“Good night for fireworks,” she said. “Even if your benefactor is MIA.”

  Jack nodded, surveying her as he had the last drag of his cigarette. He flicked the butt into the water. “I came here before, did I tell you that? Tore the whole place to shreds last time. Seems like the aftershocks still get to people. It’s a little in everybody tonight.”

  June curled her toes against the edge of the dock. “When was that?”

  Jack laughed shortly. “Ages ago now.” He gestured to the tricks arrayed around him in the pocked old hull. “See anything you like?”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” June admitted. “But that red rocket is pretty cool.”

  He nodded approvingly. “I know a kindred spirit when I see one. That one’s a whole nest of snakes,” he said. “For the grand finale.” He stood aside, offering her a place beside him. “Help me with the show. I’ll show you what to do with that spark in you.”

  She never could resist an opportunity so strange and once in a lifetime. She stepped forward.

  Jack smiled. He unhooked them from the dock, and they began their long cruise into the open water.

  * * *

  “Not long now,” Valerie called from the back of the rusty old party barge, adjusting her visor over her eyes to combat the fierce sunset over the dam. Diego sat close beside her. She rummaged in their cooler. They’d expected to have Mitch and Valerie’s niece Lark along as well, but with everything that had happened—just the thought of it, stories about Mr. Daley that turned Bolt’s stomach, too awful to be true and too bizarre to be lies—it had ended up being a much smaller crowd. Cassie hadn’t come, of course. It was only the memory of her expression after last night that convinced Bolt Mr. Daley had done what they said he had.

  “Y’all want a Coke?” Valerie called.

  “Yes, please,” Sammy called back from where she perched beside Bolt on the front cushions, opening her hands for the catch.

  Bolt took a deep breath. Out there, no one seemed to notice the founder of the feast was at large somewhere, whereabouts unknown. Jeff Daley was missing, but the air smelled like patriotism: some combination of sweat, sunscreen, and the meat that sizzled on a hundred charcoal grills. It was dusky, and the lake was all chop as countless boats laced over one another’s wakes, idling into position for the big display. Valerie and Diego’s swan paddleboats were all under sail with guests, gliding through the Grand Destiny’s little harbor to face the marina. Fishing boats—mostly the rented ones, out on the water for a day only—had already returned from the shallow coves with their catches. They anchored down together, so little space between them that they brushed sides. After the rented boats and cigarette boats came the weekenders, true cruisers, and speedboats polished to a shine. The men who had driven them propped hairy feet on their steering wheels and toasted their Coronas against the setting sun. Prosper was a cacophony of competing radios, iPhones plugged into speaker systems, children shouting. Sparkles erupted at random across the city of vessels, giving the breeze a tang like gunpowder. Some competing fireworks displays were already crackling away beyond Prosper’s borders.

  Anchors drifted into the depths. Party barges, Jet Skis, and speedboats were rafted together into floating potlucks. Some had come in their houseboats, sharing deviled eggs on their upper decks. People dove in or floated in big fancy inflatables. A girl astride a unicorn. Two kids astride an oversize watermelon slice. People hollered for sunscreen, tossing it from boat to boat. Friends visiting other boats swam between them and in the watery canals that formed naturally between prows; others simply clasped their Tupperware of sandwiches tight and leaped short distances from deck to deck.

  Even in the years of Charlene fireworks shows, Bolt had never seen anything like the congregation of boats and people in front of the Great Damnation, this impromptu floating city—Venice built in a day. In the distance, banked against the marina itself, was the platform barge. Valerie and Diego had pulled out their ancient pontoon boat, loaded it with snacks, and chugged out to the chaos themselves, joining the crowd of people waiting eagerly to see the fireworks Jeff Daley had paid for but would not see. Soon boats had tied up on either side, so the party barge was wedged into a long row, just one tile in an eclectic mosaic.

  Sammy cracked her Coke and took a drink. They’d been passing a flask, and some of its contents joined the soft drink in the can.

  “I don’t want to stay here,” Bolt said to her, and she nodded shortly. She probably still pictured the horror of the corpse, blown to unrecognizable bits in the shallows. Bolt certainly did.

