by Carrie Ryan
He steps forward, crowding against me. “What happened to you?” he asks, almost a whisper. Now that he’s confronted me, he’s not going to back down. I can’t avoid him in person like I could a letter or e-mail.
I sigh and step around him to sit on the edge of the bed. It should be easier to lie in the dark, without having to fear your expression giving your inner thoughts away.
But it turns out that darkness is where truth truly thrives. Confession comes easier when you don’t have to directly face the visible censure of your confessor. I press my fingers against my eyes and Shepherd waits—what’s a few extra minutes after years of patience?
I give him the truth: “You kept wanting me to be the same girl I was when I left for the cruise, and I wasn’t.” I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around my knees, and hug them to my chest. “You still want me to be her and I’m not.”
I never will be, I add silently. Libby is dead and Frances is buried so deep inside that sometimes I think I’ve lost her forever.
Shepherd leans back against the door, lightning illuminating him like a shadow. “I just wanted to know that you were okay. You couldn’t even tell me that much. And Cecil . . .” He runs a hand over his head in frustration, dislodging droplets of water that trail in rivulets down his fingers. “He was just . . . different afterward.”
Something about the way he says it makes my throat tighten. “How so?”
Shrugging, he pushes from the door and walks across my room, almost aimless. “He was just”—he struggles to find the right word and settles on—“gone. I mean, I understand why. When the coast guard gave up the search for you and Barbara, he was devastated and refused to believe it. Of course he was going to try and find y’all on his own. But then after you were rescued and he became a widower—all those months in Switzerland taking care of you.”
He paces back across the room, agitated. “The thing is—you’re his daughter. Of course he’s going to move heaven and earth for you. I’d have done the same thing but—” He bites back whatever he was going to say next.
“Luis was already away in law school then. And I had boarding school. Sure, Cecil had an army of staff to keep everything running when I was home for breaks. But . . .” He presses his palm against the glass of the door, the tips of his fingers tapping lightly.
A sick feeling grows in my stomach as I wait for him to continue.
“You know, Luis used to always tell me, ‘Remember where you come from,’ every time he thought I was becoming too white. He was sixteen when our parents died—he could remember what they were like. But I was only six. When Cecil and Barbara took us in they became the only parents I knew.”
He turns sideways, his head dropped and eyes closed. “As far as I was concerned, I lost my mother when the Persephone went down. And Luis was gone and I understood because he was still the kid who’d lost his parents a decade before. But then you were gone too. And so was Cecil. And where did that leave me?”
Thunder rolls across the ocean, lightning streaking along his profile, illuminating his anguish. In all the years since I’d become Libby, I’ve only ever thought about Shepherd in terms of him being a threat. Of everyone, he’s the one most likely to uncover the ruse, to see straight through to the heart of the truth.
I’ve avoided him, spurned him, because it’s the only way to protect myself. I hadn’t considered how much his life also changed the night the Persephone was attacked. What it must have been like to lose your foster mother to disaster, only to have your foster father abandon you by choice.
It makes my heart ache, not just for Shepherd, but for Cecil too. Because I know that Cecil loved Shepherd. But not enough to tell him the truth. Not enough to stay around for him. To comfort him in those months after.
“I’m sorry.” Which I know is wholly inadequate for the reality that I—a stranger then—took what was his.
When he faces me, his expression has hardened into something more indifferent, but anger still hums beneath the surface. I can’t blame him—if there’s anyone who understands the power of rage to beat back sorrow, it’s me.
“You know when it would have been really nice to hear that?” he asks. “Four years ago.”
He starts toward the door. I know I should let him leave—it’s smarter to keep distance between us—but I don’t. Because he deserves more than he’s gotten.
“He thought of you as a son,” I tell him. Shepherd stops, his back drawing straight. “He loved you,” I add. “He talked about you all the time.”
“I’d have preferred if he actually talked to me rather than about me.” He pauses and then looks at me over his shoulder. “You’re right that I wanted you to be the same girl you were before the cruise. She was someone who smiled, who didn’t hold back. She actually gave a shit.
“But you . . .” His eyes rake over me. I wait for him to finish, but he merely shakes his head and leaves the room, saying nothing more.
When I know he’s gone—when the sound of his steps recedes down the stairs and into the distance—I finally draw in a wheezing gasp. Tears burn at my throat and no matter how much I swallow, I can’t clear them away. Everything inside me feels off, shifted in some way I can’t put right again.
I’m not responsible for Shepherd and his hurt feelings. It was never my job to save him or protect him. He’s a stranger to me—an obstacle, just another notebook under the bed filled with facts and details that I’ve memorized in order to further my own designs.
Yet somehow his condescension slithers past all my defenses and makes me feel less than. For so long I’ve been a role—Libby’s life a mask I’ve grown accustomed to. Anything anyone has ever said against me easily brushed away because they’re not judging the real me, they’re judging this girl I’m pretending to be.
I’ve allowed myself to imagine that if Libby could see what I’ve built of her life—of the intricate plans I’ve concocted—that she’d be proud. But now, seeing the expression on Shepherd’s face, hearing the pain in his voice, I realize that Libby would despise me.
