The footsteps lurched. They staggered on metal, on ground again. Then: splashing water, the sound of knees meeting pebbles. Cassie met Lark’s eyes, wide and silver in the dark. What was he doing?

  Lark glanced at one of the windows that faced out toward the lake. She didn’t move right away, charting the steps between her and the glass. It was across what remained of a couch, the seats grayed, speckled with droppings, and gaping open, but soft. She checked Cassie’s face again. Then, so quietly, breath held, Lark crept over to peer out, feet silenced on the cushions. Her hand clenched the magnifier around her neck.

  Cassie followed on her hands and knees, using Lark as her lighthouse, careful not to kick the beer bottles and spray paint cans. Cassie pulled herself up to crouch beside Lark, her grip too tight on the edge of the window. Together, they looked.

  Jeff Daley was prostrate in the brown shallows of the lake, half-submerged, his golf shoes ruined, and slacks soaked through in the slime that built up on the water in these stagnant corners. Beside Cassie, Lark’s throat worked silently. Daley dipped his head below the surface, remained there for long seconds, and then lifted enough to breathe. Again. Again. His face was rapturous and slack. He gathered another mouthful of the lake and swallowed it, his eyelids fluttering.

  Lark raised her hand, the jeweler’s loupe still clasped in it. With a meaningful look at Cassie, she raised the magnifier to her eye and focused on Daley again. For a moment, she was still, as airless as this boat’s rib cage where they hid. Then she shifted her view a millimeter and started, throwing a hand over her mouth to silence the gasp.

  Daley was unchanged, his communion with the water timeless. His chase was apparently forgotten. Wordless, Lark gestured to Cassie and held out the loupe to her. Cassie took it, confused, because this was meant for delicate, close work. But she lifted the curved lens to her eye and looked through the glass.

  All the breath left her body.

  Through the lens, the world was bent on the edges, and Daley was bent too in his rapture, his legs and hips swept up and out of the frame in a strange optical illusion, like he was being eaten feetfirst by a python. But Cassie only cared about one thing, and it wasn’t Jeff Daley. It was past him, it was in the water, it was out there.

  She was there. Maybe twenty feet away, she stood in the waist-deep shallows lit by a broken knife of moonlight. She wore a clean summer dress that floated and billowed, ballooned around her middle. Wet hair fell across her forehead in loose curls, and even without light, Cassie would have known her, because only she could rip her breath away like that. Only she could make Cassie want to turn and see Mom standing on the porch behind her, hands on her hips, ready to face the world with her curlers in.

  She was exactly the same as she had been when Cassie was five, except Cassie had never seen her so removed, so full of rage that it radiated off her. But it was her—Cassie’s heart knew it, torn between wanting to call to her and wanting to shut her eyes and never open them again. It was her. There was the tiny dimple on her cheek, the shoulders that had seemed strong enough to carry the world. There, the face, the hair, the hands, the frame Cassie had seen thrash facedown under the dock as she drowned.

  Watching with baleful eyes as Daley gulped lake water was Catfish.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The fear had Lark by the throat. She couldn’t get enough air. Her heart, the rush of blood in her veins, was too loud. Her hands were miles away, but somehow, he was right here. She could almost taste the silt of the lake water on her own tongue. And that woman—or girl, really, just on the threshold of adulthood—who stood in the magnified swirl of the jeweler’s loupe. Even after Lark lowered the loupe and it fell cold and heavy against her sternum, she felt her there. The girl, so full of quiet wrath, her grim, devouring disappointment leaking out over this entire lake.

  They huddled there, bodies cramping.

  Eventually, Daley pulled himself up and sniffed the air, head nodding this way and that. Lark clamped a hand over her own mouth, glancing at Cassie’s frozen face. A muscle in her thigh seized. If he found them now, the girl in the loupe would watch him smother them in the shallow algae. But Daley did no more than nod, nod, nod. Then he was turning, stumbling a step or two on the shore. Without another word or a single glance, he shambled away. The footprints he left behind swelled across the pavement until they were as wide as craters.

  Cassie was taut as if she’d never move or speak again. The smell of death was heavier than ever, and now it was too dark to find its source.

