“What kind of opportunities?” she asked, and now she ached to take the honey back. Perhaps it was simply good business to do his research, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been spied upon.

  “Oh, there’s amazing potential for development in your land,” Daley told her, face full of boyish eagerness. “I’m sure you know. Condos, new docks, commercial space. With your land and my experience, a whole new town could rise from the ashes.” He glanced quickly at the surrounding tables. “I’d be delighted to be a partner with you—an investor—for that kind of economic progress.”

  One of Valerie’s summer hires brought their salads over, which gave Cassie an excuse to duck her head to drip dressing onto it.

  Daley, spearing lettuce onto his fork, was caught in his own pitch. “There’s interesting history on this side of the lake, you know that? The president himself came to see construction at the dam site a few months before it was completed. Not to mention that pearl rush—you ever hear about that?”

  Prosper’s rumored gold mine. Of course she knew. Anyone from Prosper, really from Prosper, with roots that went deep underwater to the flooded town beneath, knew about the pearl rush of 1936.

  Grandad used to keep a piece of weathered cotton-soft newsprint in a frame on his bookshelf, and Cassie had gazed at it many times, fascinated by the all-caps headline: PEARLS! PEARLS! PEARLS! She especially remembered the tiny photo of a man, beaming and crouched over two full pails of mussels, holding what appeared to be a ball of light in his palm. She’d read the first sentence to herself before, whispering it like a magic spell, because it had seemed so wonderful, and she had wanted so much for it to be part of her life. “The pearl rush of 1936 began when Italian sharecropper Benigno Fischer (pictured) says his daughter discovered a faintly pink pearl the size of a grape inside of a freshwater mussel she dug out of the shallow north end of Lake Prosper.” A pearl the size of a grape.

  “Magic pre-Damnation days,” Grandad had said when he first showed it to her. “Those were magic days. Some will tell you it’s not real, but it was. I saw them with my own eyes. The Fischers found so many, you wouldn’t believe it if you didn’t see it. They filled their entire house, until pearls were spilling out of cabinets and poking like pebbles in the bottoms of all their shoes.”

  “I know the pearl rush,” Cassie said to Daley. “It was before the Damnat—before the dam.”

  “Exactly.” He took this as positive encouragement and went on. “I think any kind of expansion around the lake should highlight the fascinating local history. Don’t you?”

  “How?” Cassie asked, poking her salad around her plate. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The sky’s the limit. Actually, do you know what happened to any of those pearls?” His eyes were bright. “Any ever turn up in the shop?”

  The muddy piggy bank and the fake pearl she’d found inside flashed through her mind.

  “No, other than the odd string. Nothing definitive,” she replied. “We don’t often get pearls. They’re heirlooms the family usually wants to keep.”

  Cassie had long ago realized the pearls were gone. Pearls, out in the world, became anonymous and didn’t need to be tracked like diamonds and other jewels. Pearls joined a string, became parts of another whole, and there was no telling where they were now.

  Still, the idea of the pearls was their Sam Bass treasure, their private El Dorado that could be strung into a hundred necklaces. Some people lived in hope. Hope, Grandad had said, never hurt. Every time something locked came through the shop—music box, jewelry box, hatbox, cigar box, lunch box, shoebox, steamer trunk, safe—Grandad used to save it and wait for Cassie to join him so they could investigate it together. You never know what’ll come through this place, he’d say in his sandpaper voice, propping her on his knee so they could lift each lid together. Maybe it’ll be diamonds. Pirate treasure. How would you like a box brimming with chocolate?

  Jeff Daley’s gaze was filled with the same treasure-seeking zeal. “It’s such a good story, though, isn’t it?”

  A shadow fell on him, and he looked up. Mitch was standing behind Cassie with their dinners on a tray. He almost never worked in the restaurant these days, but he was now, arching an eyebrow over Daley’s hostage chicken-fried steak. “Jeff,” he growled, in the polite, irritated voice he used when he had to answer the phone. “Thought I’d come over and say hello.”

  “Mitch. Great to see you.” There was some tension behind Daley’s jovial smile now. It made sense that Jeff Daley wouldn’t go to Valerie and Mitch with this scheme. For one thing, it had only been a few years since Diego came on as a full partner in the Grand Destiny. They didn’t need him. For another, they didn’t have more land than the resort’s footprint. And there was no way Daley didn’t know how they felt about him throwing the marina shop into direct competition with Mitch’s market.

