by Harper Shaw
“So, dear,” her mother said, bringing the lasagna over and putting it on the table. “Any news?”
“News?” Rebecca asked, momentarily worried her parents had caught on to the alcoholism and the time off from the police department.
“She means a man,” her father grunted from beside her, not looking up from his paper.
“Oh,” Rebecca said, scooping up some lasagna. “Umm no. No news.”
The disappointment was apparent all over her mother’s face.
“Oh,” she said, in the same tone as Rebecca. “Because, you’re getting older and we were hoping for grandchildren.”
“Just coming right out and saying it,” Rebecca grumbled.
“She’s not meaning to be harsh,” her father said, finally lowering the paper and scooping up some noodles. “But she has a point about age.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” Rebecca answered, deadpan. So, this was how supper was going to be?
Rebecca knew she should have stayed in a motel.
“Exactly,” her mother said, pursing her lips and drinking from her glass of wine. “And I’m worried that you’re getting too old to have children.”
Putting some lasagna in her mouth spared her from answering.
“Your mother just wants what’s best for you,” her father said.
“I’m twenty-seven,” Rebecca said, more slowly. “I have plenty of time to have kids.”
“Elizabeth’s daughter wasn’t much older than you when she decided to start trying, and they had to go for fertility treatments.”
“Ever think it was the guy’s fault?” Rebecca snapped.
“Don’t get angry,” her mother said, her face falling. “I just wanted to know what your life plans are, that’s all.”
Guilt rose in Rebecca, and she decided just to chew for a few seconds.
Her parents meant well. She knew it. But damn, sometimes their insistent nagging could wear her down.
“You know,” her mother said, obviously recovering quickly, “Chief Bradshaw is single. I’ve heard he is one of Hilton Head’s most eligible bachelors.”
Rebecca burst out laughing. Her parents shot her dirty looks, but she couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?” her father asked. “Your mother has a point.”
“I don’t think I’m Faruq’s type,” Rebecca said, shaking her head. “At all.”
“He’s the chief. And at such a young age,” her mother continued, completely oblivious to Rebecca’s innuendo. “That is a successful man.”
“I’m sure he is,” Rebecca snorted, taking more lasagna and shoving it in her mouth. “Successful.”
“Well, you should ask him to dinner!” her mother said, clearly not understanding Rebecca at all. “It’s the twenty-first century, women ask out men all the time now.”
“I’m sure they do,” Rebecca answered.
“Well, what’s wrong with him?” her mother asked, her brow furrowed that her suggestions had been met with laughter. “He’s a handsome man. And successful. There’s nothing wrong with him, as far as I can see.”
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with him,” Rebecca snorted. “I just don’t think he would be into someone with my… genetics.”
“Why would you say that about yourself?” her mother relented. “You’re a fine-looking woman. And your smart. I don’t see why he wouldn’t like you.”
“Enough, mom,” Rebecca answered, shaking her head. She’d almost finished her plate and wanted desperately for the conversation to end. “Just trust me on this. I’m too busy at work to date right now. Once my career settles down, I promise I’ll look for someone.”
Her mother huffed, but Rebecca’s promise placated her, and she dropped the subject.
Rebecca rolled her eyes. There was really not much more to say to her mother about the subject. She’d lied to her parents about work, which never felt good. But if they knew Rebecca was drinking, much less on leave from the force for drinking in excess, they would let her have it.
And arguing about the hypothetical tastes of a chief was bad enough conversation for the dinner table. Rebecca didn’t need to add any more wood to that fire.
“You have to be up early,” her mother said kindly. “Why don’t you go and have a nice warm bath and I’ll do the dishes.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No, mom. You cooked. The least I can do—“
Her mother reached across the table and grabbed her hand, staring her in the eyes.
“Go,” she said. “I’ve got this.”
Moved by the sentiment, Rebecca stood and nodded.
Maybe staying at her parents’ wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
After all, prison existed.
And her parents’ house was better than prison.
Chapter Three
When Rebecca opened her eyes, she was on a boardwalk, a rough one. She could feel splinters stabbing at her hands and bare thighs as she tried to pull herself up and look around. Everything was dark. The moon was out, but it wasn’t letting anything steal even a sliver of light for her to see.
As she swallowed, it felt as if she had knives in her throat. Then she heard someone—something?—cutting through the silence with dragging thumps. Thump. Thump. Thump. A groan. Who was groaning?
Getting to her knees, Rebecca squinted in the darkness to see if she could make anything out. She could see the boardwalk headed to a beach but not much farther than that. Then the thumping returned along with another crackled groan.
Blood began to trickle from her knees as she stood, ignoring the burning sensation with the locking of her joints. A warm bout of air spread over her back along with a cold, calloused finger…
Rebecca jerked the other direction, knocking the other person back with her elbow. Taking a breath, she tried to look and see who it was. Much of the body was disfigured. Bones were out of place and dislocated. The head was even twisted from some injury. One part of the body wasn’t obscured, though—the face.
Monica Griswald’s face was round and still almost smooth looking, even with one of her wild green eyes bulging out of the socket.
“Monica…” Rebecca stood still. “No, no,” she said to herself.
