For weeks, I was too paralyzed to even think about the inn. My trailer was gone, the heavy limb of a live oak taking care of that, and I stayed at Hope House of all places, sleeping on a rollaway cot they found for me. Every night, I moved it next to Mom’s bed so that I could take her hand before falling asleep. It was the most physical contact we’d ever had, and I think I might have stayed there forever had Lo not come for a visit.
She looked rough, her hand bandaged in thick gauze, a pair of crutches shoved under her arms as she hobbled into Mom’sroom, but she also looked like… Lo. Beautiful still, sassy in her bright green linen dress, sparkly earrings dangling from her ears.
“Girl, you can’tmove in here,” she’d said. “Or everything we went through won’t be worth a damn thing.”
I didn’t need to ask if she was talking about August or Landon because I was pretty sure she was talking about both.
We sat there in plastic chairs on either side of Mom’s recliner, and then, with a gusty sigh, Lo said, “I guess it’s time you finally learn what really happened to Landon.”
And she told me.
Sitting there in Mom’s room, the afternoon sunlight spreading slowly across the linoleum floor, Lo told me about finding the letter from my mom in Landon’s pocket, about going to the Rosalie to confront Mom first only to find both her and Landon on the porch. Then there was shouting and fighting, then Landon’s hands were on her, the storm howling. I listened, I nodded, I tried to follow along. But in my mind, I wasn’t seeing Landon—I was seeing August. And when Lo told me about Mom picking up that anchor, I saw my own hands clutching the hammer, my clumsy strike to August’s back.
Memories, echoes, time circling back on itself. A ritual that had to be performed every few decades, another one of the sacrifices demanded of St. Medard’s Bay.
That’s when I knew that Lo was right—I couldn’t hide at Hope House forever. And I couldn’t abandon the Rosalie, not when it had somehow, miraculously, withstood yet another storm.
There was damage, certainly. The crack that turned into a roar that became the last thing I heard before blacking out—that was the roof coming off. Five windows on the second floor blew out; all the carpet and hardwood had to be torn out on the first floor. The porch was almost completely washed out to sea.But she was still standing—weary and battered, but not done for yet.
The next day, I called the number on the card that FEMA had given me, and a few days after that, a crew arrived at the Rosalie to begin bringing her back to life.
I look back over my shoulder at her now, still glowing her soft pink in the early morning light.
Still holding our secrets.
“They called again,” I say to Lo as a wave crashes hard against the wet sand, sending up spray that splashes the toes of my sneakers. “The Fitzroys.”
The calls started shortly after Lizzie receded, after the whole story started to break. The police had believed me when I’d told them that August’s death had been a freak accident. The board falling from the window, the broken glass, the hammer. All of it helped shore up my version of events, one where August was heroically trying to cover the window when the tree limb broke, that he was tragically caught off guard and slipped. That Lo’s cut hand and feet were testament to her equally heroic attempt to save him, but it had been too late.
Lo’s involvement in yet another storm death had barely rated a mention in the local press—that is, until someone leaked what had been found on August’s laptop.
He’d been smart, shoving it into the room safe that I didn’t think anyone ever used and so never thought to check. It was still there when the police started gathering his effects. The story of August’s real parentage, his obsession with Lo, and his theory that she’d killed Landon.
His horror at realizing that he and I were half-siblings.
It started small, a local reporter doing a couple of stories on how bizarre and gothic the whole thing was, but then it got picked up by the AP, and after that…
It was everywhere.Wewere everywhere.
The police never came calling again, thank God, but the tabloids and podcasts sure as hell did. So didPeoplemagazine. Even dueling Reddit communities emerged, r/RosalieInn and r/AugustFletcher.
So I wasn’t surprised the first time I got a call on my cell phone with the nameFitzroyflashing on the screen.
If anything, I was surprised it took them until November or so to reach out.
I didn’t take the first call, or the second.
The third had come just last night, and I confess that I’d been tempted to answer.
Instead, I let it ring, hoping this time whoever it was might leave a message, but they didn’t. The next time they call, I’m not so sure I’ll let it go to voicemail. The curiosity might be too much, and then what?
Whoever is calling, they know where to find me, and if they show up at the Rosalie one day… well, I can burn that bridge when I come to it.
I don’t mention any of this to Lo, even though I think she’d understand. Instead, I say lightly, “I wonder which one of them it is?”
Lo looks out over the water, her face hidden by a huge pair of sunglasses. “Beau died in 2000, so at least you know it’s not that old bastard,” she replies. “My money is on Camile.”
“Have any of them tried to contact—” I start, but she cuts me off.
