Page 95 of Coram House

“Xander,” I say, gesturing to my outfit. “I’m not sure I took your directions as seriously as I should have.”

He swishes a hand through the air—as if shooing a fly. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “When I get a new toy, I just like to have all the accessories.”

He says it with an embarrassed smile that makes me smile back, for real this time. Maybe this will be fun. Maybe for a few hours, I can forget about the case and everything that goes with it.

See, Lola, I know how to have fun.

Xander holds out a hand. “It’s a little slippery on the way down,” he says. “But you have to see this thing. It’sen fuego.”

“I have no idea what that means,” I say, but I take his hand and let him lead.

And it’s a good thing I do because the path is ice all the way. Withevery step, Xander’s cleats make a sound like breaking glass. At the bottom, where it’s too narrow to walk side by side, I cling to the fence. A cardinal lands at my feet. It pecks at the snow, then, finding nothing, takes off into the trees. A flash of red, there and gone.

“You okay?” Xander calls from ahead. He’s nearly at the dock. I flash him a thumbs-up and half walk, half slide the rest of the way.

The boathouse buzzes with activity. Two men, nearly interchangeable with their stubbly faces and mirrored sunglasses, stand on the ice, near a contraption that’s not quite a sailboat.

“This is Dan and that’s Chris,” Xander says as he hops down onto the ice. Both men raise their hands, so I have no idea who’s who.

The boat looks like a sailboat, sort of. The sails are white and angular with indecipherable letters and numbers printed on the canvas. But the body of the boat is so sleek and narrow it’s hard to believe it accommodates a person, let alone multiple people. A perpendicular crosspiece reaches out from either side for balance, giving it an insect-like appearance. The name of the boat is painted in neat red script on the stern. I look at Xander.

“CodeRunner? You didn’t.”

“It’s likeBlade Runner, but—”

I groan. “Yeah, I got the joke. It’s terrible.”

But he just grins at me. Someone giggles. That’s when I notice three other people standing in the shadow of the boathouse. A man—tall and broad in a former linebacker kind of way—and two women with matching blonde waves cascading down their backs. All three look dressed for an après-ski photoshoot: fur-lined parkas, fur headbands, shearling boots. One of the women wiggles her fingers in a wave. “Hey,” she says, drawing out they.

“Hi,” I say. The other two look at me and then turn away. A dismissal. I want to be anywhere but standing here looking like an overstuffed sausage in my long underwear.

“Ready?” Xander calls from the ice. He plonks a pair of cleats at the edge of the dock.

“Is that thing really safe?” I nod at the boat.

“Totally,” Xander says. “See, we have helmets!”

He holds up something that looks like a motorcycle helmet. But I’m not sure how much weight this should carry, coming from the guy who drove his car onto the lake. Behind me, one of the women lets out a high, annoying laugh. I take the helmet. I’d rather risk death than be stuck here with them.

Xander pumps his fist in the air. “Let’s do this thing!”

Both members of his crew grin and roll their eyes, but it doesn’t feel mocking. Xander’s unfiltered enthusiasm for whatever’s in his line of sight is both ridiculous and infectious.

I pull on the cleats and then hop down onto the ice. There’s a sick second where I’m sure my feet will plunge through the surface, but they connect with a click. It feels like walking on stone.

Up close, the boat is elegant—all sleek, smooth wood and shiny pulleys. “I assume the useless luggage goes there,” I say, pointing to myself and then the bench seat in the front.

“Best seat in the house.”

Xander holds out a hand to help as I haul myself over the side. I nod to his friends on the dock. “What about them?”

He glances over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Spectators,” he says dismissively. Clearly he’s used to having an audience.

One of the crew comes over to tug on a rope. I feel around the seat. “Should I have a seatbelt or something?” I ask.

Chris or Dan shakes his head. “Nah, you wouldn’t want to be strapped in if the boat turned over.”

Okay, wrong question.

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