Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Gabby laughed genuine, belly-deep laughs. Throughout my story, she missed half her throws from watching the water too hard and waiting for snakes or “swamp ghouls,” as she called them, but she never stopped trying.
“I used to want an emu when I was little,” she told me suddenly, mid-throw.
I stared hard at the side of her face. “An emu?”
“Yeah, they're big, weird, and aggressive birds, but I thought it would protect me. Or ride me into battle. I was unclear on logistics,” she shrugged.
“Sounds about right.”
She grinned and picked up another stone, her tongue poking out as she aimed. Then she threw it. It skipped once, twice...and nailed a massive frog floating belly-up near the reeds.
She gasped and let out a quiet scream. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“I killed it! No, maybe it was already dead, and I disturbed its funeral float. Webb, get in there, we have to do frog CPR!”
I took a step back. “Frog CPR?”
“You have to do something!”
“I am not—”
But then, as we both stared in horror, the frog moved. Or, more specifically — something moved it. A smooth swish just under the surface that caused a small ripple. Then, the frog’s limp body disappeared beneath the water without a sound.
Gabby turned to me slowly. “What. Was. That.”
“Probably a fish,” I said quickly. “Or a turtle.”
“Or a Kraken.”
I started to laugh—I couldn’t stop it—but she was already panicking, rifling through the gravel and picking up the biggest rocks she could find.
“No. Nope. I am not going out like this, do you hear me?” She chucked a rock the size of a grapefruit into the water with a splash that nearly reached the bank.
“Come out and face me, you slimy murder noodle.”
Another rock sailed through the air, arcing with just enough spin to give it promise. It landed with a sharp splash right where the dead frog had been moments before, like a clumsy, watery tribute. The ripples spread outward as if the bayou itself was reacting to the oddly timed ceremony. She stared at the spot, half expecting the frog to float back up like some kind of amphibious ghost seeking revenge.
Not getting the reaction she wanted, she yelled, “Leave the frogs alone!”
I doubled over, clutching my sides, full-on laughing now, with tears leaking from my eyes as Gabby launched rock after rock with all the fury of a woman fighting invisible swamp demons. She threw one so hard she spun herself around and had to grab my arm to keep from tumbling straight into the marsh.
“I’m not dying in flip-flops, Webb! Not today, at least.”
“You really need new shoes or to wear those boots you had on.”
“I need emotional armor and a frog rescue team!”
Her response was so emotional and irrational, I couldn't help the burst of laughter that came out of me. My stomach tensed so hard that I couldn’t breathe. And through the chaos, through the crying laughter and the panicked rock flinging, I realized that I hadn’t felt this alive in a long, long time.
She was still flinging rocks like her life depended on it, hair wild, cheeks flushed, yelling threats at unseen aquatic monsters like she’d just declared war on the entire bayou.
I couldn’t stop laughing. It came in waves, real, shoulder-shaking, gut-punching kind of laughter. The kind I hadn’t felt in forever.
Gabby, in full meltdown, wasn’t even fazed by it. If anything, my laughter just fueled her righteous rage.
“You think this is funny,” she panted, flinging another stone with alarming strength, “but that thing—whatever it was—ate a dead frog. What kind of sick underwater funeral crasher does that?”
“A fish,” I gasped out.
“A big fucking demon fish,” she corrected, throwing one last rock that bounced once on the surface, skipped impressively, and then thudded into a tree root with an echoing thump.
Then she collapsed on the bank beside me, arms sprawled, chest rising and falling.
And in the silence that followed, the only noises the soft wind, rustling leaves, and the water lapping the shore like it hadn’t just tried to assassinate a frog, I felt it settle.
Peace. It was brief and fragile, but it was real.
She tilted her head toward me, cheeks still pink. “Okay,” she panted breathlessly, “so maybe I overreacted.”
“Maybe,” I echoed, still grinning.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “But it was totally worth it.”
And it was. It really was. But as I looked at her—at the sunlight dancing through the trees across her skin, the subtle twitch of her smile still clinging to her mouth—my gut twisted.
I knew something she didn’t. Things were about to change.
Maddox’s man was still looking for her. They were probably getting closer every day. Barris, who was jumpy and unpredictable, was somewhere out there, maybe deciding whether to save himself or stay loyal to a sinking ship.
And Marcus, Matty, Remi, and a few other trusted people were deep into the weeds now, digging through Maddox’s old deals, finding files that stank of bribery, missing money, inspectors gone quiet, and building permits that led to nowhere.