Page 36 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

“Really?” She froze, feeling the blood drain from her face as worry for her bank balance blindsided her. “Do I owe a fine? I thought it was a warning.”

“It was.”

She sagged back against an oak tree, disturbing a mockingbird from a low branch so that it fluttered past her in a blur of wings and chirps. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” he said. “Make sure you get that license before moving to Myrtle Beach. They’re a lot stricter over that way.”

“I’ve never given much thought to where game wardens worked or moved.” Bent Oak was such a small town, might he want to transfer to a more prime spot later on? Like Myrtle Beach? “Do you choose your region, or is it like the military, where they move you where they decide you’re needed?”

“I applied for this opening,” he said simply. “My top pick.”

She pushed aside the hint of disappointment and returned to shifting cans and bottles from the shallows over to the mattress. “Uncle Russell’s family used to own land in this area. Winnie had held on to as much of the Davis property as possible, but Russell had insisted on selling off parcels to ensure her care after he was gone.” The loss of both of them was too much to bear sometimes, overwhelming her in the quiet of night or in moments like this. “The three acres with the cabin and barn are all that’s left.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Aunt Winnie used to say this river was the lifeblood of the community. That seemed such a beautiful image. But now? All I can see is the day I found her bag snagged on a rotting tree by the shore.” More of that anger burned inside her, making her feel like the six-year-old who’d wanted to lash out at the world. “She saved me, and I couldn’t do anything to rescue her.”

Martin peeled off his glove and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’re making her final resting place beautiful. That’s something.”

It didn’t feel like nearly enough. She pointed to the knotty roots protruding from the water.

“Uncle Russell used to cut off the cypress trees’ knees. He would strip the bark, refinish them, and gift them as doorstops.” The memory helped give her something positive to think about while the shadow of Winnie’s death hung heavy over her.

“I’ll have to try that sometime.”

She sat on a fat tree stump, feeling like someone had plucked the stuffing clean out of her. “I still don’t understand how it happened. She was a great swimmer. Some whispered around town that she’d killed herself, but Winnie would never do that.”

Kneeling in front of her, he said gently, “These waters can be unpredictable for even strong swimmers.”

“She wasn’t suicidal,” Bailey Rae insisted again, shooting to her feet as the anger in her grew into a fiery blanket covering a grief that could well swallow her whole.

She channeled all that fury at the filth dishonoring her aunt’s memory as she fished debris from the water one soggy piece at a time. Hamburger wrapper. Big Gulp cup. Floating water bottle.

“My aunt was eccentric. Not mentally ill.”

“Winnie was a wonderful woman. I’m glad I had the chance to meet her.” He followed her, picking up cigarette butts and letting her vent.

“There were people in this town who didn’t appreciate her the way they should,” she said, leaning to tug at a soggy T-shirt barely bubbling along the surface.

Frustrated at life, she yanked harder to dislodge the fabric from the branch, or whatever was underwater leaving a long shadow on the surface. She jerked again, then slipped on the muck. She plopped into the shallow water. Bubbles gurgled ahead of her as a mass under the T-shirt began to ease upward.

Not the shape of a fat branch at all.

More like a body.

Bile burned the back of her throat, and every cell inside her screamed in denial. This couldn’t be her final memory of Winnie. Not this way.

Screaming, she scrambled up onto the bank, desperate to escape but unable to leave Winnie. If this was her.

Martin held up a hand for her to stay back, everything about him shifting into a calm professionalism she envied.

Shaking and wet, Bailey Rae lowered herself to the ground, unable to pull her eyes from the murky water. Taking deep breaths, she clutched fists full of grass to anchor herself as Martin waded into the river.

Chapter Ten

Martin had seen dead bodies in both his military and game warden careers. Difficult. Haunting. But there was something especially disturbing about a corpse that had been in the water for an extended time.

Steeling himself, he secured his grip on the shirt, ankle deep in the water. His boots sank into the muck, making each step a slog. Carefully, he eased the body over just to make sure the person wasn’t still alive, even though his gut told him otherwise. The face came into view, covered in mud and algae. The gaping wound on the temple left no doubt. The individual was dead.

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