Page 28 of Crashing Tides

The sand slowly rises around me. I lift my foot to see that water has pooled in my footprint.

“Um,” I say very loudly, panicked. A few paces ahead, Jane turns to look at me. Her feet are completely submerged in wet sand.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and I shake my head frantically, unable to say more. Panic has seized my throat, twisted my tongue.

She starts toward me. My sock is getting wet.

I am definitely about to die. Cold terror shoots down my spine, into my legs.

I bolt.

It’s not my proudest moment. Certainly, I’ll never forget the expression of bewildered guilt on Jane’s face. Sand sprays out behind me, vicious as shrapnel. It clings to my legs, stings my arms.

Anyone in their right mind would be embarrassed. Dozens of eyes light upon me, and I can only hope that they think I’m practicing for track or something. That my terror isn’t evident on my face. That they don’t know I’m fleeing the tide, freaking out because my sock got wet.

It’s more than that, though. It’s the ghost of my mom’s withered face peering out from an open casket, the beeping of hospital machines, and a promise I swore not to break.

Arms clenched tight around my chest, I wait by the Subaru and tell myself that the stinging wind isn’t an admonishment from beyond the grave.

Chapter

Ten

“Your Mom had a lot of weird stuff,” says my cousin, Nora. Her voice is tinny through the speaker. I lean against the headboard, my back to Aleo, who is also on the phone, this time with his mother. His conversation is far more animated than mine, although to be fair, it sounds like she’s reminding him that she’s the one paying his tuition, and he’s about as thrilled as can be expected.

It’s weird that I’m a landlord now. Seeing money come into my account every month from my mom’s house is… surreal. I’m glad that it’s Nora, if it has to be anyone, but I’m still tense at the mention of my mom’s stuff, even though that’s part of the deal. I don’t really expect Nora to live with boxes and boxes of junk, do I?

OK, fine, maybe I do, a little bit. I haven’t had a chance to go through everything yet. Even though I know I can trust Gretchen to make decisions on my behalf, I’m worried about letting go of the wrong things.

Which is exactly how Mom became a hoarder. And exactly what I’m not going to do.

“Like what?” I ask, hoping it isn’t anything embarrassing.

“I keep finding this symbol,” says Nora. In the background, Jolene meows, loud and insistent, like she knows I’m on the other line and wants to know where I’ve been and when the fuck I’m coming home.

Guilt cuts through me. I try to focus. Jolene is fine. Bruce is fine. I don’t need to worry so much. This conversation could be important. “What kind of symbol?”

“Well, it’s like… Kind of hard to describe. It’s like a circle, with some waves and, like, some curly lines? I keep finding it everywhere.”

Nora sleeps in my mom’s bed now, underneath her window, with her cat and dog. I can’t stop thinking about that.

There’s a reason I never bother checking in.

That, and I’m terrified that one day she’s going to ask me to call a plumber, and I’m going to have to make a phone call like an adult.

I hate professional phone calls. I’d rather live in an apartment with no lightbulbs, no A/C, and a broken toilet than call maintenance. Jeremy dealt with all of that, which is absolutely not why he cheated on me, I tell myself, even as my gut twists.

My mind flashes back to the weird stone pendant I found in Mom’s stuff. Was it the same symbol? It sounds like it, but I’m hesitant to leap up and paw through my suitcase like I really want to. Aleo’s going to notice and I’m loath to explain. We’re almost friends, and I’d like to keep it that way. If he finds out how weird I am, he’s not going to want to hang out anymore. I’m already lonely enough.

“Huh,” I say, like this is the first I’ve heard of it. I’m cool as a cucumber. Absolutely not jealous that she’s found something in the house that I should be living in.

Cool as a cucumber, I remind myself and add, “Where are you seeing it?”

“All over the place,” Nora groans. “Johnny and I moved the stove, and it’s scratched into the side of the counter. I found a drawing taped up inside the linen closet—same thing. It’s even on the garage floor. It’s like she was in some freaky cult or something.”

Instinctively, I want to snap at Nora. The words, She’s not in a cult! rise in my throat. I swallow them down, tap my fingers on the mattress. “I, uh, don’t know about any cults,” I say instead. “But that’s really weird. Could you send me a picture?”

“Seriously? You lived here and you never noticed?”