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Emma, suddenly enthusiastic, clapped her gloves together. “Omigod! You caught the Loch Ness Monster!”

Ava wrinkled her nose. She knew the darting feel of a fish underwater. This wasn’t it. “I think I got snagged.” This part of the lake was filled with sunken logs and other debris. At least once every fishing trip, Ava and her dad had to cut the line free and start over.

But now there was a little give. A sense of lift. Maybe it was a fish after all. Or a piece of trash small enough that Ava could bring it up and at least retrieve the hook. She handed the reel to Emma. “Hold this!” She dropped to her knees over the hole and grabbed the line with her hands, feeling the tension through her gloves. Not a fish, but not a log either. Whatever it was, it was shifting. Rising.

“I need more light!” Ava called out.

Emma pulled a flashlight from her pocket and flicked it on. She leaned forward, her head next to Ava’s, and pointed the beam down into the black water.

Ava pulled and pulled. “Don’t snap, don’t snap,” she mumbled to herself.

The flashlight beam caught a flash of white.

Emma dropped the flashlight and screamed.

Ava scooped up the flashlight and bent down until her nose was almost touching the water. Then she rocked back in horror.

Staring up at them was a human face.

What was left of it.

CHAPTER 2

IN THE VILLAGE of Archer’s Branch in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York, one of the few lights in the center of town came from the basement of a Unitarian church. The congregation’s denomination didn’t matter, though, for this particular gathering. At least half the attendees were nonbelievers, including the two newest members of the group:

Brendan Holmes and Auguste Poe.

The Alcoholics Anonymous meeting moderator leaned forward in his folding chair. He was a round-bellied guy named Buck Gregson. His khakis and sweatshirt gave him the look of a high school football coach. Gregson was a former drunk. He was also the local sheriff.

“Who wants to go first tonight?” he asked.

Holmes fidgeted in his chair. He preferred to get this part over with. He raised his hand. “Hi. I’m Brendan, and I’m a drug addict.”

“Hi, Brendan!” the others called back in unison. All five of them. At this open AA meeting, anyone with an addiction problem, not only alcoholics, was welcome.

“Anything to share tonight, Brendan?” Gregson asked.

Holmes shook his head. “Nothing special, except that as of this moment I’m five months and two weeks clean.”

“Well,” said Gregson, nodding at Holmes in encouragement, “I’d say that is pretty special.”

There was a smattering of applause. Holmes held up his palms, embarrassed by the attention. And, as always, he preferred not to dwell on his recovery.

“Who’s next?” asked Gregson.

Holmes turned to Poe, his closest friend, and elbowed him until he spoke up.

“I’m Auguste,” Poe mumbled finally, “and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Auguste!” the rest of the group called out.

And so it went, around the small circle. By now, Holmes knew all the others’ stories by heart. For somebody accustomed to dealing with criminals and deceivers, it was an unusual group. Holmes couldn’t detect a whiff of deception in any of them. Their forthrightness bored him to tears.

Dean, the local auto-repair shop owner, had been sober for two months. Rick, the town pharmacist, had recently kicked amphetamines. Father Alan, the retired parish priest, had drained his last bottle of altar wine a decade ago. Solid citizens all.

Though Holmes was the only Black man in the group—virtually the only Black person in the whole town—the other members of the AA ensemble commented more on Poe’s dark mustache. “You look like a gunslinger,” Father Alan had teased one night.

“Maybe I am,” Poe had replied.