Even years later, we both still struggle with Nathan’s loss. Some days it’s a quiet echo of pain, woven into the joys of life. On other days, it’s as fresh a wound as the moment I knew he was never coming back.
After we hug, I leave with the journal in my hands.
Why does it feel like he’s not gone?
There’s a cold part of me that can’t forgive him. I begged him not to go. For me. For Natalie. He dived that day anyway. But the part of me that still beats hot with the love I never lost can’t blame him. He died being true to who he was, and I know he did everything right.
Evil had him in its sights. It was out of his hands.
The parking lot is empty except for Maddie’s Honda Civic and the Land Rover I parked next to when I came in. Strange. Maybe it’s someone waiting for someone at the marina. As I fumble with the door to my car, I feel a breeze brush against my skin, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
It’s not windy today. I turn my head to look over my shoulder, expecting to see someone.
No one’s there.
CHAPTER 3
The Stranger
For a guy with no memory of the man he used to be, I spend a hell of a lot of time in my head. After I park my car in the small gravel lot, I take off my lanyard and glance at the ID badge.
Elliot Trevor.
I toss it into the center console and stare at the busted gray door through the windshield. I’m on a month-to-month tenancy-at-will agreement with the company that hired me to clean vacation rentals on Maverick Key. The room’s cramped, and the bathroom reeks of mildew, but the bed is soft, and there’s not too much noise at night. It’s a short walk to the beach. Not bad for someone who only has a few dollars to his name and barely had the means for the car ride here.
One thing I am is resourceful.
I’ll get something a little nicer when I can.
I spend a few more minutes thinking of every place and face I’ve seen since I got to the island. Wondering whether any of them hold a clue about my past. Not finding any answers, I get out and grab the cleaning caddy to restock it for tomorrow. The crumbling quadplex must have been built a hundred years ago. I open the door and walk in—there’s no lock. Inside, I put downthe caddy and spend a few minutes fiddling with the door to get it to close. There’s a trick I’ve been using that’s been working well. But this time it’s just done. I give up, move a chair in front of the door, and head straight to the bathroom.
As far as first days on the job go, this one wasn’t bad. My first assignment was a beach house. Renters hadn’t used it in years. There was a lot of dust and square footage, but not much else to worry about. Still, I’m filthy, and my bones ache. I ignore the scratched, peeling mirror and toss my dirty clothes into a basket near the door. After I brush my teeth, I step into the shower and turn the handle. Frigid water trickles over my head. The pressure sucks, and there’s no hot water. But I don’t care. I like the sting. It makes me feel something. I tug on the leather band around my neck, making sure it’s still there. I never take it off.
Stop it, Elliot. Stop fixating on that dream. Onher.
I’ve been on Maverick Key for a few nights. I’m not sure what I expected, but I thought there’d be… something. When I read that newspaper article about the Key back in Miami, I felt… recognition. I was so certain I’d been here before. But when I crossed over the Castle Light Bridge causeway and saw the island’s tranquil landscape, nothing seemed familiar—or even real. A beautiful mirage.
I towel off and pull on a clean pair of boxers, checking my phone. There’s one message from Karen.
Elliot! How was the first day on the job? We miss you so much.??
Karen misses me. The rest of my friends in Miami? I doubt they’re too worried about me. I like Karen, but I’m too fixated on my problems to be a good friend to anyone right now.
Went well. Just tired. Going to bed.
I watch the cursor blink for a few seconds. She wants to chat, to be the supportive friend, but she knows me well enough to let it go.
K, rest up! You know I'm here if you wanna talk.??
Relieved to be off the hook, I put away the phone. But not without a pang of guilt. I should care enough to be more grateful. But I don’t care enough because I’m empty.
I opened my eyes almost seven years ago. Waking up and feeling intact, able to recognize what was going on around me, only to find my mind fractured. As much as I searched, I couldn’t find anything. No name, no memory. Early on, I tried to reclaim my life. The hospital staff helped me heal, but had no information about where I might have come from. My only belonging was the leather band I wear around my neck.
An anchor to the past that I lived and lost.
My nurses explained to me I’d been pulled from the sea and stripped. Admitted to the hospital for weeks, I was treated for severe sun exposure, dehydration, and muscle deterioration. Investigators suspected drug runners conducting illicit activities might have found me in the water and dumped me near the shore as a mercy instead of getting involved.
The police fingerprinted and interviewed me, labeling me aJohn Doe, but nothing ever panned out. My social worker helped me for months—then years—working with the police to search for any sign of who I was. When that hope faded, they helped me establish a new identity. I got a delayed birth certificate through the courts, enabling me to get all the documentation I required to function. Everything I needed for a fresh start.
