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Amy though?
McCormick?
I don’t know what happens if they don’t survive.
Robert grabs my wrist and spins me back around. “Becca. No. You aren’t thinking.”
“He needs help!”
“He needs you to stay on the beach. Safe. He needs all of us to stay on the beach. Safe. You know this better than most.”
I shake my head and try to pull free of his grip. His hand shackles my wrist.
“I want to help him.”
“Aldon has the boat out. We’re searching the beach?—”
“But what if he gets caught in the riptide too? What if?—?”
Robert lets out an incredulous laugh, and it echoes over the hiss and roar of the waves. I stop fighting his grip and watch the shadows play over his face.
He shakes his head then and drops my wrist. “You know as well as I do, others may die, but not McCormick.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He killed his best friends, didn’t he? And now he might have killed your daughter.”
Lightning-quick, without thinking, I reach out and slap Robert. The crack of my hand is like a gunshot.
Robert blinks at me then sets his hand to his cheek. When he touches the bright red imprint of my hand he winces. “You know it’s true.”
“You hate him.” I’m incredulous at the realization.
He shakes his head. “He’s my best friend. I love him like a brother.”
“You have a terrible way of showing it.”
He holds out his hands as if to say, “We’re in this together, you and me.”
“I need a torch,” I say.
Robert sighs then takes me to a cottage with a line of flashlights on the steps. I grab one, flick it on, and then start my search of the beach.
For two hours I pace the wet sand, running the light through the churning surf beating against the shore. At times I think I see a person rolling in the waves, but it turns into driftwood or seaweed or the glimmer of the moon on the water.
I pass others searching, Jordi and Junie, the crossing guard, Maranda and Dee. As the minutes pass and hope seeps away like water evaporating in the sand, I avoid the worried looks of every person I pass.
Instead I call out, “Amy! Amy!” until my voice is raw and my throat aching. The misty salt stings my eyes, and my feet are raw from the sharp coral rocks and the broken shells.
The night cools in increments, until at midnight I begin to shiver.
It’s been two hours.
For one hundred and twenty minutes I’ve searched for Amy. Every few seconds I’ve been tugged to turn my eyes to the water. To find McCormick and make certain he’s still swimming. I’ll catch him—a flash of his watch, the light of his arm—a movement that lets me know he’s okay.
He hasn’t stopped searching, swimming. And so I keep my eyes on the water, and I keep my eyes on him.
But finally, at midnight, with the moon buried behind a black cloud, McCormick turns toward shore. The boat veers our way too, its light aimed toward the beach.