With another groan Monica lunged at Rebecca. Then she growled.
Rebecca took off. She pushed the air back with her arms as she propelled herself as far as she could with her feet. Once she hit the beach, though, it was harder to run. Her feet sank into the sand with every step, and she kept getting stuck.
Monica began to gain on her.
Rebecca tripped and fell face first into the sand. As she picked herself up, she saw a piece of driftwood next to her face. She picked it up and decided she’d do what she needed as she continued running. She didn’t know where her path through the beach would take her, but it was too dark to see any other option. She powered on.
Somehow, Monica still managed to catch up with Rebecca, practically gliding across the sand with her hands clawing out in front of her.
Face to face, Rebecca swung futilely at Monica with the driftwood.
“Stay back, Monica!” she yelled. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just stay back.” She jabbed the wood.
With one strong swipe of the right hand, Monica drew blood from Rebecca’s cheek.
Rebecca began running again, slowing down when she couldn’t hear Monica anymore. To her left were sandy gravestones. She slowly walked the line and saw the names of her friends.
Where was she? Did they die? And where was Monica’s? The last one was for her—
Thwick.
Rebecca’s body stiffened as she felt the driftwood beat against the back of her head. She fell forward into the last grave—the only one with a hole still prepped, for her. It was so deep the moon disappeared.
A pile of dirt was thrown over.
Opening her mouth, Rebecca tried to scream for help, but nothing came out.
Thump.
Rebecca’s eyes opened and stared wildly.
It wasn’t dark anymore. Sunlight peeked from the crack in her curtains, and the wood floor of her bedroom wasn’t at all splintered.
“Fuck,” she muttered with her sandy voice, rolling over and standing. “Must’ve been a dream.” Even though she was used to having these, she never felt used to it in the moment.
Drinking had been the only thing that let her sleep since Monica’s death, but it also kept her from waking up when her alarm went off and usually led to a blackout. Still, she would’ve traded a hangover headache for what she’d just seen in her mind.
“It’s better this way. Isn’t it?” Rubbing the back of her head, she felt a dull pain but no injury. Her bare feet slapped against the floor as she went into the bathroom to get ready.
Today was the deposition for the civil suit with Monica’s parents. Rebecca told herself she was ready for it, but she found herself feeling less and less sure of that, especially by the time she was stepping into her flats.
She went over to her bed and sat on the edge of the mussed sheets, damp from her restless night. Rolling her eyes at the thought of her mother asking her to make it, Rebecca stood for a moment and took it upon herself to fix the sheets up before sitting back down.
This was going to be a day.
“Rebecca, are you ready?” Opening the bedroom door, Rebecca’s mother barged in, only knocking against the ajar door once she was already halfway inside.
“Yeah, Mom. You know you didn’t have to come and get me, right?”
“Hm…” Her mother’s eyes were glazed over. Rebecca could tell her mother had already had her morning valium.
“I’m ready.” Rebecca stood and slung her purse over her shoulder, sighing.
“Great! Your father’s already in the car.” Settling a supportive hand on her shoulder, Rebecca’s mother let Rebecca lead the way out of the bedroom and to the car.
When they arrived at the law office of the Griswald family’s attorney, Rebecca’s lawyer, Thomas Gardner, was standing outside. With his posture straight, he seemed just as confident as when they had last met with him, which reassured Rebecca a little. He was classic looking, wore a charcoal suit and had his hair slicked back.
“Good morning,” he said, greeting them and holding his hand out to shake each of theirs. “I’ve already been inside. Mr. Darrow said we could make use of the conference room for the deposition before we get started if you all would like to talk.”
“Yes, please,” Rebecca’s father responded, giving her a smile as they headed into the law building.
Meanwhile, Rebecca’s stomach was killing her as it twisted and churned. She was glad she hadn’t opted for breakfast and decided this guilt had probably caused her nightmare. When they got to the conference room, she sat in the middle of the side farthest from the door. Her mother sat to her left and Gardner to her right with her father sitting next to her mother.
Rebecca’s mother lowered a hand onto Rebecca’s left arm that Rebecca decided she’d try to ignore.
“So, Rebecca,” Gardner started. “We’re still holding to the story you told back then, correct?”
“Yes.” Rebecca’s voice came out strained. She cleared her throat. “Yes, it’s true.” Really, it wasn’t true, but Rebecca couldn’t do anything about that now. Plus, what good would it do her to change the story of Monica’s death years later?
About half an hour later, the Griswalds entered with their lawyer.
“Hi, Ms. Morgan. I’m Dick Darrow,” their lawyer said. As he shook her hand, he puffed his chest out, a smile on his face that Rebecca didn’t trust.
“Nice to meet you,” Rebecca returned. She sucked a silent breath in as the rest of the room was silent. It didn’t take Darrow long to get himself set up, though.
Everything was going well for a while. He asked his planned questions, and she used the answers her lawyer had scripted for her. Everything was calm. Until the last question anyway.
“Tell me again how she died, Ms. Morgan.”
“She was inebriated. She’d had a few beers. She tripped and fell over the balcony. The fall killed her.” She’d practiced this in her head a million times, but she still struggled.
