by Carrie Ryan
Fingers yank at my arm and I think it’s Libby, come to drag me to safety. But I open my eyes to find her father instead. Kneeling in front of me, physically pulling me from the memory.
“My wife?” he prods. My entire body trembles.
“She was killed like the others.” I force the words through chattering teeth. “I watched it happen.”
He drops his head, inhaling sharply. After a moment, he slips an arm around my waist, helping me stand. “We’ll be in port soon, we should get you cleaned up.” He shuffles me down the hallway, back to my room. Gesturing to the narrow bathroom, he says, “Everything you need should be in there. I’ll have some food brought up in the meantime.”
In the bathroom I turn the faucets greedily, shoving my hands under the spray. Needing to feel that instant gratification. I cup handfuls of water into my mouth, careful to drink only small amounts and using the rest to swish around in an attempt to purge the pervasive taste of salt.
Then I glance up. I’m not sure what I thought I’d look like after everything that’s happened but it’s certainly nothing like the creature I find staring back. My hair, dark with sweat and grease, lies in clumps, the ends tangled and knotted around my shoulders. My lips are split, my normally narrow nose swollen from sunburn.
Immediately I understand why everyone’s treated me like a wounded animal—my eyes are wild and fierce and unlike anything I’ve seen in myself before. I don’t recognize my own expression and that, more than anything else, unsettles me.
I watch as my reflection lifts trembling fingers to probe against the ridge of my cheekbones, so starved and sharp they cast deep shadows over sunken flesh. It’s as though my skin were made translucent and stretched across an oversized skull, every fissure and ridge of bone standing in prominent relief. Something between a gasp and a cry gurgles in my throat, and I turn away, unable to bear it.
Behind me is a small shower and I grasp for the handles, turning the water full blast. I don’t even bother removing my clothes. Pressing my back against the wall, I slide until I’m sitting, knees clutched to my chest, and let the water punish me with heat and steam.
Not caring at the sting of all my sores or at the protest of my sunburned flesh. Because this pain means that I’m alive. That I made it.
If only I knew what that means.
FOUR
When I finally shut off the shower and peel off my clothes, I don’t bother drying before pulling on a thick robe I find hanging on the door—I like the feel of water on my desiccated skin.
Stepping back into the bedroom, I’m surprised to find Lib-by’s father waiting for me. The dome of his head gleams faintly with sweat, and the folds on his face hang thickly, as though gravity somehow exerts more force on him than anyone else.
As soon as he sees me, he stands, helping me to a plush chair next to a table where there’s a glass of water waiting. I cup my hands around it, but my stomach’s not ready for more yet.
He moves to sit but then changes his mind and paces toward the porthole window before turning. “I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Cecil.” He gestures down the hallway. “Libby’s father,” he adds, and I nod. “I . . .” He seems to reconsider whatever he was about to say and paces across the room again.
When he reaches the table, he grips the back of the empty chair, leaning on it. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Persephone being attacked.” He watches my reaction carefully. “Is it true?”
I hold his eyes a moment before answering. “Yes, sir.”
He presses his lips together and lets out a long breath. I stare down at the water in front of me, watching tiny ripples radiate against the glass from the sway of the yacht.
“And the men—these attackers—they weren’t wearing any masks. You could identify them?”
I nod.
“So you, Senator Wells, and his son are the only witnesses to what happened. And for whatever reason the two of them seem intent on keeping quiet about it being an attack.” He pauses. “Which leaves you.”
This time I don’t respond. What is there to say?
He pulls out the chair, finally, and sits. For a long while, he considers me while I keep my attention focused on the glass of water. “Which means that if I ever want to find out the truth about what happened to my wife and daughter, I’ll need your help.”
At this, I jerk my eyes up. “Me? What can I do?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”
I shift, suddenly uncomfortable. I don’t like the idea that I’m the only thing standing between the world and the truth about the Persephone. It’s too much of a burden when I’m carrying enough already. I shake my head. “I don’t—”
But he holds up a hand and I let the protest die on my lips. “I started to call the coast guard to give them the details of the rescue and let them know we were bringing you in so they could have someone there to pick you up.”
He shakes his head slowly. “But then I thought about how you’re the last person who saw my baby alive. The last person to talk to her. You’re the only one who knows what those final moments were like for her.” His voice breaks and he glances away, his eyes glistening with tears. “You’re my last connection with her.”
I pull my feet up to the edge of the chair, wrapping the robe tighter as I hug my knees to my chest. So that I take up the smallest amount of space possible.
“I lost my family out there.” He chokes on a sob. My own throat tightens, my eyes burning as I swallow again and again. If I let the ache in my chest rise too far, it will drown me.
“You know, we’re alike that way,” he adds, struggling to turn the sob into a laugh and failing. He presses his fingers to his eyes, taking measured breaths. “I don’t want to go home and face my daughter’s empty bedroom.”
I shove the heel of my palm in my mouth, biting what’s left of the flesh in an attempt to stave off the tide of grief.