  Mitch settled a large hand on Cassie’s shoulder. It just caught the underside of her braid, and she nearly shivered. “You need anything, Cassie?”

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  “Okay. Well, I’m doing some fixes for Mom in the kitchen, so I’ll be around.” Mitch twitched his lip at Daley and set down her usual plate, two of Valerie’s buttermilk biscuits with cream cheese and a layer of whatever jam they had on hand. Fig jam. Apple butter. Today it looked like raspberry preserves.

  Once Mitch disappeared again—out of sight but still watchful, she knew—Daley sighed happily at his plate. “This is a special place, Cassie,” he said as he sawed into it. Aficionado of choice cuts of meat or not, he seemed delighted by this gravy-smothered, breaded sirloin. “Ever since I moved here, I can’t help but feel like the water is speaking to me. There’s more to this little patch than we can see now. I’m in a position to help realize that.”

  In her experience, following voices from the lake brought nothing but pain. But then, no one believed her when she said so. Perhaps it was different when you were Jeff Daley. Maybe his wealth afforded him immunity as well as status and credibility. Or perhaps a man like him, with a life made of achievement and old-fashioned American entrepreneurial spirit, couldn’t be lured. His mind was already occupied. A man like him wouldn’t find himself wandering into the water when the night was darkest.

  “I appreciate your offer,” Cassie said, folding her hands in her lap. “But I’m not interested.”

  “You know it’s funny, but—” He stopped, a spoonful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  “I’m not interested. I can’t think of much that I would like less or that I would be less suited for,” Cassie said. Likely, Mom would have called this kind of statement “abrasive” and “overly blunt,” but surely a businessman would appreciate not having his time wasted. “I mean no disrespect, but my grandfather didn’t buy the land for condos, and I tend to trust his judgment.”

  Mr. Daley’s expression froze solid, the astonished smile turning as gray and blank as the lake in February. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said faintly. “I—Cassie, surely you want to sleep on this offer I’m making. It would help everyone who lives around here. It would only expand your grandfather’s legacy—”

  “He already has the legacy he wanted,” Cassie replied. “I’m sorry if that’s not what you were hoping for.”

  It was an uncomfortable moment. Daley gazed into the amber glow of the honey, tapping a finger on its top again. “I can understand it,” he said gently. “You enjoy the peace of your life. You don’t need much. But—at least consider selling me the land nearest the marina. Give me some growing space for my own business. And I’ll pay top dollar, of course. Get Bolt that Vandy money.” He sighed, digging for his wallet to pay. “Just think about it, huh? For the town.”

  Cassie wasn’t particularly hungry after all. Maybe Mitch would find her a to-go box. “I’ll think about it.” She wouldn’t, but it was a kinder note to end on. Besides, the only town she knew was already underwater.

  * * *

  It was late when Bolt, Rig, Sammy, and Woody passed the NO TRESPASSING signs meant to block off the houseboat graveyard. Bolt was in the lead because he knew the way best. They’d spent the day absorbing sun, filling gas tanks, and buffing prows, but it was a different world under the rising moon, the air heavy with the green scent of dampness.

  When Bolt had come back to town, venturing down to the marina, Rig had been the one waiting for him. The Daleys used to have a speedboat in a Charlene dock slip, but now they could lounge on the back of their truly spectacular whale of a houseboat, just a short walk from the Grand Destiny—on Bolt’s side of town for once.

  He found Rig sitting behind the marina counter, reading a worn-out old paperback with the cover folded over, listening to music that wasn’t on the radio, and only kind of paying attention to the goings-on he was likely meant to be overseeing.

  “You look like you need a smoke,” Rig said, as if it hadn’t been a couple of years and was in fact only yesterday that they had last seen each other. He’d grabbed a couple of small bills from the register and waved Bolt outside with an idle gesture. It hadn’t taken Rig long to get the measure of their side of the lake. In the time since his dad had bought them a marina, Rig had proclaimed himself king and chosen his small circle of court jesters carefully. He only did the work he wanted and delegated the rest, usually the cleaning, to lesser employees.

