hired pitching coaches and talked nonstop about college scholarships. Once that happened, the joy was gone. I played my first year in college out of guilt and then feigned an injury so I could make a graceful exit. To this day, my parents mention my dislocated shoulder on occasion in the same tone people use to discuss a cancer diagnosis.

  “Your studies? Ha! Maybe you belong here after all.”

  I don’t belong here. I belong in a cushy office with a view of the city. I belong somewhere with air conditioning and no insects.

  “Why did you ask about my arm?”

  “Come and see.” She links her arm through mine and guides me to a barn across the property.

  “I didn’t realize you had animals.”

  “Not that kind of barn.” She opens the door and ushers me inside.

  I stop short at the entrance. There are enclosures set up for a variety of activities, each one involving a target. Courtney picks up an axe from a nearby bucket. “Stall Five.”

  I grab another axe and saunter to the fifth stall. I look at the target and do a double take. “Hey, that’s my picture.”

  “Huh. How did that get there?” She hefts an axe and throws it with vigor. The blade lodges sideways across my neck.

  “You must get a lot of practice.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can do under pressure.”

  “Same.” I fling my axe at the target and hit myself directly in the middle of my face. “A little on the nose, but I’ll take it.”

  “Hardy har. You’re here for one day and already you’re cracking puns. What’s next, a Chewbacca suit?”

  “I draw the line at masks.”

  “What do you mean? You wear one every day.”

  I hear the shuffling of feet and notice the older woman, Angela, enter the barn. She’s tall and thin with the kind of sinewy arms that suggest regular workouts. Impressive at her age.

  “Hi Angela,” Courtney says.

  She takes in the sight of us, a gleam forming in her narrow eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Not at all,” Courtney says quickly. “Join us.”

  “I brought my own blindfold. I hope you don’t mind.” She dangles a pale pink eye mask.

  “Is she drunk?” I whisper.

  Courtney ignores me. “Those are for pin the tail on the donkey.”

  Angela’s delicately drawn eyebrows pinch together. “Oh no, dear. I’ve sworn off Democrats.”

  “You’ve changed parties?”

  “Only when they switch to a cash bar, like this one.” She waves an airy hand around the barn.

  “We don’t have a cash bar, Angela.”

  “Oh, delightful because I didn’t bring any with me.”

  “Because this is a barn, not a bar, and we don’t serve alcohol,” Courtney continues.

  Angela points at my photo. “Who would choose to malign such a gorgeous face? At least besmirch someone who’s already unattractive.”

  “Because ugly people deserve an axe to the face?” Courtney asks.

  Angela doesn’t seem to hear her. “I’m surprised you didn’t put up a picture of what’s-his-name.”

  Courtney doesn’t shoot daggers with her eyes, she hurls axes. “You know the rules, Angela.”

  The older woman dawdles toward a bucket. Courtney sighs as Angela reaches for an axe.

  “Should I intervene?” I ask in a low voice.

  “I’ll handle it.” Courtney leaves the stall to deal with Angela. “I take it things didn’t go as planned with Herb.”

  “He says he’s in the market for a younger woman. For the love of Yul Brynner, has he seen his reflection in the mirror? I’ve seen moons with fewer craters.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s for the best. Camp should be romance free.”

  “Romance has nothing to do with it, darling.”

  Courtney gently removes the axe from the older woman’s grip. “Why don’t you go back to your room and put on a nice charcoal mask before bed?”

  “Yes,” Angela murmurs, more to herself. “My skin does feel a little on the dry side. Thank you, Cricket.” She staggers out of the barn and my axe-throwing companion returns to the stall.

  “You’re good at that,” I say.

  She casts me a sidelong glance. “Is this flattery or a genuine compliment?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Always. I’ll take authenticity any day of the week.”

  “You should tell that to your buddy in the retro sci-fi warlord suit.”

  “That is authentic.”

  I laugh. “How is walking around in the costume of a fictional character authentic?”

  “Because it’s a character that truly resonates with him.”

  “So Adam’s an evil overlord at heart?”

  “He’s telling us he’s complex and morally gray. It’s a form of self-expression.”

  I’m still smiling. “Like those people who dress up in animal costumes to have sex with each other?”

  “They’re called furries and, yes, that’s also a form of self-expression. You’re welcome to take the chipmunk suit this week. Our regular Simon couldn’t make it.”

  I can’t tell if she’s joking. “And what do you wear?”

  “Can’t tell you or it ruins the mystery. Half the fun is not knowing who’s behind the mask.”

  “So much for authenticity,” I say.

  She narrows her eyes and hurls the axe at the target. The blade hits my picture right between the eyes. I’m glad she’s not shooting an apple off my head.

  “Nice game,” I say. “Do I get to put your picture up next time?”

  “Good luck finding one.”

  “Everybody has at least one public photo online. You’d have to be either a spy or a ghost to avoid it.”

  She collects the axes. “I fall more into the ghost category.”

  I’m unclear how to interpret that. I walk to the target and rip down my picture. “You’ll need to try harder if you think a stunt like this will be enough to make me leave.”

  She bares her teeth. “Consider the gauntlet thrown.”

  My gaze drifts to the shredded picture. Pretty sure it already was.

  We part ways and I bypass the firepit to get an early night. Garbled singing drifts to my ears as I slip inside my cabin. I have no idea what song it’s meant to be, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. I wonder whether Courtney joined them after the barn.

  Her commitment to the camp is admirable. I didn’t know people could even have such strong emotions about their livelihoods. Jobs were the means to an end. An income. A status symbol. Her passion for this camp is next level. It makes me feel … envious.

