Page 28 of One Last Chance

Another beat. Was the ocean getting darker outside his window?

“Sorry. I tried the radio again. No answer. How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better.” He grimaced, hating the desperation in his voice. Blew out a breath. He wasn’t dead yet. “So, Sparrow, are you from Alaska?”

“No. I . . . I came out here because of a friend.”

“Where’re you from?” The boat was turning, starting to roll to its side. He braced himself on the cabinet.

“Minnesota.”

“I have family there. My great-uncle and some second cousins. They live on a lake.”

“Everybody lives on a lake. There’s ten thousand to pick from.”

He liked her. She was no-nonsense, had a bit of wit to her. “Have you always been a wolf researcher?”

Silence. Another beat. For a second he feared?—

“No. I was . . . a detective.”

“Like Sherlock Holmes?”

“Maybe. I hunted serial killers.”

“Sort of a dark hobby.”

“It paid the bills.”

“So does river-monster hunting, but nobody is signing up for that.”

“What is river-monster hunting?”

“You know, that show where some guy shoves his arm in an underwater cave or log and pulls out a catfish with teeth the size of my hand clamped on to his bloody arm.”

“And now that’s an image I’ll have to sleep with.”

“Not if you never go river-monster hunting.” The boat continued to turn in the water.

“I’ll cross that off my bucket list.”

“What else is on your bucket list?”

Another pause, and he found himself smiling.

“Okay, in truth I don’t have a bucket list.”

“Yes you do. Everybody has a bucket list.” Canned goods rolled across the ceiling, fell onto the bench.

“Fine, what’s on yours?”

He blew out a breath. “Besides living through this?” He caught a can of peaches before it beaned him. Set it on the bench.

“That’s a given.”

“Fine. Bungee jumping.”

“You aren’t serious.”

---