  “Let’s hook our nose up to your back,” Patty, a Grand Destiny neighbor and owner of a tiny fishing boat, suggested to Valerie as she offered her a piece of lemon meringue pie over the side. “We’ve got a nearly unbroken connection between banks!” Insanity. That was the entire width of this finger of the lake. Bolt gazed down the thread of connected prows but couldn’t discern the end in the deepening evening.

  “Don’t tell all those folks about this pie, Pat,” Valerie warned, producing a plastic fork from somewhere. “I didn’t bring enough for five hundred.”

  “Seems like everybody’s been sharing something around,” Patty said around a lemony bite. “Folks are acting a little funny. And not like ha-ha funny, either.”

  “We’re going to see how far this thing runs,” Bolt told her.

  “Okay, but be polite and say hello to people whose boats you’re walking all over,” Valerie bossed. They’d know just about everyone they encountered anyway. “Ask permission. And don’t fall in. And be back before we head in, or I’ll worry.”

  Bolt took off, and though he pushed Jeff Daley, pushed the body, pushed Rig, into deep pockets in his mind, some part of him already worried.

  * * *

  Lark sat on one of the Grand Destiny’s benches, knees pulled up to her chest. She’d told Aunt Valerie she wasn’t up to the celebration, not after what had happened. Every so often she saw Daley again in her mind, his crooked footsteps and bloodshot eyes; she could still hear the howl through the trees as he’d chased them. But now the quiet of this place pressed in on every side. Cassie and Mitch had gone back up to her property earlier in the day. Lark felt the excitement of the holiday flowing away from her as everyone else departed for the marina. She could almost see it: webs of lightness that tangled around the happy huddles of revelers, processing out to the show in boats of every size. The air hummed with engines.

  Other years, Lark’s family would’ve packed Skip-Bo cards, cheese, crackers, and crispy pecan cookies. She would have worn bangles jingling with stars and stripes and painted her toenails. Doris Ann would sit at the front of the speedboat, ears blowing back in the breeze off the lake. That was her spot. Lark’s spot was right in front of the driver, so she could grin back at him, squeeze her eyes shut in the spray off the lake. As the boat sped up, its nose rose high enough that Daddy would have to stand from the driver’s seat to see where they were going while they cruised across the lake toward the Charlene side, where the fireworks were usually set off.

  Once they were close, they couldn’t go very fast, not with the water so crowded. Still, the chop would make them hop like bullfrogs out into the fray, hard landings rattling Lark’s teeth as she flipped through their CDs for an alternative fireworks soundtrack to the patriotism blaring over the radio channel. Maybe she’d choose ELO or they’d have an ABBA Fourth of July. Beach Boys?

  Tipsy E Dockers would wave to them, and they’d keep their eyes peeled for Aunt Valerie and Diego, maybe hook up with them or a few neighbors if they got there early enough. Dad always brought extra telescopes, extra binoculars to pass around between boats. They’d take a preshow dip, floating with drinks in cozies, waiting for night to fall. It was the only time of year when Lake Prosper had anything in common with New York City. Laughing, catching sight of Daddy’s face lit up like Times Square, huge coronas of fire reflected in the pools of his glasses, then fading, sparks doused in water…

  Down on the Grand Destiny’s dock, Mitch’s fishing boat bobbed, almost expectant. Its prow slapped the surface of the lake. C’mon! It urged. You’ll miss it! It’s never been so close before!

  It was hard to imagine feeling any lonelier than she did right there, sitting with her forehead pressed into her kneecaps, outside a dark motel room, facing the wrong way. Here, Jeff Daley could be roving around just beyond her view, out there in the woods. She was on her own. She should have gone with her family just to avoid this solitude. Anxiety crawled up her arms and legs, and she rubbed at them frenetically.

  The Destiny had plenty of boats Diego rented out for little pleasure cruises. They were small but far nicer than her little dinghy, with a real motor and cushioned seats. She wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. No one would see her there. And most of all, no one could touch her out on the water. No one could get at her out in the boat. She needed that breeze. She needed to move.

