by Nicole Meier
Sara shuddered.
In the meantime, she had other matters on her mind. Namely, locating TR’s house. She was currently traveling on a snaking surface road, following the navigation on her smartphone. Hopefully, there’d be time to travel to and from TR’s place without arousing suspicion.
She’d researched the area before they’d left. The town of Sandpoint was comparatively large for Oregon’s seaside, but it was nothing like the bustling city of Portland. Still, Sara had to squint at road signs to keep from getting lost.
Rain spit down on her windshield, partially obstructing the visibility. A clinging film of wet fog blanketed the town, wrapping everything in a lazy, pallid hue. To one side of the car was a precarious, rocky hillside that bordered the road. Its muted browns and greens colored the landscape like a rough oil painting. On the other side of this was the endless blue ocean.
The view from the road was impressive. Beyond the cliffs and past the rolling sand dunes, great outcroppings of rock launched themselves up from the churning seawater. These sea stacks dotted the coastline, resembling mini islands set adrift in the choppy waves. Sara peered up to see teams of milky seabirds circling above the tall formations.
Cracking the window, she inhaled. Salty humidity touched the back of her throat. The air was alive, surprisingly invigorating. She began to appreciate the appeal this place held for TR.
Her cell pinged, indicating the turnoff was near. Only a few cars passed as she made her way. TR wasn’t kidding when he said his home was secluded.
A cluster of run-down-looking mailboxes marked the turnoff for an unpaved road. Sara veered right as a marker indicated the start of Sandpiper Lane. The road considerably narrowed then, leaving her nervous on a strip of lane barely meant for a single car. Almost immediately a steep drop-off materialized. If another car came at her, she would have nowhere to go. And the slightest error might send her plummeting into the ocean below.
No wonder TR didn’t have any friends left. Who would want to risk coming here?
On the left, a wooden sign jutted out from the thick bushes. Spiky weeds and overgrown shrubs obscured its message. Sara slowed to read it. CAUTION: STEEP AND NARROW TRAIL. EXPERIENCED HIKERS ONLY.
She swallowed hard. Tightening her grip with moist palms, she drove along the path. Where in the heck was she going? Maybe this was a terrible idea.
After she’d sweated it out for several minutes, this portion of the road mercifully widened again. Someone must have recently maintained the road, because the landscape had been cut back in sections, allowing for a car to pass. Mossy trees and twisty vines lined a shaded stretch of packed dirt. It reminded Sara of The Hobbit, a book Sam never tired of reading. A secret forest. Any minute now, a band of elves might spring out from the undergrowth.
Reaching over, Sara studied her phone. She was nearly at her destination. Her father really lived this far out of the way? It was a marvel he hadn’t died out there during the fire. How had anyone even known where to find him? The smoke must have been the thing that saved him. A distress signal from his island of isolation.
The dirt ended as the wheels crunched over a gravel drive. She was finally here. Sara let the car idle and took in the sight, her breath slipping between her lips. She released her grip and pushed her sunglasses back.
It was astonishing: TR had been so close to Sara yet completely inaccessible. He’d built a hidden life and chosen not to share it.
Stepping from the car, Sara pocketed the keys and leaned against the warm hood. She needed a moment to recalibrate.
Her first assumption was that there’d be stillness. She’d been wrong. Instead, the atmosphere was charged with a symphony of bird chirps and frog croaks. She cocked her head. Perhaps there was creek nearby. In the background, a faint buzzing of insects whirred in the treetops. They gave the air an almost electric feel. Beyond all of this, way off in the distance was the unmistakable power of crashing waves.
She moved cautiously along the gravel in her ankle-high boots. Whatever worker TR employed didn’t seem to be around at the moment. Still, she was afraid to make any noise.
The property itself was expansive. On the perimeter, nestled against a dense backdrop, were two small structures. Each had a crudely shingled roof; years of damp weather had covered them in slick moss. The exteriors were encased in wood siding, with peeling paint and windowed doors. With the buildings in the middle of all that nature, the elements had clearly had their way with things.