  Finally, when the pain from crouching was too intense to endure a second longer, they crept off the boat. Lark’s legs wobbled as she stepped back onto land. Her adrenaline had leaked away, and now she felt emptied, too exhausted for tears. It took everything in her to open her mouth and force a few words out. They didn’t sound right—tilting, hoarse. “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know. Not the shop. Not home. I don’t know where he could have gone.” Cassie stood facing the water, hands clasped on her elbows. Then—“Mitch,” Cassie said in a broken tone.

  “Right.” It took Lark a long time to find her phone. Her fingers shook so badly, it was hard to find his number. It rang a few times, Lark urging him silently to answer.

  “Hey, Cuz,” Mitch said. She heard the boisterous sounds of a packed Grand Destiny through the speaker. “Busy night over here. What’s up?”

  “Can you come get Cassie and I?” she managed, her voice still odd in her own ears. “We’re—at the houseboat graveyard.”

  “What?” His anxiety couldn’t touch her through the blanket of shock. “What happened?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here,” she said. Cassie nodded. “Hurry up. It has been a really fucked-up night.”

  The sounds of jubilant early Fourth of July celebrations were already gone, which meant Mitch was rushing out to his truck. “I’m coming. Just stay put, okay?”

  “See you soon.” Lark felt cold all over. More than anything, she wanted to get away from the overpowering aroma of death. They walked to the edge of the clearing to wait.

  “You saw her. Didn’t you?” Cassie asked after a few minutes. There were a few scratches on her arms from branches. “You saw her.”

  Lark nodded, swallowing. When she saw Cassie’s expression, she nodded more forcefully. “Cassie, who—”

  But the headlights of Mitch’s truck whipped around the last bend in the road and roared to a stop in front of them. He jumped out of the driver’s side and hurried over. “What are you doing out here? Are you okay?” Though he addressed Lark, his eyes kept fixing on Cassie, examining her for any sign of damage, and she tore her eyes off the water to turn into his space.

  Lark just headed for the truck. “We have to call the sheriff.”

  The next few hours were a miserable blur. Cyril, the sheriff’s deputy, came to the Grand Destiny to do the interview, while Lark and Cassie sipped too-hot coffee and Aunt Valerie buzzed like an entire wasp’s nest around them, running between the late-dinner guests and where they sat on the slouchy couches in the lobby. Valerie scolded Cyril when he didn’t seem to grasp what they were saying.

  Mitch had spent an hour or two calling every neighbor he could think of, but the few who were answering their phones hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Jeff Daley. “I’ll put the notice out and try to get a few more guys down here tonight,” Cyril said at last, tugging his belt higher on his belly. There was a strange almost reluctance in his manner, in the slow notes he took as they spoke. “You ladies just stay in, all right?”

  “They’ll stay here tonight,” Aunt Valerie clipped out.

  Tucked up in one of the Grand Destiny’s double beds, the scratchy comforter under her chin, Lark clutched her phone against her chest, finger hovering over her contacts. More than anything, she wanted to call June. She wanted June here. But this wasn’t the place nor the time. She was overloaded. Sighing, she laid the phone on the nightstand and turned to watch Cassie settling into the other bed. She’d looked for her brother, Bolt, but he wasn’t in his room. So now here they were, just the two of them again, the horrible huge experiences of the night hovering somewhere near the ceiling.

  “Who was that?” Lark murmured at last. “I don’t mean Daley. His boat’s right down from ours. The—the one in the water.”

  Cassie was swallowed in a shirt that wasn’t hers, with the University of Central Arkansas seal emblazoned on it, sitting on the bedspread and picking at a loose string. “Catfish.” She had let her hair down into absentminded muddy waves. “I was always told she was my imaginary friend. But you saw her.”

  Lark nodded against the pillow. “It was the loupe. The spyglasses…let me see what’s just under the surface of this place.” She laughed brokenly. “I didn’t believe it at first, but they reveal real things. The truth.” She paused a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Do you know why Catfish was there?”

