Beach 1 is burning. Even with my cap pulled low over my forehead, I’m still squinting. The water is so bright, it hurts to look at it. It’s late afternoon, when the sun’s at its hottest, and there are no clouds, no breeze, nothing but the huge sun reflecting off the water, burning the sand. The heat nips at my ankles. I didn’t want to come down, but Heath called and told me to meet him here. He didn’t sound happy.
The beach is packed with people shielded under colorful umbrellas, talking lazily in the sun. Children bob in the shallows, parents hovering beside them. Teenagers jump over waves, knees lifted high, racing one another into the water. Groups of surfers lie flat on their boards, floating in the deep, arms dangling at their sides.
I think of Rachel Sutherland, Hannah Striker. Swimming lazy laps in the water, flat on their backs, chins tilted to the burning sky. I bet they thought they were safe, too. Hannah’s mum finally got back to me this morning. She found one of Hannah’s old caps with the diving club logo embroidered on the brim.
Down Under Diving.
The same club Dad belonged to.
I called them before I came here, but the disinterested man who answered had only been working there a year. He’d never heard of Hannah Striker or Michael Hunt.
I inch around a woman lying face down on her towel, shoulders red with sunburn. They closed the beaches for twenty-four hours after Rachel’s attack. But it’s the summer holidays, and kids aren’t back at school yet. They’re hot and bored, and their parents are willing to take the risk.
I’m not going in that water.
I shield my eyes from the sun, scanning the beach.
And I find them.
Colleen is on garbage patrol, dragging her bag across the sand. Heath stands at the edge of the sentry chair, arms crossed, alert and still, eyes fixed on the water. He’s not justlookingat the ocean, he’s reading it. His lifesaving shift is over, but he’s still on guard. Always on guard. Scanning for the split second when everything changes. Every shift in the tide, every glint on the surface, every call, he’s waiting, watching, acting before it’s too late.
I hate it for him. That fear, that constant watchfulness. We learned it from Dad. Learned to be ready, vigilant, always waiting for the worst to happen.
Heath pivots a little, eyes fixed on the surfers scattered out across the break.
One of them is Trav.
My stomach tightens and I reach instinctively for my car keys. I could leave. I could go home to Jessie and pretend I didn’t see the flash of anger in my brother’s eyes as he looked Trav over. But I don’t. I press forward, head down.
Colleen hovers behind a young couple packing up for the day, wringing out their towels, bending over to loop beach bags over their shoulders. She waits impatiently for them to leave, like a waiter itching to clear a table.
“Find anything good?” I ask her.
She looks up with dull surprise. “Just trying to clean up the mess.” There’s something hopeless about the way she says it. She adjusts her tennis visor with a free hand, yanking it lower, glowering at the sun.
I stand in front of her, blocking it out. “And how’s that going for you?”
“Not great.” She flicks her wrist and dumps the bag on the sand, a can of Sprite tumbling out. “And you?”
We share a smile.
“It’s a funny thing about this town, isn’t it? No matter how much you tidy up, it’ll never be clean.”
“Maybe,” she admits, reaching for the Sprite can. “But I’m going to try just the same.”
We say goodbye and I head to the sentry chair, sand clinging to my ankles.
A toddler waddles past, pink water wings attached to her wrists. Her mother follows behind, patient and smiling.
“Hey, Min.” My brother turns before I even call out, a stormy expression on his face. His jaw’s tight, and there’s that stillness in his shoulders like something’s rubbed him the wrong way.
“What’s wrong?”
He glances at the surfers paddling lazily on the sparkling sea. Since I’ve been home, I’ve only spoken to Trav once. Even then, Heath had called me away. After that, we didn’t bring him up again.
Truth is, we haven’t really talked about Trav since he was sent away as a child. Maybe it’s time we did.
“That Trav out there?” I finally ask, not waiting for an answer. “When did he come back to town?”
