A Killer Plot (2010)

Chapter 9

I will be the gladdest thing

Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

And not pick one.

—EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

The smell accosted Olivia as soon as she stepped through the poppy red double doors of the Edward Thatch Middle School. Ammonia, sweat, and greasy food mingled with an animalistic odor of surging hormones. Like all large public buildings, the polished laminate floors still looked dingy beneath rows of dust-covered fluorescent ceiling lights. Without windows, the school’s central hallway could belong in any hospital, mental institution, or low-security correctional facility across the country. Only the self-congratulatory trophy cases and forcibly cheerful bulletin boards identified the corridor as being a part of a building dedicated to learning.

Olivia followed the sound of murmuring voices, relieved to have left Haviland at home. Not only would his olfactory senses be overwhelmed but the impassioned arguments she expected to take place during the meeting would also cause her poodle far too much anxiety.

Previous notices listed the township meetings as being held in Classroom 105, but as Olivia passed the room, she noticed the door was shut. A purple sign had been hung across the narrow window slit, announcing that the meeting had been moved to the auditorium.

To Olivia, the word “auditorium” conjured an image of cushioned seats, velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, and flashes of gilt. Having left Oyster Bay before middle school, she had never actually seen the Edward Thatch auditorium.

“It’ll be just like Lincoln Center, I’m sure.” Olivia chuckled to herself. “Instead of amateur productions of The Wizard of Oz or Cheaper by the Dozen, the citizens of Oyster Bay are surely treated to stellar performances of Aida and Tosca.”

Turning down another locker-lined hallway, the murmur of conversation swelled. The meeting hadn’t started yet and townsfolk were standing in clusters outside the cavernous room, heads bent as they rapidly exchanged opinions. Words ricocheted off the sand-colored cement walls in a sharp staccato. Already Olivia could see tension in the furrowed brows and balled fists of those waiting just outside the propped auditorium doors.

Suddenly, the clang of a bell blasted through the wall-mounted speakers, cutting through the clamor as the adults jumped to attention, their memories triggered by the sound. Though some of them hadn’t trod a public school hallway for nearly forty years, the local business owners, lawyers, Realtors, shrimpers, stay-at-home mothers, waitresses, builders, and barbers responded to the signal as if they were still clad in letter jackets and poodle skirts.

The townsfolk chose seats quickly, arranging themselves by cliques just like the school’s current students. Despite the fact that she had always kept herself apart from such groups, Olivia couldn’t help herself from searching for a familiar, comfortable face. Therefore, she was delighted to feel a tug on her arm and to look down at the darkly tanned, heavily made-up face of Dixie Weaver.

“Have they started yet?” Dixie licked her finger and scrubbed at a smudge on the top of her left roller skate. In addition to the milk white skates, Dixie wore boys’ tube socks, a plaid miniskirt, and a navy sailor top. Her feathered hair had been styled into high pigtails and she held a Blow Pop in one hand.

Dixie noticed Olivia’s appraisal. “I’m channelin’ Britney Spears’s first video. You probably never saw it, but that’s because you don’t have teenage boys. I can lip-synch the whole thing and Grumpy loves me in this outfit. Can you spot him in this herd?”

Scanning the crowd, Olivia noticed Annie Kraus and her husband Roy in the second row. The B&B proprietors smiled in greeting. Olivia waved her hand briefly, her gaze drawn to the man sitting next to Roy. His appearance was similar to Roy’s as both men were tall and lean with dark hair and eyes, and Olivia assumed the man was likely Roy’s brother. But while Roy’s face was rounded by rich foods, his brother’s was gaunt and more weathered, like those of the fishermen in the room. His lips were drawn together and an unpleasant thought seemed to have settled between his creased brows.

