my eyes, I picture the way the beach would look right now,
the water all soft and metallic, the sand pristine and cool.
Unbidden, the image of Lawrence appears near the shore. He’s
waiting for me. Once again, I can see him taking me into his
arms and pressing his lips to my cheek.
I push my hands to my eyes, bending over into my lap. This
is torture. I’ve spend the last forty-eight hours going back and
forth about what to do. And no matter how many times I come
to the proper, logical conclusion, my emotions always take over.
How can I not go to see him again? Am I really supposed to
know what I know and simply carry on as usual? Can’t I see
him once more, just to say good-bye?
Those questions always lead to the one overwhelming
dilemma.
How can I not tell Lawrence that he’s going to be killed?
Honestly, how am I supposed to keep this information to
myself? The guy has less than two weeks to live. He ought to
know. Maybe if he knows, he can avoid it. Murdered. The word
sends a churning sensation through my stomach. I grip two
fists full of my hair and try to breathe.
I envision the beach again, all watery blue in the dawn light,
and this time imagine a bloodstain spreading across the sand.
And in that moment, my body makes the decision for me.
I’m on my feet. I’m walking across the cold, wet grass. I’m going
to the beach, and all the reason in the world can’t stop me.
As I pass through the bushes, the air takes the heavy, surreal
quality of a dream. A nightmare. Calm down, Cass. He’s probably not even going to be there. If he is, you have no idea what you’re going to say, what you’re going to do. You’re insane to
keep walking, but you knew that already. He’s not going to be
there. He’s…
Not there.
The beach is empty. Like it always is. Rocks. Water. That’s it.
My feet drag out a few steps. I close my eyes. I can’t be
surprised about this. I told him I’d never come back to the
beach. Despite what he said, he obviously gave up hope that
I would change my mind. Coming out here today was futile.
I flop onto the ground, trying hard not to cry. But I’m sitting
in the spot where we first met. My fingers trace a line in the
cold, gray sand, every part of me aching.
Then I notice the wide indent. It’s a footprint. Men’s shoes.
Frank hasn’t come out here since we moved in. And no one
else would be walking around in men’s shoes.
It was him! He was here. Swallowing hard, I hover over the
print, touching it lightly with my hand. It’s old. Probably
made yesterday.
I look to the bushy path. Wind pulls strands of hair across
my face, but no one’s there. I missed him. One day late, and I
missed him.
I could scream. Falling back on my knees, I swipe my hand
over the shoe print, sending the sand flying to the wind. Curse
me and my stupid hesitation.
“Ughhhhhhhhhhh,” I say loudly, smashing my fists to my
forehead. “You suck, Cass.”
I sit for a long time, partly out of despair, partly out of a crazy
hope that he’ll come. The waves break against the sand: curling, crashing, rushing up the shore in white lacey foam, and then pulling back to the sea. I watch the pattern repeat itself
until I’ve lost count. I wait, hating myself more each minute
for missing my chance. My chance to say good-bye. A chance
to help him.
But Lawrence doesn’t come. I finally have to accept the reality that he’s gone for good. My legs feel heavy as I pull myself up. I don’t bother to brush the sand from my knees. I’ll carry it
back to the house. My last memento of this place. Because one
thing’s for sure, I’m never coming back.
The sound of footsteps rustling through the bushes bursts
through my somber silence like a firecracker. I spin around.
It’s Lawrence. The sight of his warm brown eyes and tall, lean
frame shatters me. He’s dressed in a light khaki shirt and dark