Eleanor, Johnny and Rosalie, my father and me. All of us trying to protect someone we love, no matter the cost.
I walk to the edge of the lot and remove my heels, carrying them in my hand as I step onto the warm sand.
Martha Lee had just enough pieces of the puzzle to know money was involved. Money and power. Enough to keep Martha looking over her shoulder. She agreed to speak with Erin after everything and said she gave me Rosalie’s number because she thought Rosalie was involved. She claimed she’d heard rumors of Crowley hiding the money he stole at the school, and she believed Johnny and Rosalie knew where. Another false rumor, snaking its way through the halls of that school.
Gulls dive in the blue-green water in front of me. I inhale a deep, salty breath to keep my heart rate from expecting danger. I’m safe, I tell myself, even though I’m still waking up every morning in fight or flight.
So far it looks like Summer was Crowley’s only victim. There are whispers about Lisbeth and if she flung herself from the top of a tree because of him. But no concrete evidence. And even though Summer and Crowley’s affair was public knowledge now, the result of it will stay a secret. She insisted on keeping that information off record to protect her daughter. Summer had been hidden away in a home for unwed mothers in Texas where she gave birth to a baby girl who was adopted in a closed, private adoption. Summer said she never even got to hold her. Then she told me something I hope she never acts on. She said she needed something good in her life after all that happened. That, when her daughter is an adult, Summer will find her and the girl will love her just as Summer still loves her. I warned her to be careful but who knows if she listened. Time will tell.
I put one foot in front of the other and walk to the scene I’m here to see.
I feel no remorse over Crowley’s death. And in a wildly inappropriate way, I wish he were still in that wall. Hidden forever. But my father has helped me understand justice for his murder is justified even if his actions were not.
Waves crash on the sand in front of two beach chairs, and a woman I’ve come to call my best friend leans out from under the umbrella.
“I texted you. You almost missed the sunset,” Dr. Willa Watters says.
I fall into the chair next to her. “Almost.”
She looks at my shoes in my hand. “Did you wear heels to the beach?”
“You’re the one who said only change one variable at a time. I quit my job. I’m not giving up the heels just yet.”
“Here,” she says, handing me a large piña colada. “Don’t get excited. It’s virgin.”
“I really don’t like traveling with a friend who is a therapist,” I say.
She smiles.
I smile back and take the drink. “Empty calories.”
“We are going to work on that too,” she says, looking forward.
“Oh joy.”
“Did you start your journal?” she says.
“Yes.”
“How does it feel?”
“Weird.”
“Good. That means you’re doing it right.”
I laugh.
“Want to read any to me?” she says.
“I thought diaries were supposed to be private.”
“Up to you.”
I pull it out of my bag. “I’ve only made one entry. About the day in the basement.” I open the journal, my hands not shaking for once. “Dear Diary.”
“Nice touch.”
“Thanks.” I start over. “Dear Diary. It was the blood I remember the most. The smell of it. The feel of it on my fingers. The way it ran down the drain in the shower. So much blood.” I put it down and look up.
