Dead Man's Float

The pool at the Oakwood Country Club was empty at 6 AM, which was exactly how Marcus liked it. As head of maintenance for seventeen years, he'd perfected the art of invisibility. The wealthy members floated past him like ghosts in linen suits, their voices carrying across the water—tipsy gossip about divorce settlements, which kid got into which Ivy League school, who was sleeping with whose tennis pro.

Marcus adjusted his faded baseball cap, pulling the brim lower. His father had given it to him the summer before the accident, back when Marcus still believed he might play professionally. That was before the knee injury, before the medical debt, before he learned that some dreams don't die—they just hollow you out from inside.

"Morning, Marcus."

He jumped. Elena stood at the edge of the pool, holding a glass bowl containing a single goldfish that looked entirely too pleased with itself. The club owner's daughter. Thirty-two, recently divorced, back home to drink too much chardonnay and make everyone uncomfortable with her practiced vulnerability.

"Miss Pierce."

"My mother wants to know about the drainage issue again." She set the bowl on a table. "This is Goldie. My therapist says I need to practice caring for something living."

Marcus thought about his ex-wife, about the daughter who called him once a month from Chicago, dutiful and distant. He thought about the fifty thousand dollars in his savings account, and the envelope he'd found in Mr. Pierce's office yesterday—old-fashioned hush money, thick enough to choke on, enough to make everything else go away.

"I'll check the drains, Miss Pierce."

"You know what happened here, don't you?" Elena asked suddenly. "Summer of 2004. The girl who drowned during the member gala. Everyone said it was an accident."

Marcus met her eyes for the first time. The goldfish swam in endless circles, its orange scales catching the morning light.

"Pools keep secrets," Marcus said finally. "It's in the job description."