The thought causes a panicked kind of shame to blare through me, my skin flushing hot. I ball my fists against my knees, forcing the self-doubt to the darkest corners of my mind, letting the hot light of anger burn it away.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what Libby would think about what I’ve done or what I’m doing. Because here’s the truth about Libby: On that life raft, she gave up.
And I didn’t. And I refuse to give up now.
EIGHTEEN
It’s barely dawn and already the air’s thicker than soup. It’s too early for anyone else to be out on the beach, so I have the wide swath of tide-drenched sand to myself during my early-morning jog. The back of my mind counts the rhythm of my footfalls, three on the inhale and two on the exhale. Over and over as I race toward a horizon I’ll never reach.
This stretch of coast is eight miles long and my planned route takes me past Senator Wells’s house toward the tip of the island. Far enough that my legs burn and my side cramps, but not enough that I forget.
There’s no distance far enough for that.
But still, if I push hard enough, I can’t think beyond the next step, the next breath, and for now, that’s enough. Because I don’t want to think about Shepherd standing in my room, rain-soaked and angry.
I don’t want to think about him at all.
When I pass the Senator’s house on the front half of my loop, several of the downstairs lights are on, as I’d expected. The nice thing about those in public office is that they generally like to talk about themselves, and for some reason, the media likes to report on the most mundane of facts.
Like Magnolia Magazine, which ran a detailed profile of the Senator’s home life with a sidebar article about his wife:
Martha Wells lives an enviable life: heiress to an aluminum fortune and married to one of the most powerful politi
cians on Capitol Hill. She’s on the board of several charities, volunteers weekly with Hands Across the Carolinas, and still finds time to prepare home-cooked meals for her family. What’s her secret? “I love being outside whenever possible and keep fit by swimming three miles in the ocean every morning during the summer,” she tells us. When asked how she finds the energy for such a busy life, she credits Refreshergy liquid protein. “I add a bottle to my smoothie every morning—I couldn’t imagine starting my day without it!” But what about finding time for romance? “My husband likes to start and end his day quietly. He’s usually already on the back patio reading the paper when I head out for my swim, and afterward, we’ll talk about our schedules and touch base. Then in the evening, before bed, we like to sit in the library with a glass of Blanton’s bourbon and catch up. He’s always put his family first.”
These kinds of profiles are a stalker’s dream come true. I’ve spent a lot of time studying maps and satellite photos of Caldwell, timing my training runs and route so that I’ve just started back when Mrs. Wells walks toward the ocean to start her morning swim.
I increase my pace, making sure I reach the Wells house while she’s still swimming. I stand at the base of the boardwalk, watching her while I catch my breath. Her strokes are long and even, the bright yellow of her bathing cap bobbing through the swells as she cuts parallel to the shore.
Satisfied, I start toward the house. It’s situated on one of the largest lots on the island, a sharp-edged box clashing against gnarled old trees. The boardwalk from the beach spills onto an elaborate flagstone patio that sweeps around the edges of an infinity pool flanked by a hot-and-cold tub.
On the other side there’s a wide porch filled with rattan chairs and tables. This is where I find Senator Wells, coffee by his side and a newspaper held in front of him.
My running shoes are crusted with sand and grate against the flagstones, alerting him to my approach. He flicks down the corner of his paper and frowns. His eyes scan me top to bottom, considering me.
I’m not wearing much: a jog bra and my smallest pair of running shorts, both soaked through with sweat. I’m almost as bare as if I were wearing a bikini and I’m well aware of the amount of flesh this puts on display.
“Miss O’Martin,” he says, standing. “This is a surprise.” His tone is enough to convey that it is an unpleasant one.
I smile, keeping my tone light and respectful. “Good morning, sir.” Glancing toward the ocean, I add, “Glad to see that it looks like your wife is feeling better.”
The Senator begins folding his paper precisely, using his nails to sharply crease the folds. “Yes.” He says nothing more.
I force my hatred of this man to the back of my mind. I can’t allow any hint of that revulsion to show through. “Anyway, I lost my phone yesterday and looked everywhere at home for it, but it didn’t turn up. I’m wondering if maybe it fell out in your car when I dropped my purse? Do you mind if I check?”
Sighing, he sets his paper on the table. “Of course not.” He gestures toward a set of French doors that lead into the kitchen. Ever the Southern gentleman, he allows me to enter first and when we reach the garage he flicks on the row of overhead lights.
“Should be unlocked,” he says.
“Thank you—I’m so sorry for taking up your time like this.” I make my way to the other side of the black convertible and drop to my knees so I can fish around in the backseat footwell. My phone’s exactly where I left it, wedged under the passenger seat.
I stand, empty-handed. “I couldn’t find it. Do you mind calling the number? Maybe I’m just not seeing it.”
He doesn’t hide his annoyance as he pulls his phone from his pocket. I rattle off the number and a few moments later an upbeat ring sounds from the car. Feigning surprise, I jump to retrieve it.