  “I never know.” Cassie closed her eyes, bracing her forehead on one pale hand. “But I don’t want it. I spent so long trying to tell people, and no one believed me. I didn’t want to wonder why anymore. But she’s been here all my life. Probably longer. Even if I haven’t been looking, she’s still been there.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lark said gently. “Who is she?”

  “She helped teach me to swim,” Cassie replied. “But when I was young, I realized there was something very wrong. I haven’t wanted to admit it, but I’ve known she’s dead for a long time. Still here, but dead.”

  Lark wasn’t sure what to say to that. She thought of Daddy again, of how far he’d been willing to go to see the very wrong things here.

  “Why me?” Cassie’s gaze strayed to the window, even if the lake beyond was hidden behind curtains. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it.” In one sharp movement, she slipped off the bed and crossed to the window before snatching the curtain—but she couldn’t seem to pull it back. Her fingers twitched and that was all. “No. Tonight has been more than enough.” She let go, smoothing the fabric against the sill and sides until not even moonlight could creep through.

  * * *

  The night before the Fourth of July, June dreamed of her garden, of the one-winged lion raising his head and blinking up at the sunlight, a crown of larkspur growing between his ears. It followed her into the morning, the soft, oily scent of pollen and summertime. When she woke, the first thing she saw was crimson blooming in her hair, and on instinct, she dug for the scissors in her bedside drawer.

  But she felt a strange frustrated resistance to cutting them out. She wanted to touch them or take them somewhere safe, where she could replant them in a dirt bed. Poppies would be lovely in the garden.

  No. She was being silly. June cut them and swept them under her pillow.

  Aunt Eliza was waiting for her downstairs, lemon poppyseed muffins cooling on the counter. The Fourth of July, it turned out, meant loading into her Accord for a trip into Charlene. Charlene was a charmer, perfect for magazine covers of quaint Americana. Healthy old trees lined the streets, where the peaceful similitude of single-family homes with blue doors and flags on the porches was occasionally broken with big historical houses, the kind with wraparound balconies and gingerbread trimming.

  The town was also full of people, residents and weekenders there for Ranalli’s famous linguine, and they were lucky to find a spot in the square when an SUV pulled out in front of Kimmy’s Kornbread Sandwiches. Eliza whipped into the free space.

  At the apex of the square stood a big wedding-cake church. GOD BLESS AMERICA! read the marquee. The church’s high steeple and stained glass in every window made Eliza’s chapel seem small and a little country in comparison.

  “They have a cute church,” June said, unbuckling her seat belt. “Ever wish you were there instead?”

  “This isn’t where our roots are,” Aunt Eliza replied. “Whole different ball game on this side of the lake. Now come on.”

  They dropped by the famous general store (since 1921!), which sold Arkansas quartz, jujube divinity candy, and five-cent drip coffee. In honor of the Fourth, there was a special America-themed section where they picked up glow sticks and tiny American flags by the counter.

  June squeezed past a couple of women in matching stars-and-stripes visors who were leaning on the counter to talk to the man counting change at the register.

  “Heard about poor Jeff Daley?” one asked.

  “Yes. Damn shame. The sheriff was calling around about him,” the store manager replied.

  “I hope Jeff keeps his head down until it all blows over,” the other replied. “So sad; the whole fireworks show was his idea. My Stan says—”

  June grabbed two huge Uncle Sam top hats—and a bright red feather boa with sparkles woven into the feathers—and wriggled back through the crowd. She found Aunt Eliza again, greeting her by plopping one on her head.

  Eliza turned to give her an amused arched eyebrow.

  “Hey,” June asked, draping the boa around her neck. “I heard some people talking about Jeff Daley. He’s that rich guy, the marina guy. Right?”

  “He is. I got a call about that this morning.” Tension infected Eliza’s easy demeanor. “Asked me to check the church for him. Didn’t sound good at all.”

  “Is he in trouble? Or is he the trouble?” June had seen him around a little, and it was difficult to imagine a man with such a huge boat and manicured life hiding in the pews of Eliza’s church. “Probably both.”

  Eliza nodded. “Listen, I don’t want you running off and ending up in the woods late at night again. All right? There are strange people around. That firecracker man, now Jeff Daley. Real strange people.”