Tearing her gaze from the discomfiting visage of the stranger, Olivia spotted Grumpy toward the back, a few rows shy of the rear wall and the enormous painting of Blackbeard standing at the prow of his ship, Queen Anne’s Revenge. Blackbeard, also known as Edward Thatch or Edward Teach, was an unusual personage to choose when selecting the name for a middle school, but Olivia liked the choice. She imagined that children caught between childhood and young adulthood could identify with the romanticized version of Blackbeard’s life, which elevated his supposed skill, smarts, and wiliness to legendary heights. To these confused and insecure youths, the rebellious nature of the eighteenth-century pirate, who plundered from North Carolina to the Caribbean and had rousing parties with fellow buccaneer Charles Vane along the banks of the Pamlico, was cause for idolization.

“He’s up there.” Olivia showed Dixie where her husband was seated.

Dixie scowled. “Now how does he expect me to climb up all these damned stairs with my skates on!” She sighed. “Men. Thick as mules, I swear.”

Following Dixie was a slow process. She’d stop every few aisles in order to chat with the person seated at the end of each row and only hurried when Mayor Guthrie picked up a handheld microphone and called the meeting to order. He rapped on the podium with a wooden gavel and then quickly stepped aside to allow one of the local ministers to recite an opening prayer. By the time the audience bowed their heads, Dixie and Olivia had finally taken their seats.

After the Pledge of Allegiance, Oyster Bay’s portly mayor called for the minutes of prior meetings to be approved and the townsfolk settled down for a long wait. After completing mundane business such as passing a proposal for a universal speed limit within the downtown area, voting on the budget for mosquito and litter control, salary increases for certain town employees, and a review of the maintenance contract for the parking lots serving the public beaches, the committee members were ready to discuss the final proposition of the evening.

It had taken an hour and a half to get to the agenda item of interest. During that time, in which the townsfolk coughed, fidgeted, cracked gum, knitted, snacked on beef jerky or hard candies, and muttered softly to one another, Olivia had noticed a man carrying a laptop slip into the auditorium wearing an expensive tailored suit and a politician smile.

Committeeman Earl Johnson rose to his feet. A hush fell over the crowd as he took the microphone from the mayor. A good-looking man in his mid-fifties, Earl owned the marina and the general store supplying the rising numbers of boaters stopping overnight in Oyster Bay’s sheltered cove. Genuinely liked by almost everyone in town, Talbot Properties had won the right man to their side. And since Earl was the person putting forth the proposal for a vote, Olivia wondered if the marina would soon be expanding.

Earl smiled as he tapped on the microphone and then stuck one hand in his pocket. His casual dress and posturing seemed to relieve some of the apprehension in the air, but the sheen of perspiration on his brow gave away how important the proposal was to the committeeman.

“As many of you know, our little town has been experiencing quite a growth spurt. Time magazine put us on the map and now people want to vacation here, live here, and start businesses here.” He held out his arms in a brief shrug. “I know change isn’t always neat and tidy and isn’t always welcomed by all. But it’s coming to our town, that much is certain.”

He paused and Olivia was impressed by his sense of timing and calm delivery. “This past year, as a result of Oyster Bay’s population boom, we’ve seen some exciting new businesses open.” He consulted his notes. “Recently, some of our long-vacant retail spaces have been transformed into a boutique clothing store, a bookstore, and my favorite, a toy store named Animal Crackers.”

This earned him a few chuckles. Even though Animal Crackers wasn’t housed in one of Olivia’s buildings, the revitalization of those adjacent to hers were a boon. Most of her rentals had been filled by boutiques she was more than happy to patronize. She especially liked Possessions, an upscale consignment store, and Palmetto’s, a woman’s clothing store specializing in colorful, washable cottons in stylish cuts and colors. The last lease she’d signed had been for The Potter’s Wheel. The owner, a master potter from western North Carolina, planned to sell his own wares while conducting workshops for both children and adults. At first, Olivia had been reluctant to house a business requiring three kilns capable of reaching two thousand degrees, but the potter had showed her how some simple renovations to the back room could safely accommodate the equipment. In the end, her own willingness to support the arts had allowed her to be swayed into agreeing to the potter’s terms.

