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“We’re covering all our bases.”
I nod. “Look, if you’re done, I need to go. I can’t be here anymore.”
The Detective stands, grabs a card from a holder on his desk, and hands it to me. “Please contact me if you remember anything that could help the case. Are you planning on staying in town, or flying back out?”
I slide the card into the back pocket of my jean shorts. “I don’t know yet.”
“We have everything we need from you, if that helps your decision.”
“Perfect. I’ll just hit Salty Sals and be on my way, I guess.” I can’t help the anger rising inside me, moving in to fill the vulnerable void of grief.
“Good choice,” the Detective says, settling back into hischair, and returning his attention to his work. “You should try the crab.”
I turn on my heel, toss my backpack over my shoulder, and stride off down the hall. I don’t realize I’m running until I hit the parking lot, panting, doubled over, and struggling to breathe. Every time my eyes close, I see the videos. The flashing lights. The woman on the road. The Bronco as it launches off the bridge.
Paige was drunk? Paige never drinks. Not after the shit we went through in foster care.
I pull myself together out of habit, knowing no one will come along and do it for me. Then walk out to the main road, watching the cars as they soar past. Businesses and strip centers line the highway, punctuated occasionally by a palm tree growing out of a break in the concrete. I have no idea which way to go. Further into town and downtown, or back over the bridge to the beach?
Beach. It’s not my ocean, but it’s water. And it pulls at me all the same. I need time and space and steps separating me from the police department and the horror I just witnessed. I have no destination, no ride, nowhere to stay, and no idea what I’m supposed to do now. Do I stay, or do I go? Wait for a letter with a conclusion of the case? It’s not like I have a phone they can call. Do I look for her? Is she looking for me? Can I save her, if she can still be saved?
I’ve never felt so helpless, with everything I love on the line. All I can do is walk, lost, down this fucking beach that isn’t mine. Hoping to somehow stumble across all the answers I was never given, but so desperately need.
Chapter 4
Skye
Iwalk along the highway, against the traffic, baking in the midday sun as the clouds roll by few and thin, and an eternity apart. I’ve never known heat like this, but walking feels constructive. Several men on bicycles fly by me as I climb the bridge, with PVC holders for fishing rods and a five-gallon bucket strapped to the back. The breeze off the bay is cool but humid, and thick enough to taste like salt. I concentrate on just that, listening for the crash of the waves against the pilings, and searching for any thread of familiarity that may transport me home, if only for a moment.
Police tape billows from the orange cones encircling the broken section of the guardrail, and I pause. Black skid marks on the concrete arc into the cones, and I follow the trail, slipping beneath the tape. I step up to the edge until the toes of my boots hang off, and stare out at the bay. The breeze flows over me, pushing me back and tumbling the long purple tendrils of my hair. The crash of the waves below rises high and loud, silencingthe thunder of the traffic. It vibrates the bridge, traveling through the soles of my boots until I can feel the ocean inside me, but can’t touch it.
This is the last thing she saw before she went over. I close my eyes, my heart pounding against my chest. The night and the flashing lights. The line of police cars across the bridge. Chased and cornered. She was desperate. Paige didn’t kill herself. She was trying to save herself.
I need to do the same. I open my eyes and take a step back. Then another one. The road comes back into focus, and I slip beneath the tape. I follow the highway until it wraps around to the beach and blend into the mindless shuffling crowd of tourists, wandering aimlessly down the strip. I flip off several catcalls and let my mind get lost in the blur of traffic, and the echo of horns and motorcycles reverberating off the condos.
The afternoon sun slips down the sky and behind the wall of concrete, casting the street into shadows. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, and I have no destination.
When I finally stop to look up, I see a sign for a restaurant nestled between a high-rise condo and a small two-story motel. In blue neon lights, a wave curls in a series of flashes, encircling the name: The Sandbar and Grill.
Paige’s restaurant.
The building is large, adorned with dark stained wood and carved tiki poles for columns, with more space for outdoor dining than indoor availability. Decks wind around the entire outside of the building, with tables covered by teal umbrellas. Servers shuffle around the diners, table to table, like a dance. They’re packed, with a full parking lot and more walking up from the beach beyond the deck.
A connecting catwalk travels down the beach in both directions, one to the neighboring condo, and one to the small motel on the far side. A jetty reaches out from the beach and arcs around the cove, sandwiching an extension of the catwalk between walls of dark rocks, and fingering out into docks for a small marina. The land ends beyond the jetty, just behind the motel, and I see boats bobbing in the water as they pass through the inlet and into the bay.
I can’t seem to get my feet to move, stuck there on the sidewalk as a torrent of emotions tumble through my mind. Paige has friends here. A life. A guy she’s seeing. Is she important to them? Is there someone inside as fucked up about all this as I am? Is Evan? I chew my bottom lip. Something doesn’t add up about Evan’s alibi. Paige said they were both going to the Aurora, and they do most of their business on the weekends. Then he stays late at the Sandbar for inventory on a Friday night? It doesn’t add up.
I need to see him. I can’t stand here and wonder. I stride up to the restaurant’s front double doors, replacing my anger with determination. I won’t tear him apart. Not yet. I’ll even be nice, because more flies with honey and all that shit.
The lobby is bright and colorful, with high ceilings and walls of Sandbar-branded merchandise arranged around the hostess stand. Perfect, squared-off stacks of folded shirts line the shelves, followed by shot glasses, magnets, containers of pens, and beach items bearing slogans like “Life’s a Beach” and “Seas the Day at the Sandbar”. I wait restlessly and expectantly for several minutes for a hostess to arrive, but it never happens.
I wander further inside, across a large space with shiny hardwood floors surrounded by high-top tables, and a stagefor entertainment. Speaker boxes hang from the walls throughout the room, and two spiral staircases lead up to a second floor. It extends into a secondary room lined with windows and bathed in bright light, where tables of customers dine and servers move around them with trays of food and drinks.
In a curving wave, a polished wooden bar stretches from beneath the staircase and into the dining room, with teal leather stools tucked beneath. The wall behind the bar is lit with blue lights, backing an impressive collection of liquors. A man with shaggy brown hair walks up, shining a highball glass with a towel.
“Hey, welcome to the Sandbar. What can I get you?” His demeanor is easy and laid back as he shakes his hair out of his eyes, with a smile so magnetic I can actually feel it pulling at the button on my shorts. The tourists must love him.
“I’m not here to eat,” I answer back. “I just want to talk to Evan.”
