She lay awake the rest of the night, planning the logistics. She would use the hurricane—everyone would think that it had killed her, but she knew she was a good enough swimmer to get through. At 5 AM, when she scrawled a note to Spencer, Aria, and Hanna, she knew what they’d believe. After all, she’d been legitimately distraught for weeks. She might as well capitalize on that now.
She pinned a Ziploc bag full of cash to her swim bottoms, walked down to the beach, and stepped into the waves. As she got deeper, the current was trickier to navigate than she’d originally thought, but she tried to stay calm and trust her swimming skills. She saw her friends rush to the shore, their faces masks of horror. Emily pretended to struggle, simultaneously feeling guilty for what she was putting them through but also confident in her decision that this was the only way no one would come looking for her.
What she didn’t bank on was Spencer walking into the waves after her. “No!” Emily screamed, thrusting her arms over her head. She watched as the ocean pulled Spencer under again and again. “Stop struggling!” By the time the rescue teams arrived, Emily feared the worst. Several EMTs dragged Spencer’s limp body onto the beach. Emily watched as the rescuers crowded around her and her friends stood in shock. But then, Spencer’s body bucked, and she coughed and rolled to her side. Everyone seemed to relax a little. The rescuers loaded her onto a stretcher and carried her up the beach.
The coast guard helicopters swooped overhead, still searching. Emily ducked under, choking up salt, feeling the jellyfish stings, thrashing her legs through the waves. She let the current carry her farther out, terrified the whole time. A jetty was to her left; all she had to do was get out of the riptide and then swim underwater toward it.
But the waves crashed at her right and left. Several times she was pushed under for so long she was sure her lungs would give out. She surfaced, gasping, again and again, only to be pulled under once more. Her back hit the bottom roughly. Her elbow smashed against an outcropping of rocks. She caught sight of blood on her skin, terrified it might draw sharks. The waves rolled in again and again, showing no sign of slowing. A single image of Ali’s hideous, angry, menacing face blazed in her mind, pushing her forward. She was doing this to find her. She was doing this to end the nightmare.
There was a break in the tumult, and Emily bobbed to the surface, breathing hard. The helicopters were farther down the beach, searching a different spot. She breathed and paddled hard toward the jetty, which wasn’t far at all. She almost cried when she reached it, clinging to it and letting her legs bang against the posts. After a lot of breaths, she hefted herself up onto the wooden deck. Mercifully, there was no one on shore to see her, and the cuts on her legs from the jetty weren’t that bad. After a while, shivering and weak, she staggered onto the cold, windswept beach and took refuge under a lifeguard stand. Her fingers touched something soft, and she unearthed a red Under Armour sweatshirt someone had left behind. She squealed with delight, pulling it on quickly and immediately feeling comforted by the warm, soft cotton. Then she patted her swim bottoms—the Ziploc was still pinned securely. Both things together felt like a wonderful boon. Maybe this really was going to work.
Once Emily regained her strength, she started up the walkway and headed into town. Thank goodness this was a beach town and walking into places in only a sweatshirt and a bathing suit was commonplace—when she walked into Wawa, no one paid any notice to her strange attire. Katy Perry’s “Roar” was playing loudly over the speakers, which nicely drowned out Emily’s pounding heart. She kept her head down and her eyes averted as she canvassed the aisles, selecting a giant-size iced tea, several soft pretzels, flip-flops, and a pair of gym shorts with a Cape May logo from among the small clothing section.
She pretended she had a hangover as she handed the bills to the man at the counter so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. Once outside, she pulled on the shorts quickly and stuffed the pretzels into her mouth, desperately ravenous. It was still so early in the morning, the sky a dull gray. There weren’t many cars in the parking lot. Across the street, the town’s famous pancake house was closed, maybe because of the storm. One helicopter circled the sky, perhaps still looking for her . . . and here she was, eating a pretzel, drinking iced tea, fine.
It was kind of crazy, and certainly drastic. What if it didn’t work? What if she’d just made a horrible mistake?
She waited, listening for the Ali voice to chime in, but she was silent. Then Emily felt inside the Ziploc that was now tucked into her new shorts, pulling out a folded piece of hotel stationary. 8901 Hyacinth Drive, Cocoa Beach, FL, she’d written. The ink hadn’t smeared one bit—and that felt like a good omen, too. She held it between her hands, her heartbeat speeding up. She’d have to figure out the best way to get to Florida.
She only hoped she’d find what she was looking for once she got there.
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