“More and more folks have decided to call Oyster Bay home—even if just for the summer months,” Earl continued. “And this means we need more houses for them to live in. Talbot Fine Properties has made the town an offer for the Neuse River Community Park land. They plan to develop this land into a housing complex called Cottage Cove.

“Cottage Cove will feature single-family homes, town-houses, and an apartment complex. There will be a club-house, a pool, tennis courts, a putting green, and jogging trails. As you can see on the agenda, the town has proposed to sell the land for eight and a half million dollars. The grave sites at the current park will be relocated to the Confederate burial site at the Third Street Methodist Church. This transfer will occur with the utmost dignity. And there’s more.” He held out his hand. “But I’d like Max Warfield from Talbot Fine Properties to personally show you the rendering of Oyster Bay’s brand-new park.”

The crowd rumbled with displeasure as Max took the microphone from Earl. The Talbot representative grinned self-effacingly and Olivia got the feeling he’d been in this situation many times before and it didn’t bother him in the least to meet the hostile eyes of the locals. In fact, the confident set of his shoulders indicated that he relished the opportunity to convince people that his company wasn’t a villain, but the savior of their unsophisticated town.

“Yes, I’m the bad guy,” he began in a honeyed voice and several women called out “amen” in response. He smiled at the shadowed faces before him. “Now that we’ve established that, please hear me out. When I show you what I’ve got here, you might just change your mind.” He tapped his laptop, which was hooked up to a projector. “Yes, Talbot Fine Properties would like to build a lovely community of homes on your park land, but my company does not want to leave the town without a park. Therefore, in addition to paying nearly nine million dollars for the old park land, we’re prepared to include a new and improved park as part of the final proposal.”

Earl Johnson, Debbie Hale (one of the female committee members), and Mayor Guthrie did their best to appear pleasantly surprised by this revelation, but Olivia wasn’t fooled by their act and she suspected few of the townsfolk were either.

“Allow me to show you the new and improved Talbot Community Park.” Max nodded at a man stationed by the door. With well-timed synchronicity, the lights went out the same moment the projector was turned on, revealing an architect’s drawing on the large screen occupying center stage. The image was rendered from a bird’s-eye view and was carefully labeled.

“Look! A real playground!” a woman whispered to her neighbor as the next image showed a stylized drawing of the children’s play area. “It’s wonderful!”

Indeed, the playground featured two sets of swings, a sandbox, a teeter-totter, and an enormous wooden castle structure complete with firemen’s poles, slides, monkey bars, and a rock wall. A small building housed restrooms, a vending machine area, and three water fountains at different heights. Benches surrounded the mulched area, and the covered areas with picnic tables looked like old-fashioned bandstands with their striped roofs and wide-planked floors.

The next image displayed a map of paved walking trails and dirt tracks reserved for mountain bike enthusiasts. The final slide featured a generous parking lot bordered by a white split-rail fence and landscaped flower beds. Upon entering the park, one would be greeted by a flowing fountain featuring a statue of a jumping dolphin.

“We don’t have dolphins here, Mack!” one of the men called out.

Max smiled. “Pretend it’s a blue heron then. I’ve seen them flying over the Ocean Vista condos.” He gestured to his underling and the lights were turned back on. “So there you have it, folks. A new park, nine million dollars added to the town budget, and an attractive community of homes for those looking to relocate to Oyster Bay. I can assure you that these are tasteful, quality homes built to blend in with the traditional style of the area. Thank you for considering this proposal.”

There was an immediate explosion of excited chatter in the room. Mayor Guthrie resumed the podium and banged his gavel.

“We’re going to vote on this proposal tonight, so if any members of the public would like to ask questions or voice your concerns, now’s the time. Please raise your hand and wait to be called on so everyone can be heard in an orderly fashion.”

Dixie snorted. “In other words, we’d best behave ourselves or we’ll have to sit in detention.”