He stands, walking across the room. Composing himself. “Did Libby ever tell you about Shepherd and Luis?” The change in subject is so abrupt that I blink, a few times, wondering whether I’ve misheard him. I nod slowly, confused about where this is going. Shepherd, his older brother, Luis, and Libby had practically grown up together. During our time adrift, there’d been nothing to do but talk and she’d told me everything about them.
Especially about her and Shepherd falling in love.
“Their parents worked for me,” Cecil explained. “Their mom was my personal assistant and their father ran my estates. But it was more than that—they were practically family. When their parents were killed in a car accident, Shepherd and Luis didn’t have any relatives in the US; the state planned to send them back to live with their extended family in Mexico, which didn’t seem fair to them.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Or to us. Shepherd and Luis were like sons to Barbara and me. We couldn’t bear the thought of losing those two boys as well—how empty the house would seem. And so Barbara and I took them in and became their legal guardians. It wasn’t even a question for us. Those boys needed us, and we needed them.”
I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to say anything in response to his story or not, so I stay silent. “I thought that, maybe, we could help each other out,” he continues. “You took care of my baby as she was dying. Please let me take care of you. I can protect you if the attackers come after you as a witness. You wouldn’t have to go into foster care or have to worry about the state—everything would be taken care of. I wouldn’t have to say good-bye to the last memories of my daughter just yet.”
He pauses, hands clenching into fists. “And maybe together we can find the bastards who did this.”
“Are you talking about . . .” I struggle for the right words. “Becoming my guardian, like you did with Shepherd and Luis?” Suddenly, the idea of having a place to go, h
aving a house and a room and a dresser and a person who knows the truth of what happened and could protect me—it’s too much to hope for.
So when Libby’s father shakes his head, it’s like the last bright spot inside of me shattering.
“There would be too much paperwork. I learned that with Shepherd and Luis. You’d still end up in the system, a ward of the state. And who knows if they’d even consent to me taking care of you. In the meantime if there are people out there looking for you, they’d find you easily,” he points out.
“No, what I’m suggesting . . .” He leans forward and sets something on the table between us. I recognize it instantly: Libby’s signet ring. “Is that you switch places with my daughter. That you become Elizabeth Anne O’Martin.
“It’s the only way to keep you safe.” He pushes the ring toward me. “It’s the only way to figure out who did this and make them pay.”
FIVE
Four Years Later
Senator Wells’s voice drones through the car speakers, causing my stomach to churn. It’s another one of his campaign ads and it follows the same theme as all the others: blah blah blah . . . Persephone . . . blah blah blah . . . rogue wave . . . blah blah blah . . . survivor. I clench my fists listening, wanting to punch something.
Four years ago my son and I were on a family cruise when the unthinkable happened: A rogue wave struck our ship, sinking it almost instantly and leaving my son and me stranded in the middle of the ocean. During those three long days lost at sea, I came to truly understand what is important to me in life: the health and security of my family. That’s why every day in Washington I fight for the health and security of your family the same way that I fought for my own—because I know how much it matters.
They say that the measure of a man isn’t in how he faces the expected; it’s in how he faces the unexpected. Four years ago I turned the tragedy of the Persephone into the opportunity to better serve my family, my constituents, and my country. If reelected, I won’t stop fighting for South Carolina, and I won’t stop fighting for you. I’m Alastair Wells, and I approve—
“Turn it off,” I tell the driver. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror before he reaches for the knob and silences the radio. Leaving us enveloped in the sound of tires zooming across concrete as we cross one of the myriad bridges leading to Caldwell Island. Libby’s home.
My home now, I remind myself.
Below, spartina, crisp green in its newness, shimmers across mud flats as the tide drains from the marshes. It’s so different from the mountain meadows I’m used to in Switzerland. Perhaps I’d find it beautiful, even relaxing, if I didn’t know that somewhere on the other end of the bridge the ocean is waiting for me.
It’s time for her to give up her secrets. She’s been a silent participant in everything: the attack; Libby’s death; my rescue and transformation. And every summer since, she’s been witness to Grey and his father, living out their lies without consequence.
I’ve come back to put an end to it. Maybe if Senator Wells had left things alone I wouldn’t have returned. Maybe if he’d just let the past stay the past, I’d have kept my fantasies of revenge tucked neatly away, never daring to brush them off and consider putting them into action.
I’d moved on. Or at least I’d convinced Cecil I had. When he saw what my obsession with finding the attackers was doing to me—how it was only feeding the rage festering inside, he called off the search for the truth. Or rather, excluded me from it.
He wanted me to have a normal life, the life his real daughter never had. And so we pretended, together. I pretended that I was okay. He pretended that the violent loss of his wife and daughter wasn’t slowly killing him. Both of us pretended we weren’t still searching for the attackers. School breaks became elaborate performances by the both of us, each playing our part for the other.
Until he died seven months ago and I didn’t have to pretend anymore. But I’d tried—out of love and respect for Cecil and everything he’d done for me—I had tried to truly move on.
