Chapter 1
Triton
I PULLED INTO THE PARKING spot, engaged the break, and cut the engine of my old red truck. It died with a final rumble, and the noise and vibration in the cabin fell silent.
On a rise, the parking lot looked out over the dock and the lake beyond, the shore stretching to the horizon. The winds were quiet, and the surface was mirror calm, the deep blue reflecting the clouds drifting in the bright blue sky. I took it in for a moment, the way the light sparkled on the water in patches, ducks bobbing on the surface, fish breaking the surface with a ripple, a cloud casting a drifting shadow. And without the roar of the engine, I could hear the insects buzzing in the trees, the song of birds, and the occasional call of a heron. A swallow swooped out of one tree and rose to the next, disappearing among the thick, green foliage.
This felt like the calm before the storm, the moment when I hung in a liminal space between here and now, ordinary and every day, this world and the world a plane ride and lifetime away where there was only silence and violence and adrenaline. It was color and life versus darkness and death.
And it never failed to be disconcerting.
I pushed out of the truck, using extra weight to push the old door open. It creaked in protest but swung open, and I shut it behind me as I glanced at the white Chevy, as old as mine, beside it. Older than me, the truck was lovingly maintained, with barely a scratch on it despite its age. I could attest to the fact that the inside was just as well-maintained as the outside, the dusky green leather polished until it shone. There was one rip, I knew, from a stupid stunt, a moment of young-boy-induced idiocy, that had earned me a sore backside and no dinner.
The stunt had never been repeated, and the rip had been repaired by hand.
As I made my way down from the parking lot, I picked out the boat bobbing among the others at the dock. It was old, as old as the truck, but just as well-maintained.
But not quite, because as I drew closer and the land leveled out over the beach, I could see a few spots of rust amid the white and faded mint green. It was a strange sight and sent a lance of concern through me.
Then again, he’d probably called the boat guy, who hadn’t had a chance to come out yet. Summer was always his busiest season.
My boots hit the splintered, weathered wood of the dock, and a man working on the back of his boat looked up. He raised his head, pushing at the tip of the brim of his baseball cap with oil- and dirt-stained fingers, and a gap-toothed grin pulled at his weather-beaten skin.
“Hey, Tri.”
I raised my hand in a wordless greeting.
“Your dad said you were home. Come to fish?”
Shaking my head, I ran a hand over my close-cropped hair. “Hey, John. No, I’m leaving today.”
John scratched at the skin of his shoulder beneath the strap of his dingy white wife-beater. “That’s too bad. Haven’t seen you around much.”
I heard a noise, and a woman in a flowery tent of a dress came out of the cabin holding a paper plate in danger of collapsing under the weight of the sandwiches piled on top. “Hey, look who’s here.”
I gave her the same wave I’d given her husband.
“Sandwich?” she asked, holding up the plate.
“Ate at home. Thanks, though, Moni.”
She flashed me a smile full of crooked teeth and placed the sandwiches onto the small bench before turning back to me.
“So, when are you going to finally settle down and bring a nice girl to meet your mom? She’s hoping you finally find someone who will bring you home more often.” Moni pushed a hand through the gray-blonde hair at her temple before resting her arms over her ample chest.
One of the tops of the teetering sandwiches flopped over, sliding down the pile and onto the weathered wood of the bench. As I tried to come up with an answer different than the same tired old line I always gave, I watched a fly buzz lazily and land on the exposed, glistening deli meat.
But nothing came to me. Moni’s question was the same one I’d heard so many times my response had become practiced and automatic; I shrugged like I could make the words and the inherent suggestion I didn’t visit my mother enough slide off my shoulders, down my back, and out into the wind where it couldn’t make me uncomfortable.
“He works too much to find a girl to settle down with.” John’s voice was equal parts teasing and serious. “Anyway, his job’s too dangerous.”
It was the truth, and I couldn’t deny it, so I ran a hand over my head again.
“Well, be safe.” Moni tried for another smile, this one strained. “Your mother worries.”
“Thanks, Moni.”
I walked down through the row, leaving the uncomfortable conversation behind until I came to the pier's edge.