A burly man wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and dirty khaki shorts stood up. Without bothering to wait for the mayor to give him permission to speak, he shouted, “It’s a damned disgrace to move those graves! Those boys died fightin’ for this place. They bled for us. And now we’re gonna dig ‘em up like they’re some kind of weeds and stick ’em in the ground someplace else?” He turned to face the audience, his face dark with anger. “Don’t they deserve peace? My great-great granddaddy’s buried at that park. You’d best not touch a splinter of wood on his coffin or you’re gonna have to answer to me!”

Several people jumped to their feet and clapped loudly as the rest of the crowd tittered, wondering how the refined committee members would handle the man’s overt threat.

“They’re having the time of their lives,” Dixie remarked with a fond smile. “A few rounds through the gossip mill and the story will have him draped in a Confederate flag and holding up a photograph of his great-great granddaddy.”

“Or a gun,” Grumpy murmured in agreement.

Olivia’s eyes were on the broad back of the man who had spoken. “Who is that?” she asked Dixie.

“Jethro Bragg,” she answered readily. “Quiet type. Clam-kicker. He’s a war vet. Been in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had a house and a girlfriend when he got deployed, but lost them both while he was on tour overseas. She lives with an insurance salesman now.” Dixie sighed. “Jethro saw a lot of hard things when he was away—lost some of his friends to a car bomb. I can see why the idea of movin’ those soldiers troubles him.”

Olivia knew the weight of loss and fought against feelings of sympathy for Jethro Bragg. After all, he’d been the last person to see Camden Ford alive. Olivia stared at the man and wondered if his eyes were haunted by more than loss. Perhaps something even darker lingered there, a shadow of horrible deeds. “Is he a fisherman?” she asked Dixie.

“Nah, he’s one of those quiet types. Doesn’t like to work with a crew. He’s been a clam-kicker ever since the war. Before that, he was a land surveyor. He must still know folks in the field, since he came here tonight ready for a fight, so this whole thing was no surprise to him.”

Her gaze still fixed on Jethro’s back, Olivia thought about the profession he’d chosen. Clam kicking was a method of netting clams by using the backwash from a motorboat propeller to force the clams to the surface. It was a lonely occupation. Jethro would only have to talk to another person when it came time to sell his catch.

He’s a man who likes to be alone with his memories, she thought. Or worse. A man crippled by the past.

As Earl Johnson made his way to Jethro’s side in order to speak to him in calm, soothing tones, the mayor called upon a plump woman in the middle of the audience. “I think this idea is wonderful! Nobody ever goes to that old park anyhow. Have you all seen it lately? It’s a disgrace. Me? I’d love to have that new playground. Not only do we get bathrooms, but we can also have church picnics in those nice covered areas. We shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, people!” She gestured at Jethro and spoke with pointed gentleness. “Now, I’m not saying I like the thought of moving those boys, but as long as it’s done with respect, then why not lay our soldiers to rest in the churchyard? Why not give them a Christian burial while giving our living children a fine, safe place to play?”

Her statement was followed by a smattering of applause from the crowd and an enthusiastic nod from the minister onstage.

Several others made speeches for and against the sale of the park, but the combination of parents, outdoor enthusiasts, business owners, Realtors, and those engaged in all facets of the construction trade made it clear that Talbot Fine Properties was welcome to continue building in Oyster Bay.

Earl Johnson, who had returned to his seat after being shoved aside by Jethro Bragg, gripped the microphone and announced that it was time for the committee members to vote. “Who’s in favor of this proposition?” he asked.

Without hesitation, all five members raised their hands and said, “Aye!”

A unanimous decision.

Mayor Guthrie beamed, pumped Max Warfield’s hand, and stepped to the podium for his final address of the evening. “We can’t get our shovels out yet, folks. The Planning Board will need to make the final call on this proposal next week. It’s up to them to debate the amount of green space or storm water drainage required for the new development, but I have every confidence that Talbot Fine Properties has seen to every tiny detail.”

