Page 115 of The Wild Beneath

Evan’s words feel far away. Annie listens for the sound, the one that reattaches her and makes her feel like she’s not going to float away.

“He saved me, but he couldn’t get back on board... And then we hit the rocks. He didn’t come back up. I tried to find him. I tried so hard.”

“Is there any chance he survived?”

“He wasn’t wearing a life jacket,” Evan says, as if the matter is settled.

Annie does not understand why she believes, even now, that Walker is alive and that for some reason he’s trying to reach her.

“Maybe he’s the one who should have lived,” Evan says. “I’ve thought that—­”

“Stop.”

He grabs the front of his shirt. “It’s my fault we ended up here.”

“Don’t.” Annie puts her hand up. “We’ve made a good life here.”

“Maybe if we went back home, we could start again?”

Time passes. A lifetime, or a few more seconds. The next thing she knows, he is beside her, pulling her against him, whispering into her ear. “I want us to be okay.”

She wants them to be okay, too.

“I love you,” he says. “No matter what.”

“I’ve always loved you.”

“Come here.” He pulls her down on the bed, face to face, noses touching, tracing the lines of her cheeks, over her eyebrows and around her ears. It’s slow and deliberate. Her sweater is over her head, his shirt is off. Pants and underwear, too. All of it. His hands follow a familiar route along her ribcage and the backs of her thighs. Their bodies talking this way: skin on skin, chest to chest, hips against hips, trying to find their way back.

Afterward, his hand cups her ear the way she likes, giving her quiet.

The sweet escape of sleep.

When Annie rouses again, it’s late. Or early. The grey space of predawn. How much time has passed? She sits up and swings her bare feet to the floor. Evan reaches over, draws her back toward him and whispers: “Stay here.”

She wants to stay.

But Walker’s sound comes through the ground like a siren. She hugs herself and compresses it into her lungs, her blood, as if it could tell her what to do next.

Chapter 46

Hours later, Annie is packing.

It isn’t a decision she made with her rational brain. It’s early morning, still dark outside, and she’s standing in the kitchen with the backpack in her hands. Evan sleeps while she puts in clothes, a sleeping bag, a pair of mitts. Cash in the front pocket. Her hands do this without her explicit permission.

But her heartbeat is slow and strong.

Evan comes into the kitchen in his T-shirt and boxers, hair messy from sleep. He pours himself a coffee from the percolator and leans against the wall. He frowns when he sees the open backpack on the floor.

Annie is slicing white cheddar—­she’ll need a sandwich for the trip.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I have to go up there.”

He blows on his coffee for a few seconds. “What about work?”

“I sent Easton an email.”