“What the blessed hell are you doing down here?” Brandon stopped in front of Greg, his eyes the only thing visible beneath his slicker’s hood and the scarf he’d wrapped high around his face.

The rush of saliva was an early warning sign that the rolling in Greg’s stomach shouldn’t be ignored.

In a quick move, he spun toward the side, away from the hand, and heaved, his body desperate to rid itself of that image, of what it meant.

When he was done, he wiped his chin with his sleeve, a sour taste still lingering on his tongue. “There’s a body.”

“What?” Brandon yelled it like he thought the wind might have twisted the words into something that couldn’t be possible.

“There’s a body,” Greg said again, pointing to where he’d last seen the fingers trailing along the red bottom, clutching at it, begging for help that was coming far too late.

Finally, the younger man caught on.

When Brandon glanced back toward Greg after peering over the side, there was a hardness in his eyes that Greg recognized. Young men around here were like that. Had to pretend to be tough, even when they were scared shitless. “Let’s get it up.”

They worked together with the efficiency they’d mastered hauling in cages up and down Maine’s coastline. Brandon was the one to grab the fingers first, in an obscene parody of hand holding.

Greg plunged his own glove into the water, searching for something to latch onto.

Water-swollen flesh gave beneath his fingers, and he gripped it tight so it wouldn’t disintegrate. “Got it. Pull up.”

Brandon nodded once and then wrenched his arm back at the same time Greg hauled what he presumed to be the body’s thigh up and over the slight lip of the boat.

They staggered beneath the sea-laden weight of their burden before dropping it to the deck. The head bounced against the same rope the lobster cage had earlier when it had slipped from Greg’s numb fingers.

“Hell.” Brandon hadn’t let go of the body’s hand but took three shuffling steps back to avoid it landing on his feet.

“You can let go,” Greg said quietly, watching Brandon’s face, where a determined mask had slipped into place. “You can let go.”

It took another moment, another deep, shuddering breath, before Brandon let the body’s arm fall to the deck.

There was a sickening thud as the limb slapped against the hard plastic.

Only then did Greg get his first good look. It was a man on the younger side. Thirties maybe. Late twenties. Though his face was puffy, he looked familiar. Not an islander. But not a stranger.

No other defining features stood out, no tattoos or deformities. Just an average guy with apparently shit luck.

“We better call the mainland,” Greg said.