“Was she visibly under the influence?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you and your friends didn’t say anything when she wanted to go see the beach from the balcony. Correct? You all let a stumbling young woman, drunk out of her mind, as you say, walk by herself and jump?”
“She didn’t jump. She tripped. She was drunk.”
“Why didn’t you go with her? Didn’t you care? Weren’t you all best friends?”
“Yes –”
“Tired of babysitting a drunk girl, huh?”
“No.” Rebecca couldn’t help but let some incredulity spill into her voice. “That’s not what happened.” Her eyes began to pool with tears. She tried to blink them away.
“So, you say. But she was drunk, and you didn’t watch out for her, knowing she couldn’t do it for herself. You still think you’re not at all responsible?”
“She fell.”
“Oh, so friends let friends trip over balconies, huh?”
Kicking away from the table, Rebecca stood and stormed out of the room, the tears falling from her face freely now. She knew walking away from the deposition could get her in legal trouble, but she didn’t care. Asshole lawyer.
Passing the bathroom, Rebecca hesitated before leaving the building instead.
Chapter Four
Once she was outside, Rebecca just began walking. It wasn’t as if she could wait by her parents’ car or something. Sniffling, she dried her tears with the sleeve of her cardigan. The lawyer was talking as if Monica’s death were her fault. And even though nothing that happened that day that was her fault, she still felt it in the back of her mind.
All those questions brought feelings back to the forefront, to the surface. Her throat felt raw still, as if the screaming from her dreams had been real. If it had, her parents never told her, though. A picture of Monica’s cracked neck flashed in her head.
She wondered if a different story would have had her feeling more at peace. She knew the truth would have backfired on her, too, but at least then she would have been able to sleep at night all these years later, to make friends, to move on. This wasn’t the way she wanted to live.
Shuddering, the only thing Rebecca could think about was how much she hated this feeling. It made her palms itch, and her stomach still wouldn’t settle. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she passed the cars in the parking lot and began down the sidewalk. She needed to get away.
“Everything’s my fault. Isn’t it?” she muttered. “Didn’t know a drunk girl falling would be my fault, too.” Rebecca still felt badly for Monica’s parents, though. Maybe she could have been there for them if she had told the truth. They’d been second parents to her before all of this.
Since she knew her parents or Gardner—probably both—were just going to berate her whenever they saw her again, she decided she’d escape to somewhere other than her parents’ home.
“They’ll just call it a huff or something, like this guy wasn’t attacking my character or calling me a murderer.” Rebecca decided to head toward the Harbor Town Lighthouse Museum. She chose it both out of a sense of nostalgia and a desire to be left alone. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone about anything at this moment.
As she walked down the sidewalk, it made her wonder about lighthouse keepers. Did they have so much trouble with people the way she did? Sure, they were lonely and isolated, but theirs was a chosen one, forged by their career and demeanors. Hers wasn’t.
Rebecca didn’t know how she isolated herself exactly, just that she had come to be this way. Since Monica had died, her life had spiraled to the bottom in some ways. Sure, she had a job, and she wasn’t totally off the wagon, but she didn’t know anybody, not deeply.
She wondered if she walked around with a red letter on her chest that she couldn’t see. That seemed to be the only
explanation she had for herself and her state. Looking up, she realized she was approaching the museum building.
Making friends on the force was hard. Well, really it was impossible for her, but she hadn’t planned it that way. Sure, she had acquaintances but no friends.
Her mouth curved into a sad smile as she stood outside the museum. She wasn’t sure if she was going inside. There were too many memories.
When she and Monica were younger, they would pack bag lunches for each other and head over to the museum. For hours they would weave through displays, re-read the plaques, talk, and just enjoy each other’s company. They’d talk about nothing, and everything would be good, great even some days.
It never mattered that they had seen everything before. The only thing important to them was to have a place. They’d even been there the week of Monica’s death. Biting her bottom lip, Rebecca felt Monica’s loss even more deeply than she had these past few days. It was bringing her back to the time right after Monica’s death, so here she was wringing sorrow out of her heart all over again.
And with that came more than just memories of Monica’s freckles, of her laugh. Last night’s nightmare hadn’t helped. Each time she tried to picture Monica clearly, the only photo she could get that wasn’t fuzzy was of Monica’s last day—of her body splayed against the deck, the pool of blood streaming out in all directions around her and a neck twisted gruesomely.
“I’m gonna be sick.” Bending down, Rebecca pressed her palms into her thighs. She went over to the back of the building to see if there was a dumpster to chuck in. She stopped when she saw a tall figure muttering while going through the garbage. The profile seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Um, hello?”
“What?” Turning, the man’s face was revealed.
“Chad?” Rebecca asked. She didn’t have to ask, though. She knew that blond hair and those blue eyes anywhere. He was just as sculpted as back in high school, his jaw that same cleanly cut square. She’d never had a thing for Chad McMahon, but she always admired his form.
“What do you want?” Chad crossed his arms. Rebecca could tell he recognized her by the way his eyes narrowed and his scowl deepened. “I said what do you want, Rebecca?”