Page 78 of The Ripple Effect

“Come on, Petra,” Trevor says, backing toward the beach. “We have to go. We’re not safe here.”

Petra sobs, looking around the circle of shocked faces.

“My book first, please.” The more Lyle focuses on his notebook, the more our guests drift backward, eyes huge and faces slack. His ring is a dark blur on his left hand—his dominant hand. Its metal would carve a groove in Trevor’s cheek if they should meet.

“The notes are gone, Lyle. They’ve already sent everything to Fisher. There’s nothing more we can lose. Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers to get his attention. “McHuge. Stay with me. I need you to have my back here.”

Maybe getting him in touch with his anger was a huge fucking mistake. Maybe he should have stayed kind, and I should’vestayed angry. Maybe our misguided attempts to help each other led to our downfall.

“Give it to him, Trevor.” Petra grabs Trevor’s arm to stop him from tripping into a canoe. Behind them, the lake glimmers under a cool, pale moon.

“I didn’t have time to take pics of everything. We need the book. Back off, dude,” Trevor snaps, his shaky voice undermining his attempt to sound authoritative. “You can’t touch me. That’s assault.”

“Trevor.” Brent makes a pacifying gesture. “I’d give him the book. When he was seventeen, he—”

“Shutup, Brent,” Willow says, and for once, he does.

“I just want the notes.” McHuge puts out a hand, palm up, keeping it at waist level.

Trevor’s entire body lurches in terror. He swings the journal wildly, clipping Lyle’s face with one hard-edged corner.

Lyle jerks back, a hand coming to cover his left eye.

An emotion finally comes: terror, cold and immobilizing. My limbs stay weak and stuck, my brain blank. I need to work the problem, and I can’t.

“He swung first! You saw it, you all saw it, he made the first move.” Trevor takes the opportunity to scoop up all the paddles from where they’re photogenically propped against the trees. He scrambles around the canoes, shoving the nearest one—Lyle’s—halfway into the water, dumping all the paddles inside. “This whole place is a scam! Those two”—he waves at me and Lyle—“are no more engaged than Petra and I are.”

There’s a moment for a collective inhale.

Willow’s voice cuts through the silence. “Stellar? Is this true?” She sounds so shocked. So disappointed.

My mouth opens, but I can’t speak.

Sensing the advantage, Trevor stands up straighter. “There’smore. Much more. McHuge—he stole the idea for the Love Boat. Stellar’s supposed to be the camp doctor, but she hasn’t practiced medicine for over a year, and her dad is a convicted felon. And we can’t prove Sloane and Stellar are related—yet. But we will. I’m not the bad guy here, whatever you may think.”

I almost laugh into the silence. To think I was worried about Mitch and Sloane spilling the beans, and the whole time Trevor had all of our secrets and his own to boot.

Every con comes to an end, as my dad used to say.

Lyle takes his hand away from his face. With a tentative finger, he touches his crooked eyebrow, expression darkening as he finds new blood over the old scar. He’s trembling, clearly furious.

And everyone’s terrified of him.

“Comeon, Petra.” Trevor’s poised at the stern, ready to launch.

Petra dodges through the boats, snagging a random life jacket as she goes. She’s hardly gotten both feet in the boat when Trevor pushes off, leaving us literally up the creek without a paddle.

With a high, sharp bark, Babe gallops through the shallows, desperate not to miss her ride. She jumps over Trevor to take her rightful place in the bow, her claws scratching the hell out of his legs as she wrestles past.

“Ouch, fuck!” He pushes her forward, managing to get in a couple of steering strokes to match Petra’s power in the bow. They’re ten feet off shore, now twenty, now forty, as far out of our reach as if they were cruising at thirty thousand feet.

“Babe!” Lyle yells, splashing into the water. At his call, the dog starts jumping from gunwale to gunwale. She howls in confusion and terror—painful, grinding wails. On shore, seven stunned people watch the disaster unfold.

Petra twists in her seat. “Trevor, the dog!”

“Too late,” Trevor says, his voice carrying over the water. “We’re not going back.”

Lyle seems to curl in on himself for a moment, then leans back and lets out a roar so huge and fearsome I couldn’t even have imagined it coming from a human, let alone from him. The pain in it hurts my ears, hurts my soul, as loud as the night my father laid a double stripe of rubber down the middle of King Street so every time I came home I’d see my mom leaving all over again.

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