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Heather makes a horrified sound and slowly turns her phone toward me. Her hand is shaking as I take it from her. I scan over the news article, my heart speeding as my breathing stops. There’s a photo of a bridge, early morning, as amber hues rise out of the sea and reach into the night sky. Police cars sit along the road with their lights flashing, illuminating the darkened figures of people standing near the railing. A crane arm extends from a tow truck, with a cable dropping toward the water, attached to a vehicle. I expand the photo, my mouth going dry.
The cable is attached to a light blue ’82 Bronco, suspended high above the sea.
“Ma’am?” The voice on her phone questions.
“Still here,” I manage to choke out as Heather’s phone slides out of my hand and clatters across the hardwood floor. “What, um…” I struggle to swallow. “So she drove off the bridge, and you haven’t found her?”
“She hasn’t been located yet.”
“And the people, that woman on the bicycle, and the officer…”
“They’re both dead. If we find Paige alive, she’s going to jail for murder.”
I shut my eyes tight, gripping the edge of the breakfast bar to keep from falling.
My voice wavers, trying to form words. “And you’re sure it was her? That she was driving?”
“The dash cam footage from the officer at the scene is pretty clear, and she was ID’ed by several co-workers from the Sandbar where she works. Look, we have a few things to go over, and I really need to do it in person. Is there any way you can come into town for a few days?”
I nod imperceptibly. “Yeah. I’ll grab the first flight out.”
“Thank you,” he concludes, disconnecting the line. My phone returns to the lock screen photo of Paige and I sitting on the beach. Silent once again, like he hadn’t just ended my whole world.
“Skye?” Heather asks cautiously.
I take a deep breath. Several. Then stand, sliding my phone into the back pocket of my jeans to grab the handle of the mop.
“Skye, talk to me. Sit back down.”
“I can’t right now. I need to finish this, then ask Angie for an advance on my paycheck so I can buy a plane ticket.”
Tears, dark with mascara, stream down Heather’s face. “You don’t think she’s… that she’s…”
“Dead?” I provide. “A murderer? Somewhere at the bottom of the bay?” My voice gets louder with every word. I’m panting, my heart racing. There are too many emotions to grasp onto just one. “No. This isn’t right. Not Paige. She’s meticulous andorganized. She’s responsible and logical and respectful. Even if she did hit that girl, she would never have left. She would have stayed. She’s a trained lifeguard. She would have done CPR until the paramedics arrived. This is wrong. It’s all wrong.”
Heather wraps her arms around me. I want to fight it, but I don’t have the strength.
“It just happened,” Heather says, choking back a sob. “They don’t know anything yet. Let them investigate. They’ll see that they’re wrong.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. She would never have left. She…” I struggle to breathe and sit down against the wall, resting my head between my knees. “She’s fine. It wasn’t her. It’s all a mistake.” Tears stream unimpeded down my face, pooling on the freshly mopped floor beneath me.
Heather sits beside me, and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Go to Florida,” Heather states. “And don’t come back until you have the truth.”
I nod. This is what I will do. All I can do at this point. I can break it down, piece by piece, and figure it out. There’s a logical explanation for all this, I just need to find it.
Somewhere in Florida.
Chapter 3
Skye
Awall of concrete twenty floors high separates me from the ocean as the cab travels along Beach Drive, an endless row of condos broken occasionally by seafood restaurants and tourist shops, sidewalks cluttered by racks of rafts and airbrushed t-shirts. The traffic is bumper to bumper, windows down, with people hanging out to holler car to car. Others walk beside the road like it’s a swimsuit runway show, stopping occasionally to barter Mardi Gras beads for a quick boob flash.
I can see the ocean between the buildings, with white sugar sands extending into the aquamarine Gulf. Lines of rental hotel chairs sit nestled near the water, with navy blue cushions and matching umbrellas. The bare stretches of sand between the chairs are a patchwork of beach towels and blankets, anchored by coolers and half-covered by billowing pop-up tents.
The back passenger door of the SUV ahead of me opens, and a guy jumps out. He runs over to the bushes along the sideof a condo and pisses into a palm tree. Jiggling the zipper on his pants, he jogs to catch up with the SUV and jumps back in, tossing several empty beer cans into the street. I roll my eyes and lean back against the leather seat. Maybe I should have policed Paige’s life choices a little more.
“We’re almost there,” the cab driver offers, glancing at me in the rearview. “It’s just over the bridge.”