Sara assumed these small cottages to be the tenant’s room and TR’s art studio. She recalled her father enjoyed a quiet space to work. Remarkably, neither building appeared to have been touched by fire.
On the right of the two smaller buildings loomed the main house. It was expansive, stately, and badly damaged.
Sara’s breath caught. Hearing about the accident was one thing, but seeing the remnants up close was nothing short of haunting.
The singed wood siding reminded her of a box of matches that had been lit and then blown out. A crumbling frame propped up an obvious lack of a roof; the upper third of the home was unmistakably destroyed. The authorities weren’t kidding when they said it was uninhabitable.
As she approached the bricked front walk, an odor of smoke permeated her mouth and lungs. Everything had a distinct tinge of charcoal. Sara reflexively brought a hand over her mouth.
Scanning the front, she noticed the cement foundation and an apron of stone facade were mostly intact. Save for what looked like soaked and trampled landscaping around the front porch, there appeared to be no damage to the entry. This must have been how TR escaped the flames. He’d miraculously had a way out.
Higher, the scene was entirely different. The upper level consisted of a wooden skeleton, a charred black frame. A brick chimney remained erect amid crumbling walls. Empty openings gaped like hollow eye sockets where doors and windows once were. Scorch marks, melted flooring, and decay could be seen without even going inside. The roof was all but gone, reduced to piles of ash.
The hair on Sara’s arm rose. An eerie feeling washed over her. This fire had been no joke. Her father had cheated death.
Common sense told her not to try to enter. She didn’t know what she’d be getting into if she did. And besides, if something were to happen, no one knew where she was. She thought of Sam waiting back at home. She couldn’t afford to put herself in harm’s way. Instead, she opted to walk the perimeter.
Picking her way through the grassy overgrowth, Sara arrived at the back of the property. Once more, the scene gave her pause. It was a strange and startlingly beautiful view. A source of inspiration.
The two-story home balanced on the edge of a craggy cliff that spilled out and over, dramatically diving into the Pacific Ocean. The setting was wild and untamed, with winds whipping up from the deep waters below. A salty spray misted the air. Everything out there felt raw and refreshing.
Sara’s eye caught a worn footpath, where the grasses had been beaten down and matted. Craning her neck to see, she followed it as far as she could without moving. It trailed sharply off to the right and then progressed down a more gradual grade to what appeared to be a cove below. A mass of rocks hugged a spit of sand on either end, making it completely private.
She shaded her eyes and studied the trail. Hadn’t the police report said TR had been found down there? Face-first in the sand? It seemed treacherous, but he must have been trying to get as far from the fire and as close to water as possible. It was a wonder anyone found him at all.
In her mind’s eye, she could envision him careening down the path, a fiery blaze at his back.
Something loud sounded behind her. Sara startled and spun on her heels, scanning one end of the house to the other. Only the stony facade looked back at her.
What was that?
Someone or something was moving around, dragging across the gravel. But she wasn’t entirely sure. Perhaps it was an animal from the woods. Or maybe she was imagining things. Spooked, she hustled ba
ck the way she came.
Rounding the corner, she nearly tripped over the metal bucket of an empty wheelbarrow. She caught herself and cursed. Where in the heck did that come from? Had it been there before? She saw no trace of movement.
She continued on the path, careful to avoid the spiky weeds that poked her from all directions. Maybe she hadn’t heard anything at all. This panic was merely self-induced.
A flash of white darted in her periphery, and her thoughts slowed. Was that the worker after all? A shape moved behind one of the smaller buildings. Someone was out there.
Whoever it was, he or she was hiding.
Sara tensed. Oh God, was she going to get murdered way out there in the woods? Maybe TR hadn’t shared much about his maintenance man because the guy was some kind of wacko, someone too unstable to secure a real job, living way out in the middle of nowhere in order to hide from society. Maybe he wouldn’t be so welcoming to a stranger who’d wandered onto the property uninvited. And she’d failed to tell anyone where she was going.