He and Max Warfield exchanged smug nods. At that moment, Olivia felt an extreme dislike for their mayor.

“In the meantime,” Mayor Guthrie continued—he was a man who loved the sound of his own voice, “might I suggest you bring the family down to our Twenty-Sixth Annual Barbeque Cook-off this weekend? Yours truly has been working since last year in hopes of winning the Best Beef Rib category. Come on by and bring a lobster bib. It’s going to get messy! Good night!”

The committee members were the first to leave. Though buoyed by the outcome of the meeting, all five had full-time jobs and were eager to get home. The mayor stayed to field any remaining questions from his constituents and Olivia wondered how many times she’d be approached by townsfolk about the proposition before the Planning Board meeting.

She leaned over Dixie. “Looks like our vote is going to be a topic of interest, Grumpy. I bet the diner will be filled with curious folks between now and next Tuesday, all wanting to know if you’re planning on saying aye or nay.”

The short-order cook shrugged. “I’ll vote for the new development, though I doubt Talbot’s homes are any better built than our double-wide. When it comes down to it, Dixie and me got a pile of bills high as the lighthouse. Between the diner and the kids, the only way I’m gonna be able to pay them is if more folks eat my food.”

Dixie’s taciturn husband had never strung so many words together in Olivia’s presence before. “Perhaps you should raise your prices,” she suggested.

Grumpy shook his head. “Don’t wanna drive off the workin’ man. I gotta cook for some folks like me so I don’t feel like somebody’s servant. ’Sides, most of the fishers have eaten and gone long before the suits are even awake.”

Olivia nodded in agreement, gathered her purse, and stood up. It felt good to stretch her long legs.

“How about you, ’Livia?” Dixie asked with a smile. “You wanna expand your territory? Buy up a few more town blocks so these new folks will have places to shop? Maybe get their toenails painted? Eat some sushi?”

Not for the first time, Olivia was grateful that Dixie didn’t resent her wealth or her success in business. The other woman seemed to genuinely admire her for her achievements and this esteem made her a rare friend indeed.

“I don’t know,” Olivia answered honestly. “The proposal seems most attractive on the onset, but the idea of relocating the graveyard does trouble me a bit. I also have concerns about the limited green space I saw on those renderings for Cottage Cove.” She fell quiet for several seconds. “With only five of us voting on such a major issue, I’d like to do a little more research before reaching a decision.”

Dixie spun the wheels of her left skate around and around as she mulled over Olivia’s response. “Fair enough.” She elbowed Grumpy. “Come on, babe. We gotta go home and see which of our kids is on fire, hanging from the ceiling, or has run away.”

Laughing, the couple wished Olivia a good night. Grumpy took his wife’s arm and helped her down the stairs. Olivia exited at the other end of the row and was a few steps from the bottom when she noticed Chief Rawlings.

He wasn’t in uniform, but he wasn’t wearing one of his typical Hawaiian shirts either. In dark jeans, a light blue collared shirt, and a houndstooth blazer, he was hardly recognizable. As though sensing her eyes on him, Rawlings looked up and smiled, but he glanced away quickly, fixating on the man standing before him.

“I was wondering if you and I could sit a spell and talk.” He spoke to Jethro Bragg with utmost courtesy. Rawlings’ words were as relaxed as his dress, but his tone was laced with authority. Olivia was close enough to hear them clearly.

Jethro shook his head and growled, “Look, I didn’t touch a hair on that queer’s head, so we don’t need to talk.”

“Please come on down to the teacher’s lounge with me. I’d appreciate your help concerning Mr. Ford’s movements the night he was killed. This is an unofficial request. I’m just trying to get a picture of that night, that’s all. Will you give me a few minutes of your time?” Rawlings’ humility gave Jethro pause. But when it looked as those the clam-kicker wouldn’t cooperate, Rawlings put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Come on, man. I don’t want to go home and put on my uniform. I’d rather not have to turn all the lights on at the station for just you and me. No need to make our electric bill any higher. Besides, there’s no coffee, so what do you say?” He held out his hand in the direction of the hallway as though assuming Jethro would comply. After a moment’s hesitation, he did.

