Salvage Read Free Page A

Owen's shoulder. Trevor wore a neatly tailored black suit jacket atop a kilt, the black of his jacket sharply offset by splashes of blood red in his pocket square and thick knee-high socks, over which he wore sandals. His caramel-brown pate, shaved to the skin, glistened under the bar lights. "You'd think this was a wedding ," he remarked.
    "The way that minister was going on," Owen said, "she might've married Lori to Jesus."
    Trevor snickered and clapped him on the back. "You're sick, man."
    Owen mused at how accurate Trevor's comment was, despite being a backhanded compliment.
    "It's really too bad about Lori, man," Trevor said. "She was a good kid. I'm really gonna miss her."
    Owen nodded and stuffed another cheese-laden cracker into his mouth.
    Trevor watched him chew for a moment. He seemed to recognize the mouthful had been meant to halt the conversation, and returned Owen's nod. "You take it easy, Ownsy," he said. He eyed Owen queerly and moved past.
    Owen swallowed. "Yeah," he said, still half-chewing and glad for the easy out. "You, too." He watched while Trevor ambled over to another crowd of friends. Trevor glanced back at him with another strange look, and then raised his glass for a toast. The others responded by raising theirs.
    Owen stood alone by the food table—reliving those junior school dance parties all over again—and began to wonder how much longer his mother intended to be here. He'd already had drinks with some of Lori's friends, and he knew they were likely to celebrate into the wee hours, then move on in search of an after-party. He decided that, if he and his mother were obligated to stay until the last of the mourners decided to call it a night, then he would excuse himself early.
    A young white guy dressed in a Middle Eastern kurta approached the table, picked up a napkin and plate, and began loading the plate with enough food for a group of three. "Excuse me," he said, reaching the place where Owen had planted himself. "Oh, hey. You're Lori's brother, aren't you? Don't tell me…"
    "Owen."
    "Of course." The kid smiled pleasantly. His whitened teeth gleamed against his deep tan. "I'm Hanson," he said, holding up his free hand in a motionless wave.
    "We met at Lori's twentieth. You're the diver, right?"
    "Did we?" Hanson said absently. "Yes, diving is one of my passions." He gestured toward one of the snacks on the table. "Are these vegan, do you think?" He answered his own question with a shake of his head. "Best not to risk it."
    "You taught Lori how to dive," Owen said.
    "That sounds like it might be an accusation," Hanson replied, though it didn't seem to bother him enough to spoil his appetite.
    "It's not—" Owen hadn't meant to accuse the kid of criminal negligence, but he supposed somebody had to be to blame for Lori's drowning, and her diving instructor seemed to him the likeliest culprit. Still, he didn't want to get into a fight at his sister's funeral. "I don't mean it's your—"
    "Have you ever dived before, Owen?"
    "Not unless I was pushed."
    Hanson chuckled. "Well, Owen, it's an unfortunate fact that things like this happen. It's a tragedy, of course, but it's something you have to consider when you go under. Something as simple as a kink in the hose could—sorry to be blunt—kill you. You can die of panic if the water's deep enough. Think about that for a second. We call it blue orb syndrome. You become disoriented; you can't decide what's up or down, the bottom or the surface. You hyperventilate . You may see things that aren't necessarily there."
    "I guess," was all Owen could think to say.
    "Respectfully, Owen, you're not qualified to guess."
    Oh, but I do know , Owen thought. I know too much .
    According to the officer involved in the case, they had found Lori's body in the low, muddy reeds where fishermen trolled for smallmouth bass. Owen had pressed for details when he and his mother had gone to the police station, but his mother had strangely not wanted to hear them, and