  But he would never know it the way Bolt did, which meant there were some places only Bolt could introduce them to. One of them, Rig’s favorite, was the houseboat graveyard. He visited often on his own now.

  It was a little over a mile down from the marina, past Cassie’s RV, over bad roads and through backwoods, brush, and mud as thick as a blanket. It was the place broken or abandoned boats went to waste, a junk heap and scavenger’s paradise. When boat ownership became too expensive or someone’s beloved vessel broke beyond repair, they paid to have it hauled here, turned their back, and tried to forget.

  The houseboat graveyard was a vast ancient lot banking the lake, grass shooting up through the craters in the old paving. Boats that could no longer float, were no longer useful, or weren’t wanted, sat out there like dry bones, well-picked by buzzards. These were mummified husks at various stages of decay. The smell of mildew hung across the entire graveyard, and everywhere, there were wriggles of fraying moldy rope, broken glass, gasoline cans, and fishing line.

  Occasionally a new geriatric reject would appear in one corner or another, ready to be explored. A cruiser with a small cabin haunted the southern edge, its portholes totally obscured by caked-on, long-dry sludge. One speedboat nearby was overturned like a bath toy; it was easy to crawl under it, into the close, hot space within.

  At the far edge, where the cement disappeared into the water, lay an old dock, and the grounded boats were stuck carelessly beneath its rusted-out tin roof. Someone had laid out a big sheet of metal across the mud there, once the hood of a car, to bridge the small gap to the remains of the dock. It bowed when they stepped across. When Bolt was two beers in, it felt as if at any moment the planks might crumble underneath him.

  The land here was marshy. In the moonlight, water puddled under the dock, gleaming in the yawning gaps where the wood had moldered. The first boat crushed up into the wood supports was an ancient tugboat, its name long since bitten away by rust. It had been red once. The lake seemed to draw closer with every visit, testing the dock’s old foam supports, ready to sweep it out on a devouring current.

  Embalmed in the distant dock lights, the houseboats wedged in the beached structure and those bleaching in the lot, as many as twenty, watched with broken-window eyes. They dribbled decade-old oil and peeled paint. Forever landlocked now, they jumbled against each other like shopping carts abandoned in a grocery store parking lot. Anything soft—cushions, life jackets—had grown soggy and miserable, puffy with water, and then dried out, cracked, desiccated.

  Rig’s favorite boat was near the center of the wasted dock. It was the tallest, in part because it was propped nearly on top of another, tilted up at an angle. The door didn’t lock, and could be wriggled until it slid half-open, where it stuck. It was mostly dry there, and they’d taken it over, littering the corners with chip wrappers and discarded Ring Pops, broken bottles, pocketknives, empty wallets.

  Sammy had been humming the same snatch of a song for at least half an hour, even louder once she realized how much it irritated Rig.

  “Go to hell, Samantha,” he complained, even as he gave her a boost onto the dock.

  She hoisted herself up, jeering at him. “Make me, dickhead.”

  Bolt followed, leaping up on his own. Sammy had quickly charmed Bolt with her perfect memory for disturbing trivia. They’d tell each other the bad jokes printed on the rainbow Popsicle sticks and laugh.

  Rig touched one of the decomposing drainage pipes, and his hand came away orange with rust. He stuck it in Sammy’s face, and she snarled at him, catching his wrist in a steel grip.

  Woody clambered after them, caught sight of the fun, and—snickering—grabbed the same pipe and followed suit. He was Rig’s friend. Though he always wore faded clothes, he was another Charlene kid, and Bolt knew Woody’s parents had money. He had slightly pathological tendencies and an eternal case of mono, and whenever the mono was bad, he blew them off.

  Woody shoved his palm at Bolt, and Bolt stepped around him with a sharp elbow, dodging an old Shiner bottle. “You guys are gross.”

  An owl hooted forbiddingly from somewhere close as Sammy pressed her thumb into the rust and drew red strokes onto her cheeks. Rig tested a dangling flagpole by swinging on it. It snapped, and he just avoided twisting an ankle between rickety beams. Bolt laughed at him, loud and clear. Woody only laughed with Rig; even now, his eyes naturally darted themselves away.

  “So what’s on the agenda?” Bolt asked Rig, folding his chilled hands into his sleeves. Rig was moving with unusual purpose. Normally they just rolled joints and shot at cans with Woody’s old BB gun.

