"Did I mention the risk of hypothermia?" I climbed out and tied the canoe to the dock.
"Thought you m-m-meant if we fell in."
"When you run the rapids, the water comes to you."
"No fucking shit."
I bustled him into the gazebo. "Which is why I turned on the heater in here before we left. And brought hot cocoa and these." I lifted a pile of towels onto the table. "And even these." A second pile of dry clothing joined it. "You can change in the boathouse if you like, but I'm only going to turn my back. Scout will warn us if anyone comes."
He turned his back. We'd stayed in the same motel room--this wasn't any closer changing quarters.
I was in a weird mood--that almost giddy, stubbornly defiant, willfully oblivious one that comes with saying "screw you" to everything else. The nonstop adrenaline had drowned the confusion and the hurt and the guilt. Jack had been a trooper. Clearly, running rapids was not going to become his go-to entertainment anytime soon, but he'd stuck to it for my sake. And maybe that was the most important part of all. For those few minutes, he was just as determined to make me happy as I was to let myself be happy. While there are people in my life who care for me, there's no one who'd do this for me, with such a complete absence of expectation.
When we'd changed into dry clothing, I poured him a cup of steaming cocoa. Then I set out a container and pulled off the lid, revealing a wedge of fresh-baked pie.
He settled at the table and looked around. "You got a plate? Or another fork?"
"Neither. It's all yours."
He hesitated then seemed to realize I wasn't quite up to stomaching food yet. He leaned over to dig in, then brushed back his wet hair and dried his fingers on his jeans.
"I should put up one of those signs," I said. "You will get wet on this ride."
He arched his brows.
"You know, like at amusement parks? The signs at the log and flume rides?"
"Last time I was at an amusement park?" He finished chewing a mouthful. "Fuck. You were probably in training pants."
I smiled. "So you've never pulled a hit in one? Shot a guy in the house of horrors? I saw that in a movie once. The audience loved it. All I could think of was the kids in line, about to be permanently scarred when a guy rolls out with his head blown off."
"Shotgun? In public?" Jack shook his head. "Can't hide that. Not the gun. Not the noise. Fucking Hollywood."
"Which was the second thing I thought. You'd want a small-caliber gun with a suppressor. A CNS shot from behind, so he dies quickly, with a minimum of mess. If he's wearing a jacket and you aim it through the collar right, it might not even be obvious he was dead when he rolled out."
"Or you could pull a switch. Wait on the ride. Shoot. Pull him out. Leave him there. Take his spot. No one would notice until he started to smell. They'd just figure he was a prop."
"That could work. Now I've just got to find a situation where I can pull a hit in an amusement park."
"I'll put feelers out. See what I can do." He stretched his legs. "Did have an odd one last year. Wanna hear?"
I eased back with my cocoa. "I do."
When it was dark enough, we moved to the fire pit. No one joined us except Scout, who lay between my chair and Jack's, head on her outstretched paws, watching the fire.
When Jack's cell phone blipped, he pulled it out and frowned down at a text message.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Just Evelyn." He upended his beer bottle, his gaze distant, as if contemplating something. "So how'd it go with Quinn?"
"All right. He was annoyed I hadn't called about Aldrich, but backed off when I reminded him he's been ignoring my calls."
Jack snorted. "Licking his wounds."
"That would be a great excuse, if he was the one who got dumped."
Jack looked over sharply. "What?"