Chapter 3

• He picked up. No small talk.
• “I saw her," I said.
• “Yeah.”
• “What do you want me to do?”
• “You’re already doing it," he replied. "By doing nothing.”
• “What if the cops come check the sonar logs?”
• “Let them." He sounded so casual. "Timestamp’s half past eleven today. The acoustic signature matches drowning. Clean.”
• “But you know she didn’t drown,” I said. My voice was calmer than I expected.
• He went quiet for three seconds.
• “Michael Reynolds,” the Fisherman said my name for the first time, “how much longer can your daughter keep her left eye?”
• My blood went cold.
• “What do you mean?”
• “You’ve scraped together two hundred thirty grand. You’re still fifty short. Do this job, I’ll give you seventy. Your girl can go to Baltimore next month.”
• “You threatening me?”
• “I’m helping you do the math.” The Fisherman’s voice went soft, like he was soothing a stubborn kid. “Think it through. If you don’t do it, then what? Sophia can’t wait. The best window for proton therapy is before six. She’s already six and a half. Give it another six months and even a pile of cash won’t save it. You in or out?”
• “Why did you send me the recording ahead of time?”
• “Because I wanted you to know I can get the acoustic signature without you. You’re just my backup. I came to you to give you a chance to make money. You think you’re helping me? Michael Reynolds, you’re the one begging me for work.”
• He hung up.
• I didn’t call the cops.
• I didn’t delete the recording either.
• I just made a backup of the raw sonar data and hid it in the toilet tank in the station’s bathroom.
• Triple-bagged it in plastic, taped it tight, wedged it into a corner of the tank. That spot wouldn’t get soaked and wouldn’t get flushed away.
• Then I went back to work like nothing had happened—logging water level, flow speed, turbidity. Water level was up fifteen centimeters from yesterday. Must’ve rained upstream. Flow speed was 1.2 meters per second, 0.3 above normal. Turbidity looked fine, so no landslide.
• At two in the afternoon, two cops showed up.
• One was a young uniform in his mid-twenties. Name tag said “Jason Moore.” The other wore a dark gray jacket. Middle-aged—detective, obvious at a glance.
• The way he stood, his eyes, those black leather shoes—everything about him said, "I’m not here to chat."
• They stood under the tin awning of the station. Rain dripped off the corner and onto the detective’s shoulder. He didn’t move. He just stared straight at me like I was a suspect.