The breaking point for me had been the movie. They’d made a documentary about the Senator’s rescue, its release perfectly timed to hit as his reelection campaign began heating up and the media started to speculate about whether the Senator had his eye on the presidency down the road.
The movie had been everywhere: inescapable.
In it, the Senator waxed on with great detail about the final moments of the ship. How fortunate it was that he and Grey had been up on deck at the time. The sound and fury of the wave as it approached. Experts weighed in with elaborate simulations of what must have happened when the rogue wave hit—all the possible ways the ship could have broken apart while it sank.
As part of the dramatization they’d stuck the Senator and his son in a life raft and reenacted their rescue. It had been a complete farce—not even the tastefully ragged clothes they’d dressed them in could hide the healthy roundness of their cheeks, the paleness of their skin unmarred by sun-spawned blisters.
Watching Grey’s face when they “spotted” their “rescuer” for the first time had made me violently ill. And as I knelt on the hard, cold tiles of my dorm’s bathroom I realized a new truth: I was done.
I was done pretending to be okay. I was done attempting to move on. I was done trying to forget. I was done searching and finding nothing but dead ends. I was done being afraid of Senator Wells.
I was done staying away from him.
I’d spent four years struggling to find the truth and all I had were bits and pieces. Enough to know that Grey and his father hadn’t seemed to lie out of fear of the attackers coming after them. Yet not nearly enough to understand what that meant. To know what role they played.
One thing is obvious: If there’s any truth left about the Persephone, it lies with Grey and Senator Wells. Perhaps our confrontation was always inevitable and that’s what Cecil had tried to keep me from by sending me off to boarding school in Switzerland and urging me to move on with my life.
But how could he really understand that the only way for me to move forward is to go back?
So I’d taken all of my elaborate revenge daydreams and began to boil them down into a single plan. Once I turned eighteen and had unfettered access to the trust funds I’d inherited from Cecil, I began to put that plan in motion, laying the groundwork. And now with graduation behind me, it’s time to go home and pull the trigger.
The driver slows, putting on his blinker before turning down a long driveway lined with moss-draped oaks, their limbs gnarled from age and the constant barrage of salt-crusted breezes. I’ve seen pictures of the house, of course, but I’m still not prepared for the overall scope of it. It feels as though it belongs on a movie set with girls in tight corsets and hooped skirts.
Fluted columns two stories high run along a wide front porch that seems to stretch out forever. Once upon a time it had been the only house on the island, part of a much, much larger plantation. The ancestors of the original owner had broken the land into large lots, selling them off to create beachfront estates. This house had been slated to be torn down until Shepherd persuaded Cecil to buy it. They’d spent the last several years trying to put as much of the original plantation’s land as possible under a conservation easement.
It certainly helped when Senator Wells purchased a lot farther down the island and was willing to throw his weight behind the cause. After all, limiting development only served to increase the value of his own property and provide tax breaks for his wealthy neighbors.
And this presented the perfect excuse for me to come “home” after so many years away. It’s only natural that I’d throw the Senator a fund-raiser in thanks for his support of a cause my father held dear.
Already there’s a bustle of activity around the side of the house. Caterers, florists, and decorators setting up for this evening’s event. I’ve been told by the party planner that the guest lis
t is full; scores of the South’s wealthiest families willing to pay an exorbitant price to the Wells Senatorial Reelection Fund for the chance to witness the survivors of the Persephone reunite for the first time.
It’s an opportunity I knew the Senator himself would never turn down. The man loves a good photo op as much as he loves money and power.
The car pulls around to the front of the house and as the driver unloads my luggage I take a deep breath and climb the front steps. Before I even reach for the door, it opens to reveal a guy around my age.
His hair is dark and cut short—practically buzzed—and a light coating of stubble washes across his chin and cheeks. It makes his jaw look sharp and emphasizes the shadows under his cheekbones. He’s wearing a green T-shirt with a faded recycling symbol printed across the front and as he clutches the edge of the door, the muscles in his arms flex against the thin fabric.
Though I’ve never come face-to-face with him in person, I recognize him immediately. During the interminable hours lost at sea, Libby had shared everything about him until I felt that I must have known him as well as she did. Even so, a thread of anxiety knots in my stomach: If there’s anyone who can end this charade in an instant, it’s Shepherd Oveja. He’d been in love with Libby, once. And she’d loved him back.
But that was all before the Persephone.
“Hello, Shepherd.” I muster a crooked smile.
Emotions tumble across his face: a flare of surprise, followed by a flash of hunger, leading into something wary and guarded. I’m keenly aware of the way his eyes devour me, taking in every tiny detail.
I twist at the gold ring on my finger, the one bearing the O’Martin family crest. When he notices the nervous habit, his jaw clenches and he inhales sharply. He struggles to shield his anger behind an expression on the cold side of neutral.
To be fair, he has every right to be mad. For months after the rescue he’d tried to reach Libby, desperate to know how she was doing. Desperate to hear anything from her.
