“And you’re not?”
“Exactly my point. We both are. We’ll just jump into the river.”
I dig my heels in a little. The thought of seeing Ross in all his buck-naked glory in the stream sure is appealing, but... “We can’t do this. We can’t just get naked. Someone will see us.”
“Nobody will. I know a spot, with a small rock pool.”
“That where you wash yourself?”
“Sometimes, now in Summer.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure nobody will see us?”
“Boy scout’s honor.”
Unconvinced, I follow him, liking his hand around mine way too much. “You, a boy scout?”
“Me? Never.” He shrugs, unrepentant. “I can’t stand their little uniforms.”
“Or rules,” I mutter.
“Or those,” he agrees.
Figures. The image of little Ross in khaki pants and shirt and tall socks doing treasure hunts and singing around the fire makes me giggle.
He leads me through the scraggly trees and saplings, steadying me when my sandal slips on pebbles, shifting his hand to grip my elbow. It’s quite beautiful out here, with the stream burbling below, the smell of wet earth and rock.
He takes off his boots, his socks and pants, leaving his boxer briefs and T-shirt on. I strip down to my undies, crossing my arms under my boobs, not even sure why I bother. He’s seen it all.
While I haven’t seen the whole of him. In fact...
“And your T-shirt?” I ask.
He says nothing, doesn’t move to take it off.
Something’s off with that. He’s not shy, quite the opposite. He’s so confident about his looks, his body, his strength, his appeal. So why won’t he take the thing off?
Before I have a chance to say something more, though, he grabs me around the waist and drags me into the water.
I almost scream when my feet hit the stream. “Oh-my-god, it’s so cold!”
He snickers and hauls me deeper. The water flows around us, clear like crystal, and it actually feels good after the heat of the day. He splashes me, and I splash him back. He chases me to the bank and then I chase him back into the stream until we’re both soaking wet and laughing.
Then a thought hits me, colder than the water. “We’re not near where the bodies... where they were buried, right?”
He shakes his head. “It’s that way.” He points. “Past the shed, where there’s a bend in Little River, across from the Pagoda.”
Right. I remember glimpsing it from the shed.
“The Lesters own it,” I whisper, as if there might be someone listening in. “You think they might have seen something?”
“Back then?” He doesn’t reply for a while. Then he says, “I bet the cops questioned everyone already. You know... I sometimes wonder if there’s any evidence in the house, or in the shed. In the garden.”
“Evidence?”
“Of who that other woman was.”
“They still don’t know?”