  Maybe because she knew him now—or maybe because June couldn’t count the times when she’d been the “strange” one—but irritation flared. What did Eliza know? But June let it go. Eliza wasn’t her mother.

  They picked up three flavors of frozen custard in big gallon containers and drove home at breakneck speeds to get them into Aunt Eliza’s deep freeze.

  No matter what was going on with the marina owner, the fireworks show was all paid for and would still go off. As the sun set, Eliza and June drove the half mile down to the shoreline nearest to the dam, a little camping spot with a green stretch of land and a little dock. They lined up on the edge of the water for the big show.

  People were already milling along the bank. Families were having picnics at the tables dotting the lawn. A kid popped the bottom out of his miniature bag of potato chips, his brother giggling and swiping for the first chip. Speedboats idled in the shallows. In the distance, the skiers risked the wild churn of the late-afternoon water. Eliza waved to a parishioner bobbing nearby in a fat banana boat. Every so often, someone screamed with delight.

  Eliza cracked open a pair of Shiner Bock, and they lounged in their deck chairs, the last of the sun tingling on June’s bare legs. She pointed her toes at the lake, and the water glittered.

  “See if Lark wants to watch with us,” Eliza suggested, clinking their bottles. She’d been wanting June to bring Lark over for dinner ever since Eliza picked June up from Lark’s houseboat that night that felt so long ago now, the night they met. Eliza had brought a cooler of beer and several extra chairs in case company happened to appear.

  The Big Dipper wasn’t out with the other boats gliding on the water, blue canvases billowing. Lark never took it out of the dock; its engines might not even run. She was probably in its depths with only telescopes for companions. “Yeah,” June said, tipping her beer back. “She won’t want to.”

  “Honey.” Eliza huffed, and the mouth of her beer bottle hummed. “I don’t know where you got it in your head that you aren’t good for people.”

  “It’s more like what I’ve been told. Over. And over.” June shut her eyes, the sun leaving a burning imprint of the lake and sky on her eyelids. “We barely know each other.”

  Eliza didn’t push it—this was one of her gifts. Conversations with her could feel significant without turning tense. She knew when to engage and when to let the quiet speak. Endless commercials played on a nearby stereo. “Your mama called me the other day. I think she was checking on you, mainly.”

  June hadn’t spoken to her in all the time she’d been here, hadn’t wanted to bear the brunt of telling her, Hey, guess what, Mom? I screwed up again! “What did you tell her?”

  Eliza smiled. “I told her about all the work you’ve been doing for that old cemetery.” She crossed her ankles in the grass. “I invited her up for the day, but she had to work. I think she’d like to hear from you, though.”

  June hummed noncommittally. “I didn’t know you knew what I was doing in the cemetery.”

  “How could I miss that smell of wisteria sneaking in my room? All those flowers are keeping me up at night.” Eliza tipped her beer idly. “You have the greenest thumb I’ve ever—”

  “Hey, preach!” A man called from down the shore, a wide grin on his face. “Come see the baby.”

  “Y’all brought her down?” Eliza bounded up in spry delight, patting June on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  June stood and waded into the water with her beer. It chattered around her ankles, and a pair of Jet Skis whizzed through adjacent coves, leaving high watery tails in their wake. The water nearest to the dam was empty, except for one platform barge only tethered to land by a long portable aluminum walkway, the kind that could be easily folded and carried off. It was empty. Except for one solitary body.

  Jack stood on its back. Around him was a whole arsenal of rockets stocked on temporary shelves and piled around his ankles. Between his fingers was the stub of a cigarette, which glowed in a low, irregular breeze. He seemed to feel her gaze and turned his eyes on her, as neutral as a gravedigger. Then his lips quirked in recognition, and he waved her over.

  Curiosity prickling at her neck, June climbed onto the walkway and walked down, steps hollow, until she was far out over water and close to the dam. The sounds of all that summer fun felt deafening, an echo chamber of sound and fury. She paused at the edge of his barge, Eliza just out of sight. The fireworks collection was crouched on the barge and ready to leap. Sweat trickled down the back of June’s neck.