Daughter of Deep Silence (4 page)

Four Years Later

S
enator Wells’s voice drones through the car speakers, causing my stomach to churn. It’s another one of his campaign ads and it follows the same theme as all the others:
blah blah blah . . .
Persephone
 . . . blah blah blah . . . rogue wave . . . blah blah blah . . . survivor.
I clench my fists listening, wanting to punch something.

Four years ago my son and I were on a family cruise when the unthinkable happened: A rogue wave struck our ship, sinking it almost instantly and leaving my son and me stranded in the middle of the ocean. During those three long days lost at sea, I came to truly understand what is important to me in life: the health and security of my family. That’s why every day in Washington I fight for the health and security of
your
family the same way that I fought for my own—because I know how much it matters.

They say that the measure of a man isn’t in how he faces the expected; it’s in how he faces the unexpected. Four years ago I turned the tragedy of the
Persephone
into the opportunity to better serve my family, my constituents, and my country. If reelected, I won’t stop fighting for South Carolina, and I won’t stop fighting for you. I’m Alastair Wells, and I approve—

“Turn it off,” I tell the driver. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror before he reaches for the knob and silences the radio. Leaving us enveloped in the sound of tires zooming across concrete as we cross one of the myriad bridges leading to Caldwell Island. Libby’s home.

My home now
, I remind myself.

Below, spartina, crisp green in its newness, shimmers across mud flats as the tide drains from the marshes. It’s so different from the mountain meadows I’m used to in Switzerland. Perhaps I’d find it beautiful, even relaxing, if I didn’t know that somewhere on the other end of the bridge the ocean is waiting for me.

It’s time for her to give up her secrets. She’s been a silent participant in everything: the attack; Libby’s death; my rescue and transformation. And every summer since, she’s been witness to Grey and his father, living out their lies without consequence.

I’ve come back to put an end to it. Maybe if Senator Wells had left things alone I wouldn’t have returned. Maybe if he’d just let the past stay the past, I’d have kept my fantasies of revenge tucked neatly away, never daring to brush them off and consider putting them into action.

I’d moved on. Or at least I’d convinced Cecil I had. When he saw what my obsession with finding the attackers was doing to me—how it was only feeding the rage festering inside, he called off the search for the truth. Or rather, excluded me from it.

He wanted me to have a normal life, the life his
real
daughter never had. And so we pretended, together. I pretended that I was okay. He pretended that the violent loss of his wife and daughter wasn’t slowly killing him. Both of us pretended we weren’t still searching for the attackers. School breaks became elaborate performances by the both of us, each playing our part for the other.

Until he died seven months ago and I didn’t have to pretend anymore. But I’d tried—out of love and respect for Cecil and everything he’d done for me—I had tried to truly move on.

The breaking point for me had been the movie. They’d made a documentary about the Senator’s rescue, its release perfectly timed to hit as his reelection campaign began heating up and the media started to speculate about whether the Senator had his eye on the presidency down the road.

The movie had been everywhere: inescapable.

In it, the Senator waxed on with great detail about the final moments of the ship. How fortunate it was that he and Grey had been up on deck at the time. The sound and fury of the wave as it approached. Experts weighed in with elaborate simulations of what must have happened when the rogue wave hit—all the possible ways the ship could have broken apart while it sank.

As part of the dramatization they’d stuck the Senator and his son in a life raft and reenacted their rescue. It had been a complete farce—not even the tastefully ragged clothes they’d dressed them in could hide the healthy roundness of their cheeks, the paleness of their skin unmarred by sun-spawned blisters.

Watching Grey’s face when they “spotted” their “rescuer” for the first time had made me violently ill. And as I knelt on the hard, cold tiles of my dorm’s bathroom I realized a new truth: I was done.

I was done pretending to be okay. I was done attempting to move on. I was done trying to forget. I was done searching and finding nothing but dead ends. I was done being afraid of Senator Wells.

I was done staying away from him.

I’d spent four years struggling to find the truth and all I had were bits and pieces. Enough to know that Grey and his father hadn’t seemed to lie out of fear of the attackers coming after them. Yet not nearly enough to understand what that meant. To know what role they played.

One thing is obvious: If there’s any truth left about the
Persephone
, it lies with Grey and Senator Wells. Perhaps our confrontation was always inevitable and that’s what Cecil had tried to keep me from by sending me off to boarding school in Switzerland and urging me to move on with my life.

But how could he really understand that the only way for me to move forward is to go back?

So I’d taken all of my elaborate revenge daydreams and began to boil them down into a single plan. Once I turned eighteen and had unfettered access to the trust funds I’d inherited from Cecil, I began to put that plan in motion, laying the groundwork. And now with graduation behind me, it’s time to go home and pull the trigger.

The driver slows, putting on his blinker before turning down a long driveway lined with moss-draped oaks, their limbs gnarled from age and the constant barrage of salt-crusted breezes. I’ve seen pictures of the house, of course, but I’m still not prepared for the overall scope of it. It feels as though it belongs on a movie set with girls in tight corsets and hooped skirts.

