PROLOGUE
That night when I went to bed, my daughter was safe. By morning, she was gone.
When it happened, I was buried under cool Egyptian cotton, ocean waves whispering through the windows of our beachfront holiday home.
My husband burst through the bedroom door, his face drained of color. “It’s Sadie…she’s missing.”
It was as if I was falling from a great height. My stomach dropped as Gabriel continued. “No one can find her.” His eyes were full of terror. “There’s a search happening on the beach right now.”
I flung the covers aside and was on my feet before he finished speaking. My body moved before my mind caught up.
At the front door, I fumbled with my sandals, nearly falling. Then I ran outside into the star-studded night, still wearing the oversized T-shirt Sadie had given me last Christmas.
I ran toward flashlight beams and shouting voices farther down the beach.
My lungs burned with each ragged breath. I kicked off my sandals when they slowed me down, my bare feet plunging into cool sand that made every step harder.
I knew what everyone else feared. But as I searched and called Sadie’s name into the night, I was certain, deep in my heart, of one thing.
My little girl was somewhere out there. And I wouldn’t stop until I found her, brought her home.
Whatever it took.
I didn’t realize then that no matter how hard I searched for her in the darkness, how loud I shouted her name, I wouldn’t find my daughter out there on that beach.
Whatever happened to her began unfolding long before that night. And the truth was closer to home than I could ever have imagined.
ONE
JUDY
I’m back, returned to the place my daughter was last seen alive.
After pulling into my parking spot, I sit in my Toyota, hands still on the wheel, as if staying in here a little longer might somehow delay what comes next.
The engine hums softly beneath me. When I finally kill it and reach for the handle, the door lets out a faint, familiar squeak.
Gabriel hates that sound. He’s told me more than once to use the Audi he bought me last year. But I never switched. I don’t tell him it’s because this car feels more like me now. A little tired, a little worn, but still running.
The morning light slides over the white stucco facade of the oceanfront building ahead. Palm trees line the road, swaying in the soft January breeze that slips in through my open window.
Saltspray Cove still knows how to make an impression. This glossy Florida seaside town always did. Glass and steel balconies gleam, angled toward the sea as if reaching for it, while the blue sky and salt-heavy air create the familiar promise every holiday spot sells: stay long enough and whatever’s broken inside you might start to heal.
It won’t. Nothing softens the loss of losing a child, not knowing what happened to her or where she is.
In the passenger seat, Coco, the toy poodle my daughter Sadie received as a gift when she was seven, shifts and lets out a small, hopeful whine.
“It’s okay, Coco,” I tell her, smiling despite myself. “We’re here now.”
I unbuckle her seatbelt harness, and she wriggles into my arms, all warm chocolate-brown fur and impatience. I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in as she whines again.
“I know you miss her, sweetie,” I murmur. “I do too.”
Coco licks my chin and squirms down, ready to explore.
Gabriel and I spent our honeymoon in this town and we bought the apartment when Sadie was two. It quickly became our second home, and we loved it just as much as our place in LA.
Every summer after that followed the same rhythm: the same cafés, the same stretch of sandy beach, Coco trotting ahead of us with my ocean-loving daughter Sadie running behind her, collecting shells and stuffing them into the pockets of her shorts.
