* * *

It was a two-minute drive to the motel, but Tim insisted on coming with me. The rooms in the small motel overlooked Otter Creek, where the village of Alexandria Bay meets the St. Lawrence River. In the high season this strip of water is as busy as Church Street, boats from dozens of docks chugging toward the open water. Tonight, it was black and still.

At the front desk, I handed over my credit card and we carted my luggage through the parking lot, where I’d left the SUV, and along an exterior corridor to my room. At the door, we stopped. This was the part where Tim, ever the concerned and thoughtful friend, would ask if I was okay and remind me I could call him anytime. His cottage was less than ten minutes by car. He’d point that out, too, and might even mention a guest bed and selection of calming herbal teas, even though he knew I wouldn’t take him up on an offer to stay over. His hands were sunk deep in his pockets, his head cocked to the right. Shamefaced but still tipsy and a little cold, I hugged myself and prepared to receive his pity.

Tim leaned toward me.

His breaths were measured, but there was something in the hard lines of his body that spoke of urgency. One thing I know about Tim: when he’s nervous, he swallows twice in a row. He did it now.

I can’t be sure who moved first, but the energy between us was suddenly so high it propelled us toward each other, an inexorable force. All at once his hands were no longer in his pockets but on my waist, and my mouth was locked on his.

Tim took a step forward. His hipbones met mine, and my back met the motel wall. He smelled vaguely like gas fumes from the boat, but also peppery and sweet. In all the months we’d worked side by side I hadn’t noticed this, not until my nose was buried in his warm neck.

“No. Tim, no.”

It took everything I had to push him away. When I could breathe again, I said, “We can’t. He’s watching. He’s everywhere.”

Tim stepped back from me, and his face went slack. I could sense his mind whirling as it searched for a cranny that would allow us to escape Bram’s cruel trap. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he got the words out. “Dammit, Shana,” was all he said before he turned and walked away.

After he was gone, I stared out at the dark parking lot, the marsh grass and cattails along the water, and the hulking aluminum boathouses that creaked and quaked in the wind. Somewhere, Bram was smiling to himself about this, reveling in the knowledge that forcing me to rifle through his old life was wreaking havoc on mine.

THIRTY-TWO

I was miles away from Swanton, far from my childhood home, but my mind was so addled that when I opened my eyes the next day, there was a second when I thought I was a teenager again. Many a morning I’d woken up with a hangover and a deep-seated feeling of regret about an illicit kiss or touch or make-out session at a party in the woods, the sweaty, smoky smell of boys with their hands on my body painfully fresh.