Fluted columns two stories high run along a wide front porch that seems to stretch out forever. Once upon a time it had been the only house on the island, part of a much, much larger plantation. The ancestors of the original owner had broken the land into large lots, selling them off to create beachfront estates. This house had been slated to be torn down until Shepherd persuaded Cecil to buy it. They’d spent the last several years trying to put as much of the original plantation’s land as possible under a conservation easement.

It certainly helped when Senator Wells purchased a lot farther down the island and was willing to throw his weight behind the cause. After all, limiting development only served to increase the value of his own property and provide tax breaks for his wealthy neighbors.

And this presented the perfect excuse for me to come “home” after so many years away. It’s only natural that I’d throw the Senator a fund-raiser in thanks for his support of a cause my father held dear.

Already there’s a bustle of activity around the side of the house. Caterers, florists, and decorators setting up for this evening’s event. I’ve been told by the party planner that the guest list is full; scores of the South’s wealthiest families willing to pay an exorbitant price to the Wells Senatorial Reelection Fund for the chance to witness the survivors of the
Persephone
reunite for the first time.

It’s an opportunity I knew the Senator himself would never turn down. The man loves a good photo op as much as he loves money and power.

The car pulls around to the front of the house and as the driver unloads my luggage I take a deep breath and climb the front steps. Before I even reach for the door, it opens to reveal a guy around my age.

His hair is dark and cut short—practically buzzed—and a light coating of stubble washes across his chin and cheeks. It makes his jaw look sharp and emphasizes the shadows under his cheekbones. He’s wearing a green T-shirt with a faded recycling symbol printed across the front and as he clutches the edge of the door, the muscles in his arms flex against the thin fabric.

Though I’ve never come face-to-face with him in person, I recognize him immediately. During the interminable hours lost at sea, Libby had shared everything about him until I felt that I must have known him as well as she did. Even so, a thread of anxiety knots in my stomach: If there’s anyone who can end this charade in an instant, it’s Shepherd Oveja. He’d been in love with Libby, once. And she’d loved him back.

But that was all before the
Persephone
.

“Hello, Shepherd.” I muster a crooked smile.

Emotions tumble across his face: a flare of surprise, followed by a flash of hunger, leading into something wary and guarded. I’m keenly aware of the way his eyes devour me, taking in every tiny detail.

I twist at the gold ring on my finger, the one bearing the O’Martin family crest. When he notices the nervous habit, his jaw clenches and he inhales sharply. He struggles to shield his anger behind an expression on the cold side of neutral.

To be fair, he has every right to be mad. For months after the rescue he’d tried to reach Libby, desperate to know how she was doing. Desperate to hear anything from her.

And not once had I responded.

He nods, sharply. “Libby.” That’s all he says. No “hello” or “nice to see you after all these years.”

No “I missed you.”

I frown at the small kernel of disappointment I feel. Not at his cold reception, but that he falls so easily for my deception. It makes me feel sorry for Libby, that she’d once loved this guy with the kind of intensity that only exists when you fall in love for the first time.

And he can’t even recognize that I’m not her.

For a moment, neither of us moves. He stands blocking the door and I stand on the wide porch, the hired car idling behind me.

“Welcome home.” He practically spits the words as he turns and stalks into the house, leaving the door open.

I
follow Shepherd into the house and find myself in a marble-draped foyer. To my left, a wide curving staircase leads to the second floor while ahead of me the foyer spills into a massive living room.

The entire back wall is a row of alternating windows and French doors that lead to a large flagstone patio curving around a sparkling blue pool. Beyond that lies a low row of dunes and then it’s the ocean, stretching out into forever.

I cross to the windows and press my hand against the cool glass. Even from here I can feel the slight vibration of the waves crashing to shore and a shiver passes through me, the remembered taste of salt sharp against the back of my throat.

Now it begins
, I think to myself.
Go
.

“Go!” Libby screams. “Jump!”

She already has one leg over the railing and I follow, a horrified sense of impossibility as I teeter over the black emptiness below. Libby must sense my terror of heights and before I can think about what I need to do, she shoves me, hard.

My body twists and I flail.

The drop is interminable and I wait, wait, wait for the slap of water that I can’t see. I’m nothing but dark and rain, screams and blood, and then I’m water. I sink down and down and even farther down, the life preserver not buckled tight enough and ripping free. My lungs already burn as I kick to try to stop my momentum.

Sound comes back more as physical force than anything else. A
chug-chug-chug
of the ship engine and I wonder how close I am to being chewed by the massive propeller. It seems impossible that I’m so deep in the water but with everything so dark I have no idea how far it is to the surface or even which way is up. I’m pretty sure I won’t make it. Already my lungs are bucking, every cell screaming to inhale
now
.

