The trail would be hard for a human to see, but my eyes easily pick out the slim dirt path that winds through the trees. I really hope Zoey came this way during daylight. There are a lot of roots looking to twist unaware ankles.

Having grown up in Pine Falls and having spent at least one night a month running wild in these woods, I know exactly where this trail leads. Yellow Pine Lake.

Soon, the humid scent of water intertwines with Zoey’s trail.

When I break through the trees, my feet crunch on the rocky shore. There’s a calming slap of waves against stone and the squeak of bats feasting on nighttime bugs. Down the way, I spot the glow of a fire. Feminine laughter drifts toward us, traveling easily over the calm water.

“Guess they’re not in trouble,” I say, glancing over my shoulder, expecting Roderick to be just a few feet away.

He’s not. But he hasn’t left either. Instead, I make out his shadowy form, back in the woods. He stands still, looming like a ghostly presence.

“You’re being fucking weird.”

He doesn’t respond, which only proves my point.

I choose to ignore him, making my way down along the beach toward the sound of laughter. When I’m maybe twenty feet away, a warning bark cuts off whatever conversation was happening. Then, a massive body trots toward me.

“Hey, buddy. Just me,” I murmur, holding out my hand for Bruce to sniff. He does, offering a brief tail wag, then lumbers back to the warm glow of the fire, where two women stand, clutching beers and squinting into the darkness.

“Who’s there? Show your face!” Zoey shoves up from her seat and steps away from the campfire, approaching the edge of the light. As if I’m enticing her into the darkness.

Not liking that thought, I move forward instead. “Just Warner Jameson. Your friendly neighborhood biker.” I put on my most charming smile as I step into the glow of their fire.

Neither woman seems particularly bothered by my sudden appearance. That might have some relation to the unmistakable scent of alcohol.

The redheaded woman, Juliet, lets out a snort at my description. “Friendly. Sure.”

“I mean, he’s kinda friendly,” Zoey offers, facing her companion. There’s a thickness to her words, the hint of a slur, that makes me think these two women have been drinking for a little while.

And I’m suddenly fascinated to discover exactly what a drunk Zoey means.

“Oh, really?” Juliet leans back in her camping chair, giving me a thorough once-over. “How’s he been friendly?”

Zoey holds up her hand, ticking favors off on fingers. “He gave me a ride. Fixed my car. Helped carry some shopping bags. Invited me to lunch. Lent me a saw.” She wiggles her five digits.