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Therapist: “You must surface now. Leave this place for the time being. You are leaving the building. You must save yourself.” The therapist is insistent, in control. “On my count.”
Patient, frantic: “Yes! Okay. But . . . but I have to hurry! And bring Luke—”
Therapist: “Three. And you’re leaving the Sea View cannery and the past behind.”
Patient: “If I leave Luke, he’ll die. All over again. I can’t—”
Therapist, firmly: “Two. And you’re nearly awake.”
Patient: “I—I need to talk to him. To explain.” But the patient is acquiescing.
Therapist: “One.”
The patient’s eyes open to the small, dimly lit room that smells faintly of jasmine. As the patient lies in the recliner staring at the ceiling, the patient’s breathing returns to normal. Calm restored, the patient meets the therapist’s eyes.
Smiling benignly, the therapist says softly, “And you’re back.”
; PROLOGUE
20 years ago
Midnight
Edgewater, Oregon
Are you out of your frickin’ mind?
The nagging voice in Rachel’s brain chased after her as she ran through the dry weeds that had sprouted through decades-old asphalt. The night was dark, just a sliver of the moon visible, its pale light a dim glow that came and went in the undulating clouds overhead. Soon the clouds would settle and sprawl over the river, fog oozing and crawling through the forgotten piers and pilings to encase this abandoned building and move inland to cover the town. Through the thin mist, only one dim security light offered any sort of illumination, and she tripped twice before reaching the mesh fence surrounding the abandoned fish cannery.
You can’t do this, Rachel. Really. Think about it. Your dad’s a cop. A damned detective. Stop!
She didn’t. Instead she slipped through a hole in the fence, her backpack catching on a jagged piece of wiring and ripping as she pressed forward, following her friend. Well, at least her once-upon-a-time friend. Now Rachel wasn’t so sure. Petite, vibrant Lila was more interested in Rachel’s older brother, Luke, than she was in Rachel.
“Hurry up!” Lila called over her shoulder from twenty yards ahead. Her blond hair reflected the weak light as she ran along the bridge, a narrow, crumbling roadway built on piers over the water.
Rachel sped up, following.
As she had forever, it seemed. Lila always came up with the plans and Rachel went along.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Luke had said about six months ago while driving home from school, Rachel riding shotgun. “It’s like you’re some kind of lap dog, y’know, a puppy following her around.” He’d slid a glance her way, his blue eyes knowing.
“I am not,” she’d argued, glancing out the window at the gray Oregon day, rain drizzling down the glass, but she’d felt the little sting of it, the truth to it. Luke had been right, though she’d hated to admit it.
Now, the tables had turned as he and Lila had become a “thing.” Which was probably worse.
“Rach! Come on!” Lila now called over her shoulder. “We’re already late!”
“Yeah, to our own funeral.”
“Wha–oh, shut up!” Lila waved off Rachel’s reticence and kept moving. According to Rachel’s mother, Lila was a good girl gone bad, one who went through boyfriends faster than most people used up a roll of paper towels. “She’s too smart and pretty for her own good. Always looking for trouble, that one,” Melinda Gaston had warned on more than one occasion. “She’s the kind of girl who sees what she wants and goes for it, no matter who she steps on in the process.”
Most likely true. No, absolutely true.
“Come on!”
Rachel sped up, following the faint light of the reflective strips on the back of Lila’s running shoes. Following. Ever following. A problem. She’d work on that, but not tonight.