With a jittery hand, she fumbled in her pocket. Her car was within sight. Retrieving her key, she jammed the sharp point through her knuckles and prepared to defend herself against an attacker.
Blood pumped in her ears as she strained to listen. She just had to make it across the driveway. Detecting nothing, she broke out into a sprint. The soles of her boots pounded across the loose rocks.
“Hey!” a male voice shouted.
The toe of her boot caught as Sara stumbled forward. She swayed and then lost her balance. Bracing, she shot her hands out to catch her fall. Both knees went down first. The impact was jarring. A cloud of dust and dirt flew up, impairing her vision. Sharp rocks pierced her skin, stinging on contact. Footsteps closed in on her, and every muscle contracted as Sara desperately groped for her car key weapon.
The voice shouted again.
The car was only a few steps away. She could make it. Gathering herself up, she readied to flee. But it was too late. A figure was now standing over her, casting a long shadow across the dusty drive.
“Are you all right?”
Sucking in the pain, Sara sprang to her feet and wheeled around. She was wired with adrenaline and ready to fight.
“Stay away!” she cried out. Her warning was shrill and weak sounding.
“Whoa, hang on a second.” A hand went up.
Sara drew herself together and fisted the key at her side.
A set of hazel eyes studied her suspiciously. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he might still be able to overpower her. Her gaze flicked to where his muscles flexed under a dirty white T-shirt. His hands went to his sides. Thankfully, he wasn’t brandishing any kind of weapon. And he had a young face, probably around twenty years old or so.
“You’re trespassing on private property,” he said.
“No, I’m not. I have a right to be here.”
“And why is that? You don’t live here.”
“Do you?”
He arched a brow. “Um, yes. As a matter of fact I do. And now I’m going to have to ask you to leave, or I’ll be forced to call the cops.”
“Hang on,” she said, standing her ground and giving him the once-over. “So you’re TR’s worker?”
Miniature creases around his eyes gathered as he smirked. He scratched his unkempt pile of bleached hair, taking a moment to likely size her up. “Uh, not really. But I suppose that’s what you’d see. You must be one of his fans. Came to take some photos for your blog or something like that. Well, I got news for you, lady. He took off. Doesn’t live here. And even if he did, he wouldn’t agree to see you anyway. The old man’s not into visitors of any kind.”
What the hell was happening? This kid wasn’t at all what she’d expected. And why was he so protective of TR? She eased off a bit and unclenched the key.
“I know he doesn’t live here. He currently lives with me.”
The smirk disappeared as a wave of disgust twisted his face into a grimace. “Fuck. That’s so typical! You’re telling me that the old codger is somewhere else, shacking up with you now? You a girlfriend or something?”
Sara reared back, the idea obscene. “No. God, no! I’m definitely not a girlfriend.”
“Then who are you?”
She rolled the truth around on her tongue. She wasn’t sure she could trust this guy. But what could she say? She didn’t want to be forced to leave just yet. She still had questions.
“If you must know, I’m his daughter.”
His face dropped.
Crickets chirped in the background.
“And you are?” Sara waited for a reply. For someone so cocky, this guy seemed to have suddenly lost his voice. His jaw clenched and released. A hand rubbed at his freckled forehead.
“I’m Bo.”
“That tells me nothing,” Sara said. “If you aren’t an employee, then who exactly are you?”
“I’m his son.”
Sara’s keys slipped between her fingers and plunged into the dirt, right along with her heart.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SARA
Before she had a chance to shore up her shock, a screen door attached to one of the cottages whined open and then banged forcefully, rattling in its frame. Following this, a female voice rang out. Sara straightened.
