It was a perfect day to disappear.
The sun was strong, not as strong as it would be in a few weeks, but it was a summer sun. And no one welcomed it more than those living in the city of Detroit. Sandwiched between three Great Lakes, winters were long and horribly gray, the roads clogged with sloppy brown and black snow, occasionally blasted with vicious, biting cold with subzero and subhuman temperatures.
Warm days and a hot sun were few and far between.
On Lake St. Clair, the busy body of water featuring the St. Clair River on one end and the Detroit River on the other was a favorite for those who wanted to hit the trifecta: sun, sky and water.
Boats were dotted all along the water, especially close enough to see the lakefront mansions whose owners were able to see the views its visitors rarely enjoyed, every day.
One vessel in particular stood out. It was a yacht, no doubt about it. It was white, sleek and in impeccable condition. It wasn’t obscenely large, but it did command a presence. The largest boat was well-known: Elena Ford’s 131-foot beast. Somehow, she managed to scrape enough money together to not only buy the boat, but also, rumor has it, to dish out somewhere around seventeen million to enlarge the harbor and marina where it was docked.
On the smaller vessel, a man stood and looked out at the water. A soft breeze blew in from the west, carrying the scent of fresh lake water and distant cut grass from the waterfront lawns, kept in pristine condition by professionals.
There was a speedboat farther out where a group of young men and women lounged with cans of beer, music pulsing faintly from a powerful subwoofer. Jet skis carved zigzags through the open water, navigating the maze of boats.
The man’s skin was pale, almost pasty, like the underbelly of a reptile. His hair was an unflattering foppish style, tousled but not quite fashionable, and he wore an ill-fitting oversized swimsuit.
A can of hard seltzer, mango-flavored, rested in his hand. It was nearly full, and by now, warm. He stared out across the lake, his face expressionless, his eyes constantly surveying his surroundings.
Beside him, sprawled across a cushioned chaise lounge, lay a woman of about the same age. She was everything he was not—vibrant, relaxed, and utterly at ease in the open air. Her skin was a light, even tan and her body was shapely, fit in the way of someone who took care of themselves without giving the impression the job took any effort. Her short haircut, a sharp bob that framed her elegant face, was the perfect summer cut. She wore a bikini that was both tasteful yet not matronly, hugging her curves, a resplendent display of confidence. She held a martini glass loosely in one hand, the other draped lazily across her stomach. The drink sparkled in the sunlight, a blue cheese-stuffed olive at the bottom of the crystalline concoction.
The woman took a sip now and then, savoring the taste, her lips curling into a contented smile. Her eyes were closed behind large, stylish sunglasses, and her breathing was slow and even, a soft sigh escaping her lips every few minutes as the sun warmed her skin.
The boat swayed gently, the soft lapping of water against the hull providing a rhythmic backdrop to the man’s thoughts and the woman’s physical lassitude.
The woman, half-dozing now, felt the warmth of the big yellow orb’s rays seep into her bones. She was drifting, not quite asleep, but somewhere in between, lulled by the motion and the sounds.
The man beside her moved suddenly, breaking the stillness. He stood, his movements careful, almost deliberate, as if testing each limb before committing to the next step. He walked slowly toward the stern, past the woman on the chaise lounge, without a word or a glance. She felt the change in the air, the shift in the light as his shadow passed over her, but she did not open her eyes. She was aware, in the way one is when half asleep, but not alert.
Reaching the swim platform at the back of the boat, the man paused. He glanced around, his lips pressed into a thin line.
He took a breath, steadying himself, and then after a long hesitation that caused his hands to start to quiver, he dove into the water. It was a feeble entry into the water, which combined with the man’s slim and lightweight frame, left almost no sound or splash. His body cut through the surface like a blade, barely making the slightest of ripples. Even in her light doze, the woman heard the faint whisper of the dive, felt just the slightest movement of the boat as one hundred and fifty-five pounds lifted off from the stern. A few moments passed, and then her breathing evened out again, her hand still grasping the stem of the now empty martini glass.
Minutes went by. The sun climbed higher, the day grew even warmer. The boat sat silently on the surface of the water, as if an invisible magnet was keeping it in place. Children on one of the other boats laughed, two men shouted over music, and an older man performed a cannonball to the delight of his grandkids.
Twenty minutes later, the woman stirred. She blinked, the sunlight bright even through her dark lenses, and sat up slightly. She placed the glass on the table beside her, and then paused. She turned her head, looking around the deck of the boat.
It was empty.
Her eyes moved to the stern, where the man had been sitting. His drink, the mango-flavored hard seltzer favored by sorority girls, sat untouched on the table. The woman pushed herself up from the chaise lounge, her movements slow, deliberate. She walked to the edge of the boat, her tan shapely bare feet silent on the deck, and peered over the side.
The water was calm, clear and… empty.
There was no sign of him. She scanned the lake, her gaze sweeping across the other boats, the swimmers, the bright dots of color that were swimsuits, bikinis and floaties. She leaned over, looking into the depths, her heart beginning to beat a little faster.
The currents in the lake were legendary, especially close to the Detroit River. The channel was deep enough to accommodate ocean-going freighters and it wasn’t unheard of for an unsuspecting swimmer in Lake St. Clair to get too close to the mouth of the river, be pulled under, and bob up, a few days later, dead, where the Detroit River empties into Lake Erie.
The woman’s breath quickened, her heart beginning to thud. She turned in a slow circle, her eyes scanning the horizon, the other boats, the distant shoreline.
Nothing.
No pale, middle-aged man floating in the water or, impossible even to imagine, partying on a stranger’s boat.
Just water and sun and silence.
She looked again at the swim platform. The woman knew she had heard him dive into the water. She hadn’t imagined it. Hadn’t dreamt it.
The woman stepped closer, leaning over the edge, squinting into the depths, searching for a sign, a shadow, anything.
She looked up and staring into the vastness of the lake, she called out his name in a shrill, panicked voice.
“Richard!”