March 23, 2009
Rocky Cove, CA
Prologue
Rye
Ryestubbedhisfootinto the dirt as he stopped at the corner, glancing one way and then the other.
“Come right home after school, Ryan.”That was what his mom had told him.“I trust you. You can do it. I’ll have to be at Grandma’s until about five, when Uncle Jon shows up. Call me when you get home so I know you’re safe, okay, sweetie? You remember Grandma’s phone number?”
Of course he did. He always remembered numbers. Because numbers made sense.
But what didn’t make sense was the street name on the sign right ahead of him.
Redwood Court.
He stared at the sign, frowning, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he turned around to look back the way he’d come.
Had he walked too far? He’d never walked home from school alone before, and he’d never really paid that much attention when his mom drove him places. But he hadn’t expected to get lost. And he really didn’t recognize the name Redwood Court at all.
He lived on Sycamore Avenue, and they turned... left? Or was it right? He scrunched his eyes shut and concentrated, trying to picture it. Right! They turned right off the main road from his school.
He was sure of it!
But he hadn’t passed Sycamore Avenue. And he’d been walking for a really, really long time. His feet hurt, and it was getting dark. Notdarkdark, because that would be really scary. But the sun was starting to go down—he could see it through the huge trees lining the road—and the shadows were growing.
He hated the dark, and he hated shadows. And he just really, really wanted to get home.
He turned back toward Redwood Court and swallowed hard. Maybe he should just keep going? Or maybe he should head back toward the school and try to find someone he knew. Maybe his friend Elsie had finished her piano lesson with Mr. Brock, and her mom would be driving her home soon. They lived only one house down from him, so maybe Elsie’s mom could tell him where Sycamore Avenue was.
Biting at his lip to keep himself from crying—because he was eight years old and definitely shouldn’t be crying, even if there was a small chance hemightbe lost—Rye scanned the road one more time. He had to be going the right direction. He had to. He must just be wrong about how far it was to home. Confident—sort of—that he’d eventually make it to Sycamore Avenue if he just kept going, he started off again.
He’d be home soon, way before it gotdarkdark. And then everything would be just fine.
Fifteen years later . . .
Chapter One
Jake
Theflamesinthefirepit danced and leapt, warding off the chill of the early November evening. At least, that was the intention. Jake still felt the cold as it crept into his bones, his right leg aching like it always did when the weather turned.
The last three weeks had been unseasonably warm, which Jake had appreciated, but just yesterday, the temperature had decided to drop, and his little stretch of quiet beach just south of the tiny town of Rocky Cove, California had been covered in a dense layer of misty fog that hadn’t cared to lift, even in the middle of the day.
It wasn’t really raining, and he was glad for it. That would have made it even more difficult for him. But the chill the fog brought with it and the sudden dip in temperature—barely reaching the upper forties during the warmest part of the day—definitely aggravated his damn aches and pains enough.
He stared out over the firepit toward the beach at the bottom of the short, rocky cliff beyond his patio. He could barely make out the waves lapping at the shoreline, and he closed his eyes and just listened.
The gentle waves, rhythmic and soothing. The fire’s quiet crackling. And nothing else.
God, he loved it here.
He loved the quiet and the simplicity, and he loved how life here felt unhurried and relaxed, even when his leg was acting up. He’d take the cold weather if it meant he had this peacefulness, bad leg or not. And he knew he’d been damn lucky to have found this place and even luckier that he’d been able to afford it. The settlement after his accident had made that possible, of course.
He lifted his mug to his lips and took a cautious sip of his tea, and then he let out a long, slow breath as he glanced at his watch. It was just after eight. His sister,Krista, would be calling to check on him any minute, just as she always did. Every. Single. Night.
Five years he’d lived here now, and she still called him every night to check on him. He loved her for it, and he understood why she called. But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sometimes make him feel like he was still a child.