  Sighing, feeling the full force of the Earth’s gravity, Lark walked down to the dock.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tossing the flask back and forth, Bolt and Sammy wandered their way along another boat and another, where some adults that Sammy vaguely knew were giving out glow sticks.

  “You’re getting so big!” one of them exclaimed about Bolt. “Isn’t he getting so big?” Once they paid the toll of polite conversation, they hopped along to the next boat over. Now they found themselves amid the marina kids. The adults were inside a fancy glassed living room, sipping a greenish wine, but the deck they had stumbled upon was laden with teenager smell and sound. There was a waterslide off the back, and two girls sat halfway down, complaining at one of the boys who had barricaded the way with his body; there was a discrete cooler of beers on the boat’s tail, and their coworkers were making clean work of it. The girls managed to dislodge the slide blocker, and he backflipped into the lake.

  “Hey,” Bolt said. “Isn’t this the boat where those twins from E Dock live?”

  “Yeah, it’s usually parked three slips down from Nonnie.” Sammy scratched her nose, giving the deck a bored appraisal before searching through the darkness for the fireworks barge. “It’s probably about to start. Looks like somebody’s helping him.” Sure enough, even from way out here, Bolt could see two shadows standing together under the work lamp.

  Before they could investigate it further, Jamie from the marina found them, excitedly towing them to the beer cooler.

  “Dude, we’re putting bets on what Daley did to get the sheriff after him,” Jamie said. “Want to put five dollars on skinny-dipping outside Lou’s slip?”

  What would they bet on if they knew the truth? For a vicious moment, Bolt wanted to throw down what he knew and spoil the game.

  “No.” Bolt grabbed a beer and shoved his way back out of the circle. By the time he was a beer and a couple of shots down, he’d forgotten the way back across all the boats, and Sammy’s laughter was high and off-key.

  It was truly dark now, sparklers blazing all through the rows of boats in front of the dam. Several fire boats, their huge hoses at the ready, puttered slowly through the crowds, vigilant for hazards. It was by far the most dangerous night of the year. They’d hand out tickets for boats without their lights on, without enough life jackets for every person present, with parties too wild for safe sailing. At least they’d do their best. It was mostly anarchy out on the black water. This floating city, a little civilization that rose and fell in a few hours’ time, could only really exist here, now, under a sky of red stars.

  Bolt felt cold, suddenly, exposed to the air—and something else. The weight of someone’s eyes, of intention, settled like a hand on his throat. He looked away from the sky to scan the deck.

  Across the boat, Rig was watching them. Beside him, Woody picked at the label of a beer bottle. Rig looked unsurprised to be caught staring, as if it were all prearranged. Bolt raised an eyebrow at him, and almost dutifully, Rig and Woody shuffled through the crowd to them.

  “Any news about your dad?” Sammy asked, her voice hoarse and cautious. The threat was still very much in the air between them.

  “No sign of him.” Rig snorted, glancing at her and away, as if she were merely beneath his notice again. “He’s been a real freak lately. Just stares at the lake all day and talks to himself. Seems like he’s gotten into some psychedelic mushrooms or some shit.” He glanced at Bolt. “But I tried to tell you that.”

  “Don’t blame this on me,” Bolt replied. “He’s the one who attacked Cassie.”

  “Your sister—first she just sits on that land and refuses to hear him out,” Rig huffed out. “Now she’s spreading lies about him. And you just let her, like my dad hasn’t been a goddamn father to you and helped you so damn much. It’s honestly pretty fucking unbelievable.” Rig was drunk, though it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who didn’t know him. It wasn’t much more than a tiny flush in his cheeks and slight brightening in his eyes. He had a hand shoved almost awkwardly into his pocket.

  “You think I wanted this to happen?” Bolt snapped. “He attacked her. Not the other way around.”

  “That makes no sense,” Rig spat. “She’s making it up. God. I should’ve known you’d take her side.”