  I fold down the sheet and climb into bed in my boxer briefs. It’s much too hot for a sheet or anything else. I have to hunt down a smoking gun before I sweat to death.

  An image of her knowing eyes flashes in my mind. She’s made it clear she’s suspicious of me and who can blame her? She’s right. I’m the enemy to every single camper here.

  Who cares if they have to find a new gathering place next year? It isn’t the worst outcome in the world. It might even be good for some of them to break out of their protective shells. They probably don’t interact with other humans the other fifty weeks of the year. Time to mix things up.

  I clasp my hands behind my head and exhale.

  Fuck me. I do care. I wish I was more like Matt, who would’ve dug up whatever intel he needed to seal the deal and screeched away in his Cybertruck by now.

  I stare at the wood-beamed ceiling, thinking. Maybe there’s no intel to be found. Maybe even if someone as ruthless as Matt were here, he’d be unable to unearth a single item to be used as leverage. I could spend the rest of camp holed up in her office reviewing documents and not find a shred of evidence to help my client.

  In that case, I might as well enjoy myself a little while I keep my eyes and ears open, right? It’s such a rare opportunity to shed my suit and soak up the sun while the mosquitoes soak up my blood. I’ll have to ask to borrow bug spray. I didn’t show up as prepared as I thought.

  Not for any of this, and definitely not for Courtney Abernathy.

  Chapter Five

  I skip sunrise yoga this morning. In my defense, there’s a distinct absence of an actual sunrise. Instead, there’s a light mist and thick fog that roll off the lake. Although it’s atmospheric, it isn’t what I’d call a mood lifter. It’s perfect for the zombie apocalypse later though. It’s always nice when Mother Nature cooperates with the activities schedule.

  It rained overnight, which means the grass will be too wet and slippery for a couple of the planned activities, so I make sure to modify the schedule before the first block begins. As I pass the arts and crafts cabin, I notice a light on and make a quick detour. There’s nothing on the schedule this early.

  I open the door, not sure what to expect. Esther and Wendy, our two oldest campers, are seated side by side at the table with a basket between them. Crochet materials are spread across the surface. The moment I enter, they both drop their hands below the table… Well, a couple beats later because their reaction time isn’t what it used to be.

  “Good morning, ladies. What are we working on so early?”

  “There’s no amigurumi on the schedule today,” Esther explains. “We thought we’d work on a project before the figurine painting starts.”

  “What are you making?”

  The older women exchange looks. Slowly, they raise their hands to show me.

  “I can’t tell what they are.”

  “That’s because it’s been a while since you’ve seen one,” Esther says, promoting a snicker from Wendy.

  I approach the table for a closer look. “Is that a … plushie penis?”

  Esther holds up the craft for closer inspection. “It’s my new side hustle. I’ve been crafting penises and other naughty products for my Etsy store. Bridal parties go nuts for them.”

  I examine the plushie. For a penis, it’s kind of cute. “You’re using crochet stitches.”

  Esther nods. “That’s why I’ve enlisted Wendy’s help. She’s a wiz when it comes to crochet.”

  “Esther had a large order come in right before she left.”

  “I didn’t want to cancel on you or them,” Esther continues. “You know how much I love this camp, but I also don’t want to let down my customer.”

  “Plus her rating will go down and it’ll be bad for business,” Wendy adds. “Reviews can be brutal.”

  “How many more do you need to make?”

  The women exchange another look. “Fifty,” Esther admits.

  “Fifty? That’s one big bridal party.”

  “It’s for the bridal shower. The maid of honor wants to include them in the gift bags.”

  “I hope you get them finished so you have time to enjoy the rest of camp.”

  “We will,” Esther says. “Even if I have to double my arthritis medication.”

  “Please don’t do that.”

  I exit the cabin and make a mental note to keep Olivia away from any amigurumi sessions. I can just picture the back-to-school essay highlighting what she did over the summer break.

  After posting the revised schedule in the discord group as well as a physical copy on my office door, I head to the cafeteria for breakfast. Bernie is setting out a bowl of bananas as I arrive.

  “Everything going okay?” I ask.

  “The strawberries are turning already, so I’ll have to buy more for this week unless you want me to skip them.”

  There’s no question that I have to skip them. The budget is too tight this year. “How are the blueberries?”

  “Ripe and ready.”

  “Okay. We’ll stick with what we have for this week. Thanks.”

  I take a banana and a small yogurt container and join a group in progress, where I’m greeted with a chorus of ‘good morning.’ I notice Charlie sandwiched between Angela and Stefan.

  “How does this compare to your usual five-star accommodations, counselor?”

  “I miss my morning cappuccino, but otherwise not too bad. It isn’t every day I wake up to the sound of … nothing.”

  “That’s my favorite part,” Adam says. His mask is off as he nibbles on a banana.

  I rip off the lid of my yogurt, triggering Chewy’s senses. The Yorkie’s head pops up and he scents the air.

  “Do you mind?” Adam asks.

  He knows I don’t. We’ve been doing this for years. He dips his spoon into my yogurt and offers it to Chewy. The dog’s little tongue makes short work of the yogurt.

  “The rest is mine,” I tell Chewy. The dog settles back down on his companion’s lap.

  “Well, I woke up to the sound of Hunter singing in the shower,” Angela says. “His cabin must be next to mine.”

  Charlie’s brow creases. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who sings at all, let alone in the shower.”

  “Everybody sings in the shower here. It’s basically a competition to see who sounds the best,” Angela says with a wink at me.