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I swallow the lump in my throat. The bridge. The last place Paige was seen alive. I wrap my hand around the door handle and squeeze as we begin the ascent, my heart pounding faster with everythunkof the bridge sections passing beneath the tires.
The news photo scrolls through my mind on a loop, over and over, and I feel the pain of it every time as if it were the first. The police cars, the crane, the darkened tree line on the opposite bank rising in the distance, the silhouettes of people watching from the railing. It overlays on the bridge I climb, bending memory into reality. A memory that’s not mine.
I don’t want to look, but I can’t stop. Surrounded by police tape and orange barrels, a temporary concrete lane divider blocks off a section of mangled metal in the guardrail. I grit my teeth and swallow hard, my nails digging into the soft leather of the door handle. This is even harder than I thought it would be.
The cab driver glances up again, and our eyes meet in the rearview.
“A girl went off the bridge about three nights back,” he explains. “It’s been all over the news.”
I nod uncomfortably. “I heard.”
“They’re still out there looking for her. I don’t think they’ll ever find her, though. The current coming under thisbridge is strong, like a river. This is the only outlet for the bay to reach the ocean, and it can get really rough sometimes. I’ve seen it sink smaller boats trying to reach the beach.”
“Do you think she could have lived through it? Swam away?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. That’s a hell of a swim, though. And my brother Vincent will tell you, there’s mad shark activity down there. He fishes off this bridge all the time.”
I pull in a steadying breath. “Sorry I asked.”
“Nah, sounds like she deserved it. Killing that girl and the cop. Kind of like karma or something.”
“Maybe she didn’t do it,” I reply, my anger simmering just below the surface.
“Maybe,” he says dismissively. “Not like it matters now. Can’t convict the dead, right?”
I look away, trying to suppress the intrusive thoughts shouting at me to drag him out of this car and see how responsive those sharks are. Doesn’t he know she has a family? People who love her, and don’t see her as the monster the news is making her out to be. There has to be more to it than that.
Breathe. In and out. Count to ten. Find my happy place. I try remembering all the lame meditation strategies Heather shared from her YouTube videos. I glance back out the window. This may be the ocean, but it’s so fucking far from my happy place.
The road smoothes as we cross back onto solid ground, curving with the coast as a large, white concrete building rises in the distance. Three rows of slim, dark-tinted windows adorn the front of the building, with a large PBPD seal carved into the center. Other county buildings follow further down theline, a Chamber of Commerce, Tax Collector, and a Welcome Center, all a bright white like the police department, with teal roofs and landscaped beds of palm trees and multicolored azaleas.
“Here we go,” the driver says, pulling into the parking area. When he slows, I pass the driver cash beneath the plexiglass barrier.
“Keep the change,” I say quickly as I grab my backpack, and push the door open.
“I hope you enjoy your stay in Pelican Beach!” He calls out the open window. “You should check out Salty Sal’s down on Bayou Boulevard. Tell them Charles sent you. Best crab in town.”
I nod as he pulls away, sighing in relief when I’m alone again.
“Oh, perfect! Excuse me, ma’am?” I hear a woman’s voice call from down the sidewalk. My eyes narrow in confusion as I glance around to either side of me, then realize I’m her intended target.
“Yeah?”
“Can you take this for us?” She asks, striding toward me in a flowered maxi dress and a smile, her perfectly styled blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders. She shoves her phone at me, then jogs back to where her family stands in the grass beside a large colorful sign reading:Welcome to Pelican Beach, home of the world’s most beautiful beaches.I sigh and try to resist the urge to hurl her phone back at her.
“Ready?” I ask, annoyed, hastily centering the family of four inside the screen.
“Everyone say FLORIDA!” The dad yells excitedly, and hisfamily echoes it, all smiles in matching flowered outfits, and stiff new flip-flops that have never seen sand.
I take several photos, then hand it back to the woman.
“Thanks,” the woman offers, skimming through the shots on her slow return to her rental minivan. She stumbles briefly over a crack in the sidewalk, and I roll my eyes. Why are beach tourists the same everywhere?
I continue to the police station, pausing at the large sliding glass doors. Once upon a time, I went to the police, looking for answers. For help. A scared kid who just wanted peace, and to be free. They sent me home and sold me out to the people I was running from. I realized then that the only person who would save me was me. Yet I find myself in this place again, begging for help, and wondering if this time will be any different. I steel myself, cram all the emotions I’ve been experiencing the past three days into a tiny little box in my mind and lock it, then step through the doors as they slide open.
A chill travels through me as I step inside, immediately assaulted by a blast of supercooled air piped in above the doors. There’s no color on the walls, only a sterile white reflecting the shadows of the department personnel as they move around the room. My heavy combat boots echo on the tile floors, and an officer looks up from one of the roped-off lanes leading to a metal detector. He hands me a tub to put my belongings into, and I set my backpack inside. As he sends it down the conveyor belt, he nods for me to step through the glowing arch. It beeps and flashes red.
“Please take your shoes off,” the officer says, handing me another tub. “And any jewelry you have on.”