My fingers touch the air first and I claw at it, bring my chin free long enough to gasp and choke before going under a wave. I kick hard, flailing to stay afloat. The hull of the ship towers over me, the propeller
chug-chugg
ing close enough that it pulls at me like a current. I scour the surface for Libby but the night is too thick with dark and rain to see anything but the
Persephone.

Her lights flicker, a burst of smoke and fire roaring near the bow. Even from down here I hear the panic, as thick as the salt in the air.

“Libby!” I scream, but the sound is swallowed by a wave and then another, ripping me farther and farther into the black emptiness.

At first I try to swim after the ship, thinking that somehow the nightmare will break but it’s useless. And the more energy I expend, the harder it is to keep my head above the swells and I know it’s only a matter of time before I have nothing left in me to fight.

I wait for the life rafts to descend. To see others jump like I did. I wait to not be on my own any longer. But the more time passes, the more distance grows between me and the
Persephone
. The more I realize how alone I am.

I’m pulled from the memory almost physically, Shepherd’s warm hand circling around my shoulders. My palm has turned rigid against the window, fingernails like claws scratching the glass. As though I could rip the past from my head, rip the sea from the world.

“Libby?”
He says the name on a whisper.

He’s so close behind me that I catch a hint of his warm, soapy smell. I can almost feel the way his breath quivers, gently brushing the delicate hairs along the nape of my neck.

I blink, swallowing several times before I’m composed enough to face him. There’s a hesitation in his expression, one laced with concern. “You okay?” The edge to his voice that had been there earlier is only slightly blunted.

I pull away and move toward one of the chairs. “Sometimes the ocean—it’s too much,” I tell him, rubbing my hands over my bare arms. He sits across from me, a gleaming glass coffee table festooned with family photos between us.

None of me, of course. At least not at first. It would have been too easy for someone to later compare them and note the differences. My jaw is wider, eyes are duller, nose sharper. All changes easily attributable to the passage of years or explained away by the excuse that I’d been injured when the
Persephone
sank and had undergone some reconstructive work.

I twist the ring around my finger as I stare at the sea of Libby’s faces, trying to control the nerves flooding through me. Trying to convince myself I can pull this off.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I finally say, breaking the awkward silence.

He lets out a snort, practically rolling his eyes. “I live here.”

“I know. I just . . . thought you . . . might be out.” I lift a shoulder. “Managing one of the other estates or something.” I’d thought that perhaps he would have wanted to avoid me. I should have known better.

Shaking his head, he pushes to his feet and paces to the window. His shirt is so worn that I can see the shadowy ripple of the muscles between his shoulder blades tensing as he grasps at the back of his neck.

“I’ve been running the conservation efforts,” he says. “Like fighting with the state over a couple hundred acres on the mainland they set as forever wild but are now trying to sell off for a strip mall. Which you’d know if you bothered to get in touch. Or to come home at all in the past year.”

I stare at my hands clasped in my lap, chagrined. Cecil passed away seven months ago, not long after I’d returned to boarding school in Switzerland for my senior year. He’d been cremated and buried in the family plot, but I hadn’t been there for the funeral. I’d been so devastated by his death that I wasn’t strong enough to attend.

He was the last family I’d had. The last one who truly knew my past. Who truly knew me, who I was, where I’d come from.

I couldn’t have pulled off being Libby anyway—especially not around those who’d known her before. And I couldn’t risk failing. Not with so much at stake.

Shepherd has every reason to hate me for missing the funeral and deciding to stay in Europe during all the breaks. Like me, he was also mourning. He’d been six when Cecil and Barbara took him and his brother in—Cecil was practically the only father Shepherd had ever known.

“I’m sorry.” I drop my eyes. “I just couldn’t face it then,” I add, my voice cracking. I take a deep, wobbling breath. While most everything about me is a carefully composed amalgamation of subterfuge, my heartache over Cecil’s death is real. “I should have been here.”

Silence descends between us until Shepherd sighs and rubs a hand across his close shaven head. “Libby—” he starts, but then he presses his lips together. “I mean . . . it’s been four years.”

“I know,” I say.

He steps closer, agitated. “
Four years.
”

I know what he wants me to say. He and Libby had grown up together. They’d been best friends. And as they’d grown older they’d fallen in love. He may not have thought that Libby died out there on the ocean, but he’d still lost her all the same.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.

His eyes widen and he almost laughs. Like this is all too much for him. “So for four years I hear nothing from you. You don’t even bother coming home. And suddenly now?” He crosses his arms. “Why are you really here?”

The question startles me and at first I think I’ve failed at convincing him that I’m Libby. That he’s somehow figured out my underlying motives and that my plan is ruined before I’ve even begun.

But then I see the desperation in his eyes and I understand: He wants me to have come back for
him
. Some part of him still loves Libby. Still wants her.

He’s looking at me as though I’m the answer to his everything. The last person to look at me that way was Grey, and just thinking the name causes an angry rod of steel to slide down my spine.

Sometimes the best lies are wrapped in the flavor of truth. “Because I thought it was time to stop running away from the past.”