At first glance, it seemed as if a volatile cyclone were fast approaching. Sara watched, mouth agape, as a flurry of dark hair and intensity flew in her direction. Tied to the tangle of long, flowing hair was a green scarf that trailed behind, twisting dramatically in the wind. From what Sara could see, this woman was all hair and eyebrows. That, and a curvy figure worthy of an old Hollywood movie. She watched motionless as a cloud of dust moved in, kicking up around Western boots and the hem of a long, floral dress. A set of tempestuous black eyes zeroed in on them.
Sara could tell, even amid her fury, that this woman was beautiful and exotic—a rare bird whose nest had been unpleasantly disturbed. And she was striking out.
Backing up cautiously, Sara retreated. She had the distinct impression she was not welcome.
Preceding the woman came a long slew of declarations delivered in a rapid-fire language Sara could not understand. But the tone of the words was as clear as day. This woman was livid.
At that moment, something glinted in the sun. Sara’s eyes widened as she tracked an object in the woman’s right hand—something dark and metallic.
A gun!
Cold terror shot through her veins, and every fiber of her being told her to run.
“Shit!”
Scrambling, Sara made for the car. Tiny fragments of loose gravel rolled under her feet and impeded her momentum. Her limbs jellied, causing her to feel like a frantic character in a ridiculous cartoon. Fear fired on all cylinders as she willed herself to move faster, her heart charging in her chest.
A scuffling sound of shoes and urgent breath closed in on her. There were more yells in the background.
Someone reached out and grabbed her, and Sara nearly collapsed with fear.
“Whoa, whoa.” Bo dropped his voice next to her ear, as if he were coaxing a frightened pony. His fingers tightened on her arm. “Hang on there.”
“She’s got a gun!” Sara screamed.
“What?”
Sara thrashed against Bo’s grip, stinging tears obscuring her view of the car. With a burst of energy, she writhed around and delivered a solid shove to Bo’s chest.
He stumbled backward but still held his grasp.
Footfalls rushed in, and then a heated conversation in a foreign language unfurled around her in what sounded like intense arguing. A scolding even. Blood pumped loudly in her ears, and it took Sara a second to understand what was being repeated. Something was being said in English over the woman’s crazed voice. Something calm and steady.
“You’re okay. You’re okay. See, it is only a camera. No gun. Just a camera.”
A camera?
The grasp on her jacket loosened. Sara slowly angled around.
Both the red-faced woman and Bo stood together, side by side, staring. Cautiously, Sara’s eyes moved to the woman’s hand. Poking out from the long sleeve of a cardigan sweater was the long, shiny black lens of a camera.
“See? No gun. Just my crazy mother. She is a photographer. Always with a camera. Nothing more.” Bo’s eyebrows hovered above his inquisitive features. As her heartbeat slowed to normal, Sara noticed the gentleness in his eyes. She was momentarily reminded of Sam.
This Bo person might be her brother, and that would make him Sam’s uncle. She blinked hard, absorbing the possibility.
The woman paused and cleared her throat. To Sara, it sounded like something of a growl.
Bo gestured. “Mamma, you’re scaring her. She thought you had a gun.”
The woman snorted, followed by a disparaging glance at Bo.
“Silly child,” she sneered in what Sara could now tell was a throaty Italian accent and waved the Canon in the air like a peace flag. “What would I want with a gun?”
“I, uh—”
“You Americans are all the same. You think in Italy we’d go around swinging guns from our holsters?”
Bo dropped his head in frustration. “Mamma! I’m an American. And you’ve lived here for years. This is not the Wild West.”
The woman barked a response in Italian. Bo spat back something equally terse, and for the next minute Sara found herself in the strange position of witnessing a mother-son feud. Only she didn’t know these people.
“Excuse me,” she broke in. “Could someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
They stared back at her.
Sara saw it now, the similarity. Both had heads of thick hair and matching unruly eyebrows. Their skin was creamy yet of differing complexions—one olive and one peach. Mother and son stood squarely, of equal size and stature. And their lips were unmistakably full.