  “Cassie doesn’t lie.” Bolt felt Sammy’s hand slip into his and squeeze. This whole conversation felt useless. “I think Valerie wanted us back before the…”

  “Oh no,” Rig said, eyes sharp as a cat’s. Rage boiled off his skin. “You’d be missing out.”

  “Shut up, shut up. Y’all.” One of the twins frantically tuned the boat radio. “It’s starting.” He got it to the shared channel, and the national anthem blared through a thousand boat speakers around them. Older folks had their hands over their hearts. Lights switched off on every side, the night growing increasingly profound.

  And the ramparts we watched were so gallantly…

  “You’d be missing out.” Rig was not one to be deterred. Woody, usually sickly, practically glowed. He rubbed his hands together with a sort of grim resolve.

  And the rockets’ red glare…

  Sammy was speaking. Still. Barely audible under the tinny sound of airwaves. “What are you talking about?”

  …Bombs bursting in air…

  Rig drew his hand out of his pocket, and Sammy’s nails cut hard into Bolt’s skin. Her face was illuminated a ghastly green in the light of the first firework, which had just erupted in the air above the dam, hovering over it. It flared ten times bigger than the sun and just as bright. Horrible radiance pooled in an emerald glow on the knife in Rig’s hand.

  * * *

  Standing on the barge with the fireworks man, June had never burned so brightly. She was right under the fireworks, safety abandoned for exhilaration, only she didn’t feel the danger. Not when she was a part of it.

  “Celestial bodies.” Jack laughed, fixing the second firework into one of his launch cannons. The air was thick and stinging after only one shot. The anthem boomed around them. “Astronomers watch the constellations. We make them.” The fireworks lit up gold on his skin.

  What did people once call him? For a moment, June didn’t remember, but it came back to her. Yellow Jack. His face was very wry, eyes like two little coffee beans in a weathered ageless face. Almost like the fishermen she’d met on the docks. Were they out here tonight somewhere? The thought would have sobered her if she hadn’t discovered that smoke gave more life than oxygen and fire filled her better than water could.

  The air was so hot, it was hard to even consider flicking the lighter on. June had sweat running between her shoulder blades. Sparks fell close; one left a dark singe on her shorts. The flashes were so bright, she couldn’t see the boats or the shore anymore. But they didn’t look like fireworks, in their concentric circles and sparkles. Instead, they screamed like voices and flew on lightning wings, and sometimes, in the flash, she saw things like mouths grinning, faces in screaming rictus. Instinct should have urged her to duck, but they couldn’t touch her. “They look—” Everything tasted like smoke. “Why do they look like that? What are these?”

  “Lost souls?” His eyes were smoldering cinders, all the light from the spent fireworks catching in them. “Burnt offerings?” He touched the next fuse, catching it between thumb and finger, and snapped once, sharply. A flash—when he withdrew, flame was crawling quickly up the fuse to the gunpowder. June was too shocked to look away as it rocketed into the sky.

  All her life, she thought she’d known chaos, thought she’d felt it. But it had been woodsmoke, and this was the bonfire, flavored with kerosine.

  “Look at them. Bright enough to illuminate every dark corner. Wake the dead.” The fireworks man just winked at her, and with nothing but the tips of his fingers, he lit another. “The fire pulls back the curtain. The world is full of things most people never see.”

  Fireworks shouldn’t move like that, in all directions, swooping down toward the boats and up into the sky, snapping at the people below. But each lighting lit something in her as well.

  The fireworks man lit another fuse by licking the end; his skull glowed under his skin. He turned to June, offering a challenge. How hungry she was for a challenge.

  June inched closer and then fell to her knees beside the fuse of the next firework, a bright red rocket with a Tasmanian devil grinning at her on the side.

  “Go on. You can do it,” Jack said.

  So, matches abandoned, June touched the end of the fuse herself, taking dry twine between her thumb and finger. With nothing more than a twist of her fingers, it sparked, a hot flash, and she yanked back with ash left behind on her nails. Flame, born of her own hand, greedily devoured the fuse, and the rocket blasted into the sky, then burst overhead.