Page 66 of Undertow

We exchange a knowing look.

“Two sets of books,” he mumbles.

I nod. “It’s confirmed. They’re laundering. Now we just have to find out for whom and what level of operation we’re dealing with.”

“You think it’s cartel money?”

His question is just a formality. I don’t even have to respond.

Instead, I stand and shove my phone in my pocket.

“Shaw?” Merrick says, stalling my retreat.

I turn back to meet his warning look. “I know you hate her, but you can’t afford any more enemies. Remember that.”

Right. Kind of hard when you can’t afford any friends either.

THEN: MASTER OF WOLVES

A wild duck showed up in our garden when I was seven. It was female, probably from the lake at the far end of our enormous wilderness property. I don’t know why she chose to make her nest beneath one of the hedges against the house when there had to be countless better locations to spawn and nurse her little family. No one seemed to notice her except for me, the lonely boy who just wanted a peek at something better.

Every morning, I’d run out to check on her, relieved to find her sitting on her nest. Instinctively, I knew not to disturb her and always kept my distance so as not to scare her away. She sat dutifully day after day until one morning—eggs!

A couple days later, more appeared. And soon I wasn’t just curious, I was enamored.

I knew I couldn’t keep them. They needed to be free, and my parents never allowed pets anyway, but somehow they still became mine. Every day I’d guard them, wanting to protect their innocence and be part of their sweet story. I’d imagine the winding trail of fluffy ducklings following behind her as she led them to the lake like I’d seen on the nature shows. I couldn’t wait for that day, ready to trail them discreetly and witness her patient love as she taught them how to swim and survive.

Then one morning they were gone.

Surprised, I searched the area for any sign of where they went while I slept. There were no broken eggs to indicate they hatched and took their trek to the lake. There was nothing but an empty nest filled with feathers. Could a duck move her eggs to another location?Wouldshe?

Yes, I told myself through mounting dread. Yes, she must have moved them closer to the lake.

Queasiness settled in that day and the next. Every time I caught a glimpse of that empty nest I would convince myself of the impossible.

Ducks can carry nine eggs. They could roll them… or… clutch them one at a time in their beaks. They could, right? They had to. I needed them to. God, how I needed them to.

But they can’t.

Razor confirmed it at dinner one night when he mentioned the fox he’d seen near the house. With callous indifference he praised the beast for “taking care of that damn duck problem.”

I burst into tears at the truth, sobbing at the table over the cold hard reality that this world was as broken and cruel as I feared. At age seven, I learned there was nothing better than what I knew. That predators would always hunt and destroy anything tender and precious.

Love and pain were synonymous.

And an hour later, locked in the dark shed, my small body still aching from their punishment for being weak, I swore I would never be a fox or a duck. I would be the wall, the one who stood between both to protect any sliver of good I could find in this horrific world. I would absorb the pain to preserve the hope of love.

But that too was the fantasy of a naïve boy. Because the truth is, there is no wall. We are all either fox or duck—and even that isn’t the whole story.

Years later, the predatory stare of Scarlett McArthur as she approaches the bar reminds me again about the real truth of our existence: We are all foxes or ducks in a world run by wolves.

“You didn’t come to my room last night,” she says in a scolding tone.

“I had to work.” I exaggerate my pour from the shaker to illustrate.

“All night?” Her tone is coy, but I can tell she’s upset. She’s probably not used to rejection.

“Actually, yes.”

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