Olivia glanced at her watch. It was half past nine and she was tired. As much as she wanted to wait for the chief outside the teacher’s lounge, the vision of her peaceful home and the lulling call of the surf won out over curiosity.

Her evening wasn’t over yet, however. She ran into Annie, Roy, and the stranger Olivia took to be Roy’s brother in the hallway.

“How’s Cosmo?” Olivia asked Annie.

“Better. He took a nice long walk on the beach this afternoon and the sea air did him good. I laid out a nice afternoon tea for him.” She colored. “We don’t normally fix food other than breakfast for our guests, but I feel like Mr. Cosmo is more like family than some sightseer. Besides, I just couldn’t send him out in search of a snack in the state he’s in.”

Olivia admired the innkeeper’s generous spirit. “Your care is exactly what he needs right now.” She turned her body slightly in order to include Roy and the unfamiliar man in the conversation. “How are you, Roy?”

“Good, but busy,” he replied. “We’re into the season full-swing now. Booked solid until October.”

Roy didn’t appear inclined to linger any longer, but Olivia’s inquisitiveness prompted her to thrust out her hand toward the man standing next to Roy. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around town before. I’m Olivia Limoges.”

“Atlas Kraus, Roy’s brother,” he answered, briefly squeezing her hand.

Annie gave her brother-in-law a nervous smile. “Atlas is staying with us for the season. We just can’t handle all the work so it was a real blessing when he called Roy and said he’d like to stay with us awhile. Atlas is real good with his hands. He can build, repair, or restore almost anything!”

Olivia could sense a current of unease underlying Annie’s praise. Atlas dipped his head in acknowledgment of the compliment while Roy shifted on his feet. He was obviously eager to get on his way.

They don’t want Atlas too involved with the inn, Olivia thought, listening as Annie described the breakfast she had planned for the next day.

She watched the body language of the three people. Annie was gripping her own fingertips as though trying to hold on to a sense of control, Roy’s eyes shifted everywhere but avoided looking at his brother, and Atlas was studying Olivia, his dark gaze alert and unblinking. Of the three, he was the most composed. He leaned against the wall, pressing his wide shoulders onto the cool cement, his muscular arms folded over his chest.

“Roy says that you’re one of the five people who’ll vote on this thing next week,” he said. “Must be pretty exciting to be so important.”

“Like the mayor stated, Oyster Bay is certainly growing,” Olivia answered enigmatically. “Did you relocate from a similar town or are you a city man?”

“I’ve lived in both,” Atlas replied with equal ambiguity.

“And have you always been a fix-it man?” she asked, hoping to provoke more information from him.

Roy’s brother remained unfazed. “Construction jobs, mostly. I go where the towns are experiencing a building boom like this one. I’ve moved around a lot.”

Olivia didn’t like the picture the term “building boom” called to mind. She loved Oyster Bay the way it was. Sometimes the lack of amenities was an inconvenience, but the coinciding absence of traffic jams, monolithic superstores, and ugly office parks more than made up for the occasional long-distance errand.

“Do you plan to work at The Yellow Lady and do construction jobs as well? That’ll be quite a full plate,” Olivia said.

Atlas shrugged and looked away. “There aren’t any openings with the crew building the condos on the bluff, but I might be able to land a spot if this new development goes through. I plan to be the first guy in line when they hand out the job applications.” He turned back to her and smiled. “So keep me in mind when you vote, okay?”

“Sure,” Olivia replied and bid the Kraus family good night.

She passed the teacher’s lounge and noted a crack of light at the bottom of the closed door. Pausing, she heard the even bass of the chief’s voice followed by Jethro’s angry rumble. The words were unclear, however, so Olivia didn’t linger.

