Page 108 of This is Why We Lied

He heard voices from the forest. Will stayed down behind the freezer. He was obscured by the slats on the side of the lean-to. Christopher and Chuck were on the lower part of the trail below the dining hall. They were carrying fishing poles and tackle boxes. Chuck had the same gallon water jug he’d sported at dinner last night. He drank so loudly from the clear, plastic container that Will could hear his gulps from twenty yards away.

“Crap,” Christopher said. “I forgot my stupid gaff.”

Chuck wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “You leaned it against the tree.”

“Crap.” Christopher looked at his watch. “We’re supposed to have a family meeting. Can you—”

“Family meeting about what?”

“Hell if I know. Probably the sale.”

“Do you think the investors are still interested?”

“Give me your stuff.” Christopher wrangled Chuck’s tackle box and pole alongside his own. “Even if they’re not interested, it’s over. I’m out of this business. I never wanted to do it in the first place. And without Mercy, it just won’t work. We needed her.”

“Fish, don’t talk like that. We can figure it out. We can’t give this up.” Chuck held out his arms to indicate their surroundings. “Come on, buddy. This is a good thing we’ve got going. A lot of people are depending on us.”

“They can depend on somebody else.” Christopher turned and headed back up the trail. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Fish!”

Will ducked down so that Christopher didn’t see him as he walked past.

“Fishtopher McAlpine. Come back here. You can’t bail on me.” Chuck was silent for way too long before he figured out Christopher wasn’t coming back. “Dammit.”

Will stuck up his head from behind the freezer. He could see Christopher heading toward the main house. Chuck was making his way down to the creek.

A decision had to be made.

Alejandro would probably be in the kitchen for the rest of the day. Unlike the rest of the men on the property, Chuck was a complete mystery. They didn’t know his last name. They hadn’t been able to do a background check. More importantly, Mercy had embarrassed the man in front of a group of people. Roughly eighty percent of the murders Will investigated were perpetrated by men who were furious about their inability to control women.

Will headed down the trail. If it could be called a trail. The narrow strip toward the creek wasn’t lined with crushed stone like the others. Will could see why it wasn’t meant for guests. The perilously steep trail could’ve resulted in some lawsuits. Will had to concentrate on his footing to get through the worst of it. Chuck was having an easier time of it. He was swinging the water jug as he traipsed through the forest. The man had a strange way of walking, like his pronated feet were kicking imaginary soccer balls. He resembled a lesser Mr. Bean. His back was swayed. He was wearing a bucket hat and fishing vest. His brown cargo shorts hit below his knees. Black socks slouched around his yellow hiking boots.

The trail turned even steeper. Will held on to a branch so he didn’t slide on his ass. Then he grabbed a rope that was tethered to a tree like a handrail. He heard the shush of white water before he saw the creek. The sound was soft, more like white noise. This must’ve been the area Delilah had called the waterfall that wasn’t really the waterfall. The terrain dropped about ten feet in the space of a dozen yards. Some flat stones had been placed in the water to create a footbridge at the head of the mini falls.

Will remembered seeing a photograph taken in this area on the lodge website. It showed Christopher McAlpine standing in the middle of the creek throwing out a fishing line. The water was up to his waist. Will guessed the rain had made it twice as deep. The bank on the opposite side was mostly submerged. The tree canopy was thicker overhead. He could see clearly, but not as clearly as he would’ve liked.

Chuck was taking in the same view, but from a lower vantage. He was kneading his back with his fist as he looked across the creek. Will catalogued the ways Chuck could hurt him if there was some kind of struggle. The hooks and lures on the man’s vest would hurt like hell, but fortunately, Will only had one hand that would be shredded. He wasn’t sure what a gaff was, though he had noticed that most of the instruments for fishing could easily be turned into weapons. The plastic jug was half full of water, but would feel like a hammer if Chuck swung it with enough force.

Will kept his distance, calling, “Chuck?”

Chuck whipped around, startled. His glasses had fogged at the edges, but his eyes easily found the revolver on Will’s hip. He asked, “You’re Will, right?”

“That’s right.” Will picked his way down the last part of the trail.

“The humidity is a bitch today.” Chuck cleaned his glasses with the tail of his shirt. “We barely missed another storm coming through.”

Will kept around ten feet between them. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk at dinner last night.”

Chuck pushed his glasses up his nose. “Believe me, if I had a wife who was that hot, I wouldn’t talk to anybody, either.”

“Thanks,” Will forced himself to smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Bryce Weller.” He reached out to shake Will’s hand, then saw the bandage and waved instead. “People call me Chuck.”

Will kept his response neutral. “That’s quite a nickname.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to ask Dave how he came up with it. No one remembers anymore.” Chuck was smiling, but he didn’t look happy. “Thirteen years ago, I went up the mountain a Bryce and came down a Chuck.”