15. Marcus
Chapter fifteen
Marcus
T he lake water clawed at me.
Even through the wetsuit, the lake's temperature gnawed at my ribs, shoulders, and the knots of muscle along my spine. A cold that didn't shock so much as sink in, like hands pressing down, holding me under. I ignored it and pulled harder, forcing my body to cut through the resistance. The lake was mine. I had to reclaim it.
Eighty-eight.
Counting kept me steady. Numbers had always been neutral. Simple. Proof of control.
Ninety-one.
The mannequin had collapsed just like that. Precision in the folds of its fall, the fire working through the plastic, eating its way to the joints. Hands curling in, knees buckling, head bowing forward. Not random. Never random. Elliot had designed it that way, knowing I'd understand.
Ninety-five
Water surged into my goggles. I jerked my head up, sputtering, heart hammering against my ribs. The sky wheeled above me—gray, endless, a reflection of the water swallowing my legs.
I sucked in a breath. Too sharp.Get it together.
The shoreline was farther than I expected. A few early risers stood near the dock, stretching, pulling on running gear, shaking out stiff muscles.None of them were looking at me.But that didn't mean no one was watching.
I wiped my face, adjusted my goggles, and kicked forward.If I stopped, he won.
One hundred ten.
The mannequin had knelt, and so had I. I was on the factory floor, pulling my father's burned-out stopwatch from the wreckage. Holding it in my hands like a relic, knowing I'd been given a script to follow, and I was already reading my lines.
One hundred thirteen.
A shadow flickered in the corner of my vision.
I spun toward the shore, kicking up a spray. The water around me shuddered with my movement, rippling outward in overlapping rings.Nothing there.Just the tree line, the parked cars, and the faint silhouette of a runner moving along the trail.
Elliot had been here before. Maybe not this morning, maybe not now, but his fingerprints were in every inch of the water.
My pulse slammed against my throat. I swam harder.
Katie was waiting for me when I hit the shore.
She had that look—arms crossed, and her weight shifted slightly to one side, mouth set just shy of disapproval. "Jesus, McCabe."
I yanked my wetsuit down to my waist, the lake's chill deep in my bones. "Didn't realize my morning routine required commentary."
"Wasn't commentary. That was the start of a eulogy." She tipped her chin toward my hands. They were shaking. Not a lot, but enough. "You wanna tell me what you're proving out there?"
"Nothing."
"Uh-huh." Her eyes scanned the bruises on my forearms and the deep-set exhaustion I hadn't quite managed to shake.She saw too much.Always had. "You think killing yourself in open water is gonna fix this?"
I shoved my wet gear into my bag, my breath still too uneven. "I'm not—"
"Right." She exhaled, rocking back on her heels. "Because you look real stable right now."
Something in her voice softened. She wasn't just talking as another athlete. She recognized a fellow first responder caught in a downward spiral.
I should have walked away. Should have shut it down before she could keep pushing, but then she said it—casual, like an afterthought, except it wasn't.
"Saw that guy again. The one who asked about your training."
I froze.
"Where?"
"Parking lot." She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Didn't approach me. Didn't do anything. Just watching."
I made myself breathe. "You get a good look at him?"
"Not really. Tall. Maybe mid-thirties? Dressed like he belonged here. Running gear, hoodie, nothing that screamed serial killer." Her lips thinned. "But the way he looked at you—"
Her voice caught for a second. Katie didn't get rattled. Not easily.
"Like he already knew what you'd do next," she finished.
***
My apartment was too still.
I let the door slam behind me, needing the sound to break up the silence. The inside of my wetsuit bag stank of sweat and lake water. I dumped it in the sink, peeling my wet clothes off piece by piece, the fabric clinging to my skin.
Elliot's logs of my training sat open on the counter.
April 15: Pre-dawn swim, 0445-0615. Black wetsuit with orange safety buoy. Right shoulder showing fatigue after ladder drills—form deteriorating after 2000 yards. Maintaining 1:42/100 pace despite compensation. Discussion with K. Brenner about swim clinic cancelled due to schedule conflict.
I dragged a hand through my hair. The words weren't mine, butthey could have been.
Elliot wasn't just watching me. He was documenting me. Studying my body, my endurance, and my failures.
I flipped to another page.
April 18: Sunrise brick session. 45-mile loop; modified route due to road work on Westlake. Blue Specialized bike, new cleats (still adjusting position—causing slight knee rotation). Nine-minute miles on run, HR elevated. Stopped twice to stretch left IT band.
My stomach turned. I gripped the edge of the counter, my pulse hammering in my ears.
How much of this was still me? I turned toward the mirror across the room. My reflection stared back—same face, same body. But something in my stance lookedwrong.
Or maybe it didn't. Maybe I was looking for signs of transformation because Elliot wanted me to.
You're already changing, McCabe. Can't you feel it? The floor tilted.
My stomach flipped violently. I barely made it to the sink before I was dry-heaving, throat burning, hands braced against the counter.
This isn't real.
But it was.
I dropped onto the floor, my spine hitting the cabinets. The wet tile was freezing under my legs, but I needed it. I needed to feel something that belonged to me.
My phone lay on the table, screen dark.
James.
His number was right there.He'd answer.If I picked up that phone and called him,he'd know.He'd hear it in my voice,the cracks.
I reached for it. My fingers hovered over the screen. Just call him.
I let my hand fall. If I let James in now, it was real. And I wasn't ready for that.