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Maybe it is time that I find out the entire story. Straightening my cuffs, I head to find her. After ten minutes of searching, I find a note.
H —
Went to the beach.
Persephone
It’s written in her cartoonish chicken scratch handwriting. I would have thought that an artist would have very neat handwriting, or an elegantly looping cursive hand. But her note makes some part of my stomach flip flop, churning uncertainly.
Why I’m so weak around Penny, I don’t know. Especially here, in my father’s house, I should remember to be better.
Have I learned nothing from watching my mother and father?
Still, I take a moment to tuck the note into my wallet before proceeding down to the shore. At the closest spot where the heather and tall grass give way to a short, sandy shore, I find Penny.
She seems lost in thought, a tiny figure dressed in a black dress and oversized sweater. The wind blows, a steady cool stream coming straight off the Atlantic. Penny’s dark hair is a creature apart from her, whipping around her head and infused with life.
She turns when I am a dozen feet away, startling and blotting at her eyes. Her face is mottled from crying.
My footsteps slow and I tilt my head, puzzled. Women are emotional, fickle creatures. But this is the first time I have experienced one of them crying alone. In my view, they only ever cry because it brings drama. It’s a tool they can use to manipulate men with, nothing else.
And yet, Penny stiffens as I approach. She turns back to look at the writhing, crashing water. As I draw level with her, I see a flush creep into her cheeks. She pretends that she was not crying, clearing her throat casually.
“Hades,” she says by way of greeting. Squinting out across the waves, she avoids my curious gaze.
I stop an arm’s length from her body. She shivers and draws her sweater tighter around her body. I read that as a cue to put my arm around her, offering her the heat of my body.
But she flinches when I get close. She studies me through her slightly puffy eyes.
“I came out here to be alone,” she says. Her tone is soft, but the rebuke is still there.
I drop my arm, trying to figure out her mood. She doesn’t seem withdrawn. Rather, she just comes off as a bit sad and deadened.
“And why is that?” I ask, after staring at her for a moment.
She pulls a face and looks out over the sea, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“I had a bad dream.”
I cock my head. “Bad enough to chase ye out of the house?”
She nods slowly, absorbed in her thoughts. “Yes. I had the same nightmare I always do.”
I wait for her to offer more. When she doesn’t, I sigh. “And that is?”
Penny sniffs, darting a glance at me. “I dreamt about the night that Constantine tried to kill me.” She sucks in a hissed breath. “I think he thought I was dead. And until I saw him in Monaco, I thought I had done a good job of living off the grid.”
My brows rise. “That’s why ye were living in the middle of nowhere? I hate to tell ye this, Penny, but I got yer name and address without much digging. If I was able to find ye with so little trouble, I doubt ye were ever truly hidden.”
“Yes, well.” She shoots me a little glare. “We’ll never know now.”
She turns and starts walking up toward the house, her steps wooden and slow as molasses. I follow, perplexed.
“I dinnae understand. What happened between ye two? Ye said that he tried to kill ye, but…”
She considers me for a moment as she starts wading into the long grass, leaving the beach behind.
“It’s a long story.”