Outside, she was met by a pleasant breeze. The humidity had receded, leaving in its wake a clear sky filled with crisp stars and a bright sickle moon. As Olivia drove beyond the town limits and later turned off the paved road onto the sandy track leading to her home, she noticed the bank of luminous clouds hanging just above the horizon.

Their silver hue seemed especially celestial against the ebony sky. Upon reaching her house, Olivia opened the sliding door to the deck, released Haviland, and together the pair meandered through the dunes to the beach.

For a long while, Olivia stared at the moon-illuminated clouds, thinking they looked like an ideal setting for a fairy tale castle, or the colossal abode of Jack in the Beanstalk’s giant, or perhaps the pristine, white-marbled temples of Olympian gods.

“I met a man named Atlas tonight,” Olivia said to Haviland. “Either his parents shared a love of maps or they expected him to have enough strength to hold up the world. It’s some name.”

Haviland barked and held his nose high, sniffing the air.

Olivia had always adored Greek mythology and reread Bulfinch’s collection every two or three years. “Atlas was the son of a Titan, brother to Prometheus and Epimetheus,” she spoke to the night-darkened waves. “As punishment for joining in the war against the Olympians, he was condemned to bear the weight of the sky on his shoulders for all time. Because of his assignment, the Titans Earth and Sky would never again be able to meet. Never again would they embrace.”

She glanced above the ridge of clouds to the star-sprinkled heavens.

“What is Atlas Kraus’s burden, I wonder?”

Olivia stood at the edge of the surf, reviewing the evening’s events. Would the next day see the resolution of Camden’s case? What might Jethro Bragg’s anger reveal? Why had he been talking to Camden? Why were Annie and Roy on edge? How would the Planning Board vote next week?

“Let’s go in now, Haviland. We’ll come back bright and early tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll take out the Bounty Hunter and dig for treasures. For now, I just want sleep.”

That night, she had the dream—the dream in which her mind returned to the last time she saw her father. These were not photograph-clear images, but flickered scenes stretched and bent and distorted by time.

The dream walked a tightrope between memory and nightmare.

Olivia was nine years old. There were her tan, skinny limbs, her favorite blue boat shoes with the untied laces stained by mud and grass, and the T-shirt with the unicorn iron-on—faded and cracked from repeated washes. Her hair was stringy and tangled, hanging down the sides of her face like a fisherman’s net. It hid the fear in her dark blue eyes.

She was on her father’s trawler heading toward the open sea. It was the eve of her tenth birthday and the night sky was clouding over. Her father stood at the helm, guzzling cheap whiskey and grumbling to himself. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. Cold, Olivia wrapped an old sweatshirt around her shoulders. It was pink and smelled of salt and fish, but it was still a comfort.

The night wore on.

Suddenly, her father swiveled, his hands leaving the wheel as his eyes flashed with rage. Snatching the sweat-shirt from Olivia’s grasp, he cursed her, using language she’d never heard him speak until after her mother’s death. But every time the whiskey flowed, he searched for words that would wound his daughter. Words that would form scar after scar.

“It’s your fault!” he snarled at Olivia. “She’s dead because of you.”

The black sea seemed to rise with his anger, and for the first time, Olivia was terrified he would strike her. He’d raised his calloused and weathered hand above her many times, but the blows never landed.

Springing out of his reach, Olivia scrambled into the dinghy tied to the side of her father’s boat. She jerked the rope securing it to the larger vessel from its cleat and leapt aboard. Ignoring her father’s wrathful threats, she pulled in the wet mooring line and began to row in the opposite direction.

The clouds multiplied, obscuring the little craft in a shadow of dense, protective fog. After rowing until her arms ached and the blisters erupted on her palms, Olivia slept. When she woke, she looked around at the dark and unreadable ocean. It still felt like night, but there were no stars, no moon, no horizon line to distinguish the ocean from sky. There was only the fog.

Hours later, a shrimper heading out with the dawn light found the drifting dinghy and brought the mute girl back to dry land.

She never saw her father again.