Page 13 of On Dry Land

“Engine failure. Which could be caused by a myriad of things. Overheating, air in the fuel lines, electrical issues, leaks from water pump seals. The possibilities are, unfortunately, many.”

“Oh.” He lapses into a thoughtful silence. “Can you fix it?”

“I hope so. There is only so much I can evaluate and repair myself, and I can find nothing wrong with those things. I’ve called a specialist to have a look.”

He thinks about that for a second, the small space hot from how warm he set the temperature. The air vents are blowing at the highest setting. Feeling like I’m going to begin sweating here in a minute, I angle the vents on my side of the car toward him, trying to save myself from the hot air. As I do, I notice he’s no longer holding quite so tightly to his bag, hands looped gently through the straps now but relaxed on his legs.

“Were you on the boat when it died?” Spencer asks.

“Yes.”

“Scary,” he comments. Then, apropos of nothing, he adds, “Can I call you by your first name?”

“Sure,” I agree, for some reason thinking of Shiloh’s propensity for using my last. Dylan had always insisted on calling me Denny, which I’d tolerated while we were married and loathe now that we’re divorced.

“Cool. Spencer is fine for me,” he adds, even though I didn’t ask. I’m planning on dropping him off at the guest cottage and retreating to my house. I’m not going to call him anything because I’m not going to be speaking with him.

I bring the Porsche smoothly around a bend, allowing the car to naturally slow down on the curves. The sleet is falling less quickly here, the road somewhat sheltered by the evergreen trees. I keep my speed sedate anyway, always aware of black ice and how you rarely see it until it’s too late. I’d rather not end the day wrapped around a tree. Or, I think as a deer bounds across the road ahead of us, with an animal through the windshield.

“Do you get cell service up here?” Spencer asks, suddenly enough that his voice feels loud in the confined space of the car. I glance over, noting the tension he’s trying hard to hide.

“Yes. Of course,” I reply. It probably makes me a massive asshole, but I’m again gratified to hear the fear. He’s worried about being alone in this car with me, and he’s worried about being alone at my house and not having a way to call for help. I doubt these are things criminals think when they are planning a crime. He’s wary of me and my offer, and I’m questioning what the hell I was thinking offering it in the first place.

The tension remains thick and noxious the rest of the way, Spencer still and silent. The closer we get to my house, and the further from town, the more on alert he seems to become. He’s going to strain his eyeballs from how hard he’s watching our surroundings. He’s paying far more attention than I am, and I’m the one driving the car.

The moment I park in front of my house, I open the door and breathe a heavy inhale of crisp winter air. My sweater is sticking to my lower back with sweat, my body cooked from spending forty-five minutes in a heated space with Spencer’s discomfort. I don’t make many friends, but neither do I usually frighten people quite that much. I feel like I need a stiff drink, a shower, and, strangely, to apologize to him.

“Fucking hell,” he comments now, carefully closing the car door and spinning in a slow circle, backpack already in place on his shoulders. His brown eyes are wide as he looks around. I’m unsure what he’s more surprised about—the size of the property or the size of the house built upon it.

When I moved here once the divorce proceedings were finally finished, I chose the location based on the wharf. I had a lobster boat I knew not what to do with, a desire to learn, and a need to get as far away from home as I could. The first thing I’d looked for was a place I could dock my boat and run it from, once I figured out what the hell I was doing. The second thing I worried about was a place to live. Siren’s Point was an easy answer to the first problem and was far enough away from home to be enticing. I’d driven in, found the biggest and most secluded house I could, knocked on the door, and offered the owner twice as much money as the property was valued at.

They’d moved out a week later, leaving everything but their dog behind. I haven’t changed a single thing about the house, nor replaced any of the furniture. Really the only bits of myself here are the old lobster traps stacked out back and my clothes hanging in the closets. That and the guest cottage at the rear of the property, which was empty when I moved in. I furnished it when my sister made noise about coming to visit, but seeing as that was years ago and I’ve yet to see her, apparently it’ll now function as a homeless shelter.

“Fuck,” Spencer mutters again, staring up at the house. It is rather garish, with the boxy, modern lines and the dark windows. I would never have built a house like this for myself, but moving into it was so hassle-free I couldn’t have cared less about what it looked like. My life had imploded, and the questionable architecture of my sleeping arrangements factored so low as an area of concern as to be nonexistent.

“What do you think?” I ask my new strange, filthy friend.

“You know this is the kind of house a supervillain would live in, right? It’s not a home; it’s a lair.”

I smirk at him, leaning an elbow on the top of the Porsche and drumming my fingers gently on the metal. How refreshing—a person who answers honestly, and not the way they think I’d like them to.

“Want a tour?”

“I’ll stay on this side of the moat, thank you.”

Snorting, I round the hood of the car, clicking the key fob and engaging the locks. A moat isn’t a bad idea. Perhaps I’ll install one.

I wave Spencer politely forward, but he stands still, fingers wrapped around the straps of his pack up by his shoulders. Ah. He doesn’t want to put his back to me. Questioning whether I’ve lost my mind, I stride off across the grass, giving him mine. I’ve already brought him this far. If he’s going to kill me, I might as well make it easy for him and hope it’s a quick death.

The hard snow crunches beneath the soles of my boots as I lead him around back, aware of him following me by the prickle of discomfort at my nape. Once upon a time, I would have said I was a good judge of character, and had I met Spencer Davis back then, I would have said my gut instinct was of trustworthiness. I have learned better, since then, and no longer trust my gut nor anyone else. This is likely going to end up being the second worst decision I ever made in my life.

“You have a pool?” Spencer says, gasping in shock and, I think, excitement. I glance back at him, surprised to hear anything other than suspicion in his tone.

“Yes. Heated, according to my gas bill. I’ve never used it.”

Spencer turns his incredulous gaze to me. I shrug. I’d rather die than throw a pool party, and what am I going to do? Float around by myself? Swim laps after working twelve hours hauling traps? The pool, more than anything, is a money sucker. I get nothing out of it and burn cash by the fistfuls in upkeep. Many times, I’ve considered draining the damn thing and using it to store lobster traps and floats.

“This is an Olympic-sized pool,” Spencer tells me, apparently under the impression that I care.