Page 3

“A nasty gale started just off the coast. By the time the ship reached here, to the Boone Lighthouse, there was no visibility. It wrecked a few miles down shore. There were no survivors. Only seven of the crew members were recovered at all, one of which had been the second crew member who had dreamed about the wreck.”

A frown pulled down Sloane’s lips, drawing her eyebrows close together. I finally gave in to temptation and pulled up a new tab on my phone, quickly typing in the name of the ship and the crew member.

“Some say they can still see the Isadore on the harbor during stormy nights, and there have been several reports of men talking and calling to each other and the sounds of steamer engines.”

I clicked on the first search result that looked halfway reputable, skipping the entire first page to get passed the paid spots. It took a minute for the site to load. It was an obituary for Thomas King, nearly thirty years after the wreckage of the ship he’d apparently deserted. In addition to a small paragraph about his family and achievements was a black and white photo.

My breath caught as I focused on my sister.

“What are the odds that he looks just like me?”

She glanced down at my phone before shuddering.

“That’s so weird,” she said. “Definitely creepy.”

Then she focused on her camera again, taking more photos of the lighthouse as we rounded the island. The teen started in on the next story. This one didn’t have any dreams or ghosts at all.

“I can’t believe we’re leaving tomorrow,” Sloane said, stretching out on the oversized blanket we’d packed for our dinner picnic along the shore. The food was mostly gone, the remnants carefully packed away so we didn’t accidentally leave any trash behind on the gray rocks. The waves lapped at the shore, a steady sound that had grown on me over the last week we’d been working our way down the Maine coastline. A bird called from overhead, and then another answered it, much closer to us.

I glanced up from the worn mass-market paperback I was working through for a minute, taking in the way her head was tilted toward the sun again and her entire body was the kind of relaxed it only got when we were traveling. It was probably only a matter of minutes before she grew antsy enough to insist on taking a walk down to the dock that hemmed in the far end of the beach here. And then I refocused on the book. The sworn academic rivals were two stolen glances away from realizing they were actually in love with each other—something that had taken nearly three-quarters of the book for them to figure out. The tension was so intense, it was practically palpable. They needed to kiss before Sloane pulled me away from the story in search of whimsy or wonder in some tide pool she’d heard about from one of the employees at the bed-and-breakfast we’d stayed at the last two nights.

“It’s so beautiful here.” Sloane sighed, the sound full of wistfulness. “Maybe we could find jobs here instead.”

I huffed a laugh and focused on my sister again. Her eyes were closed, a small smile curling the edges of her lips in that way that meant she was truly content. Sloane always fell in love with the places we visited, but it wasn’t the kind that swept people away into plans of picking up everything they owned and starting fresh. Despite our trips every couple months, we’d never made a permanent move from the small apartment we’d been renting the last few years in the heart of Phoenix.

Not that I would have been opposed to something like that. I had a wandering soul—hence our myriad trips since graduating college a few years ago. Sloane wasn’t built like that, though. While she was whimsical and adventurous, she loved to grow roots, settling into each temporary place we lived with the intentionality of a woman creating her forever space.

We were opposites like that.

“I wonder how much demand there is for dance instructors out here,” I mused, starting on the next chapter of the book. We were still sans kiss despite the perfect opportunity in the scene before. This woman needed to realize just how head-over-heels, stand-on-your-porch-in-the-rain in love this man was and soon. “I haven’t seen a studio since leaving Boston.”

“I’m sure I could find something,” Sloane said, waving away the very real issue of employment. “I could always go back to bartending.”

That had me frowning in earnest. Sloane despised working behind the bar. It was part of why she’d taken up a gig job at the start of the year teaching a handful of dancing classes for the rich kids that lived in the suburbs of Phoenix. It didn’t quite make the rent, but she smiled more and cried significantly less, so I picked up an extra shift at the restaurant to help make up the difference every couple weeks—and made sure she had no idea.

I’d been protecting her from as many of the world’s harsh realities as I could since we were sitting in the fire station at four years old with nothing but a blanket and worn stuffed animal.

“Don’t they get, like, ten feet of snow here in the winter?” I asked, turning another page.

I wasn’t actually sure, but it felt like something Maine was known for. All of New England, actually. Cold and gray and full of snow. It sounded terrible to my desert-raised self.

Sloane sucked in a breath before making a gagging sound. “Oh, ew. That sounds awful.”

I chuckled and readjusted on the plush blanket, resting the book against my thighs so I didn’t have to hold it above my head. Quiet settled around us again.

Our time together was always like this, small moments of conversation interlaced with large swaths of comfortable, silent companionship. I knew that many siblings couldn’t relate to the dynamic. It was one of the few good things that came out of our childhood. Though some had argued it was because we were twins—that there was a certain amount of inherent understanding that came with sharing a womb with another person. In any case, there was a level of familiarity between us that meant we didn’t waste time on those odd circulatory stories that were meant to feel intimate but were in actuality nothing but shallow waters.

“Let’s go walk,” Sloane said right as the two characters finally kissed. “There was a tide pool spot a little farther down one of the ladies on the tour this morning told me about, and the tide’s currently going out, so we should be able to see some interesting things.”

I held back a groan and dog-eared the page. At least I had something juicy to return to once she’d gotten her fill of shells and crabs and tiny fish. As we slowly eased down the shoreline, she grabbed my hand, lacing our fingers together. I didn’t bother to stop her, knowing we both liked the tactile comfort. I’d sort of expected the need to fade away as we became adults and moved out of the tumultuous living situations caused by being in the foster system most of our childhood. Yet here we were, newly 25, and I craved touch even more than when we graduated high school.

The sun reflected off something a few yards away, right where the tide pools started. I squinted at the bright light.

“Oh, shoot, who left trash on the shore?” Sloane posited the rhetorical question. It’s not like I knew the answer. She squeezed my hand and then dropped it, speeding up a bit. “That’s so rude. It’s not that hard to clean up after yourself. There’s a trash can literally right here.”

I followed close behind her, seeing what someone had left behind.

A small mirror sat wedged between two rocks, facedown. Its black scrollwork and dainty handle made it feel vintage, an item you’d see in a period drama. It felt like something of an heirloom, the type of treasure that would be passed down from mother to daughter, guarded and cherished. Despite it being somewhere submerged for half the day, it was in surprisingly good shape, not a single sign of rust anywhere I could see.