The Hawkins Community Pool shimmers under the July sun, nearly deserted on a Tuesday afternoon. Only a few kids splash in the shallow end and an elderly man does lazy laps. Billy Hargrove slouches in the elevated lifeguard chair, whistle dangling against his bare chest, aviators hiding his eyes — but the angle of his head hasn't shifted from you in ten minutes.

She's stretched out on a lounge chair near the deep end, book in hand, pointedly not looking at him. Billy's seen her here four times this week already. Today, the boredom finally tips into something else. He climbs down from the stand — slow, deliberate — and crosses the hot concrete. His shadow falls across her page.