Page 16 of Traitor

Leaving my purchases in the front seat, I lock my car and stride determinedly around the lodge on a stone path. My heart thunders in my ears, and I feel cold and hot at the same time, but I force one foot in front of the other. All my instincts are screaming at me to turn around and go back to the lodge where the light shines from the dazzling windows like a beacon of hope, but I turn my back on them defiantly.

There’s enough daylight left for me to walk without tripping over my own feet, but it makes visibility past about ten feet questionable at best. The shadows seem to whisper to me and each crackle from deep in the forest at either side, or brush of wind along the naked branches, has my pulse skittering.

A boat that skims the surface of the water in the distance eases my anxiety, if only a little. I’m not alone.

You’re being silly, Peyton.

I chuckle a little at myself and slip out of my shoes as I reach the dock where I’d seen Ford earlier. He’s nowhere in sight, so I relax and amble down the worn wood planks barefoot.

It isn’t dark enough for stars to be visible, but the cloudless sky is a deep, unblemished blue. The jet-black shapes of bats dart out from the trees above me and I watch as they swoop and dive, feeding on the insects above. Tears spring to my eyes. My dad and I used to sit on our back porch swing and watch the bats come out at night. We’d talk about everything, silly conversations, really, and he was probably nice and buzzed from an after-work beer. Those are the things I miss the most about my parents. The out-of-the-blue meaningless memories we shared. Inconsequential things we’ll never get to do together again.

I groan, annoyed with myself, and brush the tears away. My eyes roam over the landscape, looking for a distraction and they go back to the boat. There’s a couple people on board and they’re close enough that I can see that they’re having some sort of intimate conversation, standing at the back of the boat. I shouldn’t be watching them, but I’d gotten used to observing people the year I spent locked away in my house. It’s a hard habit to break.

I can’t make out anything, other than their general shapes, but they’re both sitting in the back seats of the boat, gesticulating wildly. Telling some sort of wild story, I imagine. I lean my cheek on my knees and let my thoughts drift as I watch them. With the sounds of the lake in the background, I nearly relax enough to forget how dark it’s getting.

Then a shout breaks the silence.

I shoot to my feet and look on in horror as the figures begin to struggle. With the growing darkness, it’s harder to see them, but there’s no denying they aren’t having a calm conversation anymore. The man, who I think is dressed in jeans and towers over the other, shoots to his feet. The woman, dressed in a flowing sheath of some sort, takes a quick step back, trips, and goes down hard. I gasp aloud, but no one is close enough to hear me.

They’re just arguing. It’ll be over soon, and you’ll laugh it off. There’s nothing to worry about.

The comfort of my hotel room beckons and I start to glance back to the safety of the lodge, when a quick movement catches my eye. My feet freeze in place and my stomach rebels, clutching around emptiness and threatening to give my lunch a second appearance. The taller person shoves at the woman. The shadow of her flirty dress billows up as she falls back, hard, into the side of the boat.

“What the hell?” I whisper. Gone was the quiet, peaceful evening. The night that had been so comforting now pressed around me with renewed menace. “Talk it out. Apologize,” I urge them. Except, the intimate conversation they seemed to have been having devolves into a screaming match. I can only hear the echoes of it and can’t make out any of the words.

The woman tries to get up, but he shoves her back down. I wince, stomach churning, and all instincts screaming for me to flee. If not to get help, then to run and hide. Hiding is what I do best. But I can’t. My knees are locked, and I know if I leave I may not be able to help.

But there’s no helping them.

The woman claws at the man holding her down, and I can tell from her high-pitched screams she’s pleading, even if I can’t make out the words. Her voice rings in my ears until it’s all I can hear. They blend with the memories of that night until I can’t tell if what I’m hearing is the woman in front of me or the ghosts of my own nightmares.

“Stop. Stop! Stop it,” I tell her, or them, I don’t even know anymore. “You’re going to piss him off.” If she doesn’t, it’s going to be bad.

It goes from bad, to worse, when the woman manages to get to her feet and charges at the man with her hands outstretched, nails no doubt gouging into any available flesh. The man backs away from her, toward my direction, then pivots until the woman falls overboard.

I don’t realize I’m shouting until I stop, thinking their argument is over once the woman hits the water. Maybe the freezing temperature will cool her off and they can have a rational discussion.

I nearly leave again, until the man kneels in the boat, to help her I assume at first. Then, he stretches out his arms, and all I can see is a violent thrashing in the water as the woman fights her way back to the surface.

“No!” I whisper before I realize what I’m doing.

All too soon, the water goes still.

For several long minutes, my terrified brain can’t grasp what it means, and then I understand all too well.

I trip over my own feet as I turn and try to sprint for the lodge and fall into the black depths of Bear Lake, knocking my head on the dock as I go down.

I try to fight it, terror overtaking me at the thought of being helpless, but the darkness I tried so hard to overcome envelops me.