Chapter Twelve
The yacht club looked exactly as it should—polished wood, soft lighting, a rhythm designed to reassure money it was safe among its own. Conversations floated above the low hum of background jazz, laughter punctuating the air with just enough restraint to suggest privilege.
Matt entered with the posture of someone who belonged. He moved through unnoticed after a brief check in with the attendant at the front desk. Matt belonged to clubs like this when he worked as a financial advisor and knew what to say to be welcomed but unnoticed.
He kept his eyes averted from the staff (the only people who might interact with him) and nodded gently to members who noticed him. He walked around with purpose and checked the place out without drawing attention.
He counted exits. Four on the main floor, two more accessible only from the kitchen. The private dining wing offered another route—hidden in plain sight behind a wall of decorative paneling. The bar was a big draw and he found the restrooms.
Matt watched how the members moved and acted. Then he drew his attention to the staff. The bartender leaned a fraction closer when pouring for members he recognized. The hostess laughed differently depending on who was in front of her. The security guard near the dock scanned faces out of habit, not suspicion.
Count seconds between glances.
Count cameras.
Count distractions.
He could fit here easily. His concern was the bartender, servers, maintenance, even valet. No one would remember him if he played it correctly.
He moved through the back hall toward the locker rooms—clean lines, cedar walls, tiled floors that absorbed sound. The hum of a dryer filled the air, masking small noises. He noted sightlines, blind corners, and how quickly a body could disappear between doors before anyone noticed.
When he finally stepped back outside, the air off the water was cooler now, carrying the scent of fuel, salt, and money. Boats swayed gently against their moorings, lights glimmering across the surface of the lake like fragments of glass.
He didn’t need certainty. He needed access.
And he had it.
The rest would come when it was time.
He crossed the parking lot toward the hotel that sat adjacent to the marina—neutral territory for travelers and members alike. Inside, the air-conditioning hit him with a sterile chill. The hallways smelled faintly of chlorine and carpet cleaner.
He changed in silence and walked out to the pool. The water was calm, reflecting the sky’s deepening blue.
Matt slipped in slowly, the temperature shock clearing his head. Each stroke through the water was measured, deliberate. Movement brought clarity; stillness brought noise.
He swam until his muscles began to loosen and the tension in his chest leveled into focus. Floating on his back, he looked toward the faint outline of the yacht club’s upper deck—soft light bleeding through glass, laughter drifting faintly across the water.
The peace before the storm.
This one wouldn’t be easy.
It had to be clean, final, and without detection.
He let the water close over him once more before surfacing and swimming to the edge. Tomorrow would demand precision. Tonight was about control.