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We all gather in a semicircle, two dozen people waiting to see if McCormick’s found her or if he’s giving up.
I can’t imagine him giving up.
Which means ...
I hold my breath, my lungs burning as he stands in the shallows. He’s a dark shadow rising from the ocean. The water sluices off him, catching the dull moonlight.
He’s in Speedos, his muscles bunching, his shoulders tight as he climbs from the ocean. He’s wide, powerful, the tattoos covering him blending into the night. I search his face. His jaw is tight, his expression devoid of any emotion.
He doesn’t have Amy.
It’s just him climbing from the water.
I’m filled with relief, but also fear.
“I couldn’t find her,” he says, looking me in the eye but speaking to everyone. There’s an apology in his voice. Frustration. Self-castigation.
I take a step forward and he shakes his head.
“I need two minutes, then I’m going back out.” He looks through the group, then stops at a short, gray-haired man. “Erol, are you up for a night dive?”
When he asks that the collective mood shifts. Like a cold winter wind shifting through a barren forest, it grasps the last autumn leaf and tugs it free from the branch.
“If you think ...” Erol trails off, looking down at the sand.
“Just in case,” McCormick says. He clenches his hands and looks away, burying his expression in shadow.
He means just in case Amy has drowned and she’ll be found underwater, by the diver.
“All right,” Erol says. “I’ll go out with Aldon on the boat.”
“Thank you.”
Across the group Robert watches me, a look of sympathy clouding his features. I shake my head at him, refusing to believe Amy’s gone, and when I do, McCormick catches our exchange.
I turn to him, stepping forward and putting my hand to his arm. His skin is cool, wet, and his muscles are tight.
I want to tell him it will be okay, that he’ll find her, but the words won’t come.
So he looks down at me and catches my expression as if he knows what I want to say without me having to say it at all.
Finally, I find my voice. “It will be all right.”
A cloud passes through his eyes as if he’s seen this before and it wasn’t all right. As if he already knows how this ends.
“I need a minute,” he says, “then I’m going back in.”
My chest clenches. How long can he swim without endangering himself?
But at the determined look on his face, I can only nod and take my hand from his arm.
I fold my fingers into my palm, wishing I could hold him for a moment. Hug him. Give him a bolt of energy to keep him swimming for as long as he needs.
Instead I can only stand there and watch, impotent, as he turns toward the cottages.
And then?—
“Dad?”
