She knelt where ocean and sand began to mix, soft, claylike, molding around her knees. It had been three weeks; the effects of the concussion had subsided, the nausea finally ebbing away along with the worst of the bad dreams. Still, Dad had driven her here, and now he lingered at the edge of the parking lot, keeping an eye on her without crowding.
The truth was known. The police had gotten a confession from Evan Sanford within forty-eight hours of Pearl’s return to the harbor, extracted with the help of the video from Joseph’s camera. The money Tristan had paid Evan—thousands of dollars in cash he’d agreed not to spend until one year after the crime—was found in a bag under the floorboards of his bedroom closet in Yancey’s house.
Pearl removed the lid from the shoe box, looking down at the mass of sea glass and shells. Amazing that her entire collection fit in there; she’d spent years collecting these, dusting the mason jars she stored them in, keeping them carefully aligned on her windowsill so she could watch the sun pass through them morning, afternoon, evening.
Now she tossed a handful into the surf. She could still see the colors glinting through the foam. She threw a fistful, harder, until they were gone from sight. Gone, like the summer. Her freshman orientation at College of the Atlantic was next week. Gone, like Bridges. She’d received a final text from him a few days ago: Going home tomorrow. Then: I’m sorry. Pearl had looked at the message a long time, unsure what to say, if she wanted to say anything. Finally, she’d written, Take care. Silence since then.
Gone, like Tristan. The water had taken him completely, never providing a body despite the numerous coast guard searches. At Pearl’s worst moments, her mind went there, to the idea of him, alone, adrift, fathoms deep, and she’d have to fight to drag herself back to the here and now.
She hurled another handful and another, until she was out of breath, her shoulder sore, chest aching.
Dad came up behind her, hesitating a moment before speaking. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She stood, brushing off her knees, and looked up into Dad’s watchful expression. “Cut it out.”
“What?”
“Thinking you shouldn’t have let Mom leave. She had to get back to work. And there’s nothing she could do that you can’t.” Mom had taken a week off when she heard, staying in a local motel so she could be close while Pearl recovered. It had been awkward, the three of them stuck together for the first time in years, but weirdly nice, too. Like maybe not so much had changed after all. Pearl cleared her throat, picking up the box. “Did you hear back from Mimi yet?”
He nodded. “She says she’ll give me a recommendation.”
“Nice. And the Philbricks will, too, I bet. If you ask.”
“Not a lot to jump-start a business with.”
“It’s something.” Since the news broke, Dad hadn’t exactly received a flood of apologies and job offers from Millionaires’ Row; the silence was stunned, sickened, disbelieving. Maybe, in the eyes of Tenney’s Harbor, some of that would always cling to Dad, deserved or not. But at least now he was talking about looking into caretaking jobs in Trenton, Ellsworth, Cherryfield. Seeing what was out there.
He nodded to what was left of the sea glass. “Took you a long time to find all that.”
“Finding it was the fun part.” She held out the box. “Want to throw some?”
He did, watching the pieces scatter into water tinged orange with sunset. Pearl’s phone buzzed, announcing a text; she checked the screen and smiled. Reese.
Dad started down the beach, hands in pockets as he glanced back at her. “So, what’re you going to do when you come to the beach now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe start a new collection.” She nudged him. “Strictly mainland glass.”
He kissed the top of her head roughly. As they walked together, she let the last of the sea glass fall between her fingers, leaving a trail for the next beachcomber to find.
About the Author
Photo by Jacqueline Hall GILLIAN FRENCH’s debut novel, Grit, was an Edgar Award nominee, an Indie Next List pick, and a Kirkus Best Book of the Year and received starred reviews from Kirkus Reviews and ALA Booklist. She holds a BA in English from the University of Maine and lives in Hermon, Maine, with her husband and sons. To learn more about Gillian, visit her online at www.gillianfrench.com.
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