  “Funny you ask,” Rig said. “Catch.” He nearly smacked Bolt in the face with a can of spray paint resting beside the unhinged gate of one of the dinky mud-choked boats. “Art project.”

  Bolt shook the can experimentally and pushed a red line along the faint shadow of a windowpane on the opposite wall. It was hard to push, sticky and acrylic. “Glad to see you still like art.”

  Rig ignored him. He’d carried around a sketch pad in their middle school days, a more innocent time. He liked to doodle guitars and lightning bolts. Once he’d done a really good sketch of a lion. But that felt like a long time ago out here in the damp night.

  “Let me try,” Woody said, snatching for it.

  “Wait your turn, Woody Willy.” Bolt evaded, tossing it into his other hand. Woody’s shoulders tensed, and he swiped for it again, managing to snatch it this time and then spraying it close enough to Bolt’s face that his eyes watered.

  “Spray this up there. Everywhere.” Rig drew one of his ratty paperbacks from the inner pocket of his jacket and flipped to a folded page. “It’s the—” He paused, checking the caption. “The eye of the chaos bringer.” He flashed the graying page at them in the darkness.

  “Is that like a satanic thing?” Sammy squinted at it with interest through fading moonlight.

  Rig scoffed at her, pulling out more cans. “Satan is so nineties.”

  “Why can’t we just spray whatever we want?” Bolt asked, tracing the ink and paper stare. “I had my heart set on a unicorn.”

  Rig snorted, revving his black paint up. It rattled in his hand. “Because this is badass.” He checked the image again and then got to work on the side of the boat. “Maybe it’ll make something happen in this shit place.” Rig was always saying that kind of thing about Prosper; he missed his house in Charlene.

  Bolt grabbed a can of his own and pressed down. Fuzzy paint spattered on the starboard wall over the remains of a window seat. “Where’d you find that book?” Woody asked, rifling through Rig’s bag for lukewarm beer.

  “It was stuffed in one of the seat pockets on that ancient Stingray speedboat across the lot,” Rig said. “Never know what’ll turn up out here, man. Just have to keep your eyes open.” He flipped the cap of his flask off and took a swig. “Keep spraying.”

  Sammy had slipped off her sneakers and was clambering down the rails of the boat, lowering herself into the shallows. However much she dogged him, wheedled him, tripped along in his wake, she was impervious to Rig’s commands.

  After a few minutes, the hull of the boat was staring back at them, eyes pimpling every angle of scarred and rusting metal. The houseboats creaked on the occasional low wakes, still dying down from the day’s traffic. The four trespassers rode the gentle movement of the geriatric boats rubbing shoulders.

  Past the staring eyes, Bolt couldn’t make out the far furry line of the opposite tree-lined shore. Under the cold angular stare of the chaos bringer, he remembered the dream—formless moaning in his ear, the chill of the water in his shoes when he woke up wearing them in bed—and shivered. He hadn’t felt quite right on the water since that night, cold in a way he couldn’t shake, even in the summer heat. He needed to get a grip. The only person who felt that way about the lake was Cassie.

  “You know what?” Sammy poked her head up over the edge. There was a large irregular pebble in her palm. “This isn’t far from the mass graves.”

  “The what?” Rig scoffed at her, annoyed at this distraction from his vision.

  “From when Yellow Jack came to town.” She waggled her eyebrows. “That means yellow fever. They were in such a rush to get rid of the bodies that they just threw them in a big pit. But Nonnie told me it’s close to here. That’s why people avoid this place.”

  Rig was staring at her, open-mouthed. Then he remembered to be cool. He shook his head and went back to his work. “Bullshit.”

  “No, she’s right,” Bolt murmured. “It was bad. Really bad. A lot of people died, and so Prosper, back when it was a town, was basically decimated. I used to hate those stories.” They’d kept him up at night as a small child; he’d dream of jaundiced, rotting skin, of finding yellow sores and barnacles on his face. For a while, every cold, every fever was terrifying, and he’d washed his hands so often that Mom finally yelled at Grandad until he sat Bolt down again and explained it was unlikely he’d ever have to worry about contracting yellow fever—astronomical, even. Do you know that word, kiddo? Astronomical?