Memories surface like debris in a flood. My father’s disappointed face when I came home drunk at sixteen. My mother’s tears when I missed my grandmother’s funeral because I was passed out in some stranger’s apartment.
Uncle Tomas, the only one who ever believed I could be more than the family screwup, pulled me aside at Christmas five years ago.
“You’re killing yourself, Kane,” he’d said, eyes filled with concern rather than judgment. “And for what?”
I never answered him. Now I wonder if he isn’t dead, if I’ll ever get the chance.
When the panic threatens to overwhelm me completely, I feel vibrations through the sand. Footsteps. They are back.
Relief floods through me.
The weight shifts suddenly as one of them starts to dig.
Call it weakness, but I grab hold of their hand like it’s a lifeline.
Chapter 8
Kori
The first rays of sunlight filter through the cottage windows, finding me curled on the sofa where I’ve spent the night. My eyes feel swollen, raw from another bout of crying that overtook me somewhere in the early hours. The fire has long since died, leaving only gray ash and the faint scent of burnt wood. And a coldness that chills me to the bone.
I sit up slowly, my body aching from the awkward sleeping position. Outside, the sea crashes against the cliffs below Wavecrest, a constant, thundering reminder that the world continues regardless of my pain. I wrap the knitted throw tighter around my shoulders and shuffle to the kitchen to make tea.
While the kettle boils, I catch my reflection in the window. My choppy haircut looks even worse in daylight, uneven chunks sticking out at odd angles. Dark circles shadow my eyes, making me look haunted. I suppose I am.
The tea is hot and comforting as I carry it to theporch, settling into the weathered Adirondack chair that faces the sea. The wind whips my hair around my face, and the salt spray mists my skin. I take a sip, then another, but the lump in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.
“Why her?” I whisper to the endless horizon. “Of all the women in the world, why my sister?”
The tears come again, unbidden and unstoppable. I set the teacup down before I drop it, hugging my knees to my chest as sobs wrack my body. The wind carries my cries away, scattering them across the water like the seagulls sweeping overhead.
I cry until I’m empty, until there’s nothing left but hiccupping breaths and a hollowness that echoes inside me. Five years of marriage. A lifetime of sisterhood. Both were destroyed in an instant.
When I can finally breathe normally again, I go back inside, determined to do something—anything—to keep from dissolving into tears again. I need to explore the cottage properly, take inventory of what’s here and what I’ll need from the village.
The main floor is just as I remember—a living room with the massive fireplace, a kitchen, a dining area, and a bathroom tucked under the stairs. Upstairs are three bedrooms and another bathroom. I chose the smallest bedroom, unable to face the master suite with its king-sized bed that reminds me too much of the one Mark and I shared.
I’m searching through the hall closet for freshlinens when something catches my eye—a long metallic object leaning in the corner behind a stack of board games. I reach past Monopoly and Scrabble and pull it out.
It’s a metal detector with a set of headphones zip-tied to it.
A memory surfaces of Jen’s younger brother combing the beach during that college trip, convinced he’d find pirate treasure or ancient Celtic artifacts. I’d forgotten all about it.
I turn the device over in my hands and check the battery compartment. Two D-batteries sit inside, probably dead after all this time. I head to the kitchen, where I know I’d seen some batteries in a drawer. I find a pack of new ones and replace them.
“Why not?” I say aloud to the empty cottage as I replace the batteries with fresh ones. The beach below is deserted this time of year, stretching for nearly a mile in either direction. Maybe I’ll find something interesting. At the very least, it will keep my hands and mind occupied for a few hours.
I change into jeans and a thick sweater, pull on the Wellington boots I found by the door, grab a light jacket, then put on the headphones. The metal detector feels awkward in my hands at first, but by the time I’ve navigated the steep path down to the beach, I’ve figured out how to adjust the height and turn it on.
The machine comes to life with a series of beeps,the needle on the display jumping erratically. I have no idea what I’m doing, but it doesn’t matter. I need something to focus on besides the image of Mark and Lana together that keeps replaying in my mind.
The sand is damp and firm beneath my feet, perfect for walking. I start at the water’s edge, sweeping the detector in a slow arc before me as I move along the shoreline. For several minutes, there’s nothing but the occasional high-pitched whine when I pass over a particularly wet patch of sand.
Then suddenly—a sharp, insistent beeping. I stop, moving the detector back and forth until I pinpoint the spot. Kneeling, I dig with my fingers, scooping away wet sand until I touch something hard and metallic.
I pull out a bottle cap, crusted with sand and rust. Not exactly buried treasure, but I feel a small thrill, nonetheless. I drop it into my pocket and continue my slow march down the beach.
The rhythm becomes meditative—sweep, step, sweep, step. The constant motion and concentration required push all thoughts to the back of my mind. They’re not gone completely but temporarily contained.
