Chapter 24
Let me tell you about sharks.
You know they’re down there. Hunting, feasting, waiting. But you’re stinging hot in the sunshine, your skin’s turning pink, and the water is calling. So you go.
You’re knee-deep now, waist-deep. That’s when you remember the stories, isn’t it? That’s when they flood your mind like a wave crashing in.
Girl mauled by bull shark in knee-deep water.
Great white attacks surfer.
But God, it’s bright and hot, and the water is so cool on your sunburned skin. So down you go, into the deep. Still, you feel the tug of fear. But it can’t be you. It won’t be you.
Until it is.
—
I stumble down the shore,thinking,Someone’s going to die today.
I step around a young family collecting shells in the shallows, past a couple strolling hand in hand, past a woman my age, sunglasses perched on her nose, magazine in a ring-heavy hand. I pause, inspecting them all. Which one of you is it?
Who’s dying today?
I look out across the water. The surfers paddle and scramble, jostling for position, chasing every wave. But not Trav. He’s straddling his board, calm and silent. He hasn’t moved in minutes. When the right wave comes, he’ll know. Until then, he’ll wait for it. As long as it takes.
There’s no news on Chris. Not a damn thing. But there’s someone in this town who knows everything. And I’m here to find him.
The sun’s going down, stretching long shadows across the shore. I look for Terry. Find him on the pier. He’s hunched on a plastic fishing bucket, back slightly bent, shoulders relaxed in that quiet, patient way only years can teach.
A tattered cap shades his eyes, but he seems to know I’m coming. The weathered wood creaks beneath my shoes as I head to him, salty breeze tugging at my sleeves. His line cuts through the air with a soft swish before it splashes into the water. “Hey, Min.”
I stop a few feet away, eyes flicking from his rod to the sea and then back to Terry. He’s not looking at me. His eyes are focused on the water below like he knows all its secrets. There’s something heavy in the air, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just casts his line again with a smooth, practiced flick. He’s squidding, and judging by the fresh ink staining his hands, he’s caught a lot.
“Ask your questions,” Terry finally mutters.
“I don’t know where to start,” I admit, taking a step closer. I fix my eyes on the surfers, seeking out Trav. He’s waiting beyond the break, reading the rhythm of the water. The swell rises and he catches it, feet finding his board like it’s a part of his body. The wave curls behind him, cresting over his shoulder. It reminds me of Heath’s broken trophy. The golden surfer. The golden wave. Beautiful. “Trav works for you now?”
He nods, reeling in slowly. “He’s a good skipper.”
“And easily led.”
He lifts an eyebrow, fingers still curled around the fishing line. “You can’t make that boy do anything he doesn’t wanna do.”
That’s only half true. If he loves you, there’s nothing he won’t do for you. But does he love Terry? This surrogate father figure. Half mentor, half shadow.
“He needed a job, I gave him one.”
“Is thatallhe does for you?”
The old man doesn’t answer right away.
I step closer. “AnythingIshould know about?”
“Depends who you’re gonna tell, Min.”
Chris. He knows I’ve been working with Chris.
My heart pounds in my chest as the silence between us stretches. “That journo…someone left a shark tooth under his windshield wiper. Now he’s missing.”
