Lake — Falcon

Leo opened the first one. The handwriting was small, urgent, pressed hard into the page. Dates from twenty years ago. Coordinates. Names. Deposits. Withdrawals. Ledgers, but not for money. For people.

If you find this, I am already at the bottom. I was the coyote who kept the books. For twenty years, I moved them across the water—at night, in the fog, past the Border Patrol boats. I thought I was helping. But last month, I saw a boy drown. Right there, fifty yards from the shore. His name was Emilio. I pulled him out, but he was already gone. The man who paid me said to leave him. Said it was just business. Falcon Lake

Most tourists came for the trophy bass—the double-digit giants that lurked in the flooded brush. But Leo came for the quiet. And lately, the quiet had been speaking to him. Leo opened the first one

His name was Leo, and he knew the lake’s secrets. Coordinates

But Leo swore, just for a moment, he heard it ring.