“Found it,” I call, holding it up. “You don’t know what a relief it is to have it back.” I start toward the kitchen but he’s standing in the doorway, blocking the way. There’s something about the set of his mouth that sets me on edge. I tilt my head to the side. “Um . . . everything okay?”
His eyes narrow, but not necessarily in anger, more like he’s studying me. “You’ve been away for several years and so I’m not sure how aware you’ve been of the goings-on back home,” he says.
I lift an eyebrow, evidencing my uncertainty.
He steps farther into the garage, narrowing the distance between us. I don’t bother hiding my hesitation, knowing that his intent is to intimidate me. “I wasn’t sure if I should even bring it up,” he continues. “I like the past staying in the past.” He hits the last words with emphasis. There can be no missing his meaning.
I cross my arms over my chest, cupping my elbows in my palms and allowing my shoulders to hunch so that I take up less physical space. It makes me appear vulnerable and weak.
“Since your return, there’s just been a little more interaction between our families than I’m comfortable with.” He takes another step closer, forcing me to look up at him. Trying to assert his dominance and control. “And I would like it to end.”
I have to give him credit, it didn’t occur to me he’d approach the issue so directly. I’d been expecting subterfuge—conversations like the one I overheard yesterday where he warned Grey away from me. A part of me wants to smile that he thinks it could be so easy.
That I haven’t designed a dozen ways to further entwine myself with Grey. That I haven’t already put several of them in motion.
But I keep those thoughts from my expression because I need the Senator to think of me as weak. Easily intimidated. Controllable.
And I need Grey to think of me as a victim of his father’s ire.
I once read about this interrogation tactic in which you break the person’s will in steps so small that they don’t even realize it’s happening. Here’s how it works: Imagine a suspect sitting in a police station, refusing to talk. Ask them something about the crime, they’re going to stay silent.
But, instead, ask them if they’d like a glass of water and they’re likely to answer. Because not answering a simple question like that seems unreasonable—it’s a question unconnected to the reason they’re at the police station, so what’s the harm?
Except now they’ve broken their vow not to speak. So getting them to break it again isn’t as difficult. It’s no longer about whether the suspect is going to talk or not, it’s about what information the suspect will be willing to share. Suddenly, the playing field has shifted.
It’s like this: Ask someone to run a marathon, they’re likely to say no. But ask them to take one step and they usually will. Because taking that one step is no big deal. Then ask them to take another step and same thing. And once they’ve taken a dozen steps they’re invested.
You can get them through an entire marathon that way.
And that’s my goal with Grey. Foment dissent between him and his father, create small situations for Grey to rebel against his father’s wishes. To tell his father no. So that when it comes time for me to ask him to betray his father—to come clean about the truth behind the Persephone—it will be as simple as asking him to take just another small step forward.
As if on cue, Grey shuffles into the kitchen, a hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. And with all the players in place, it’s time for me to take the stage. If the Senator wants me to crumble under his authority, then that’s what I’ll do.
I bite my lip, hard enough that my eyes water. My breath catches in my throat as I stammer, “I-I’m sorry, I was just looking for my phone . . .” I swallow, jittery with panic that he could be accusing me of something that could get me in trouble. “And, really, I lose it all the time.”
Tears skim my eyes. I move past him quickly and turn so that I’m walking backward into the kitchen. Not looking where I’m going. “I’m sorry—I would never—” My heel catches the lip in the doorway and I t
rip, dropping my phone. It skitters across the kitchen floor.
Right toward Grey. He bends to pick it up, his expression crashing into a frown when he sees my expression: scared, vulnerable, intimidated. Tears begin spilling over, and my hand trembles as I swipe my phone from him.
“Thank you, I . . .” I turn back to where the Senator stands in the doorway to the garage. For a split second his gaze is murderous and it sends a sharp chill down my spine. But I’ve known from the beginning there are no rules to this game.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go.” I stumble over the words, voice cracking as I rush to the doors leading out to the patio and the beach beyond.
“Libby.” Grey starts toward me but I hold up both hands, almost panicked in my insistence he not follow me.
“No—please, just no.” And then I’m out onto the patio and racing toward home.
Through the open doors behind me I hear the argument already starting. Grey’s voice raised as he asks his father what the hell happened. Once I hit the beach and I’m alone, I allow myself to smile.
NINETEEN
There’s no better feeling than the deliciousness of a well-crafted plan executed perfectly. I spend the day picturing Grey’s expression in the kitchen this morning. His delighted surprise at seeing me, morphing into confusion and, in the end, rage at his father.
But it’s the emotion that came in between that causes my stomach to flip: that brief moment of possessiveness. It was raw and fleeting, the flicker that he would defend me against whatever it was that had caused my distress. That I was somehow his to protect. This is what confuses me the most—to him I should be practically a stranger and certainly not his responsibility. Not yet at least.
There’s no indication that he suspects my true identity or that he doesn’t take me at face value. He’s as fooled as the rest of them. And yet, it’s as though something in him responds to that part of Frances still left inside me. As though there is some sort of subconscious recognition.
