“You’ll be all right now.” She looked around but didn’t see anything to cut the straps loose. “He’s not getting away. I promise you that.”
Whit’s body had begun to shake violently.
“Hang on. Don’t you dare pass out on me!” Riggs felt her throat tighten and blinked back tears. There was too much blood on the floor, the walls, everywhere. Out of pure fear, she could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. She saw the cross and rosary imprinted on her wrist and started to pray.
Damn. The ambulance was taking too long.
“You have two beautiful daughters at home who need you. Just remember that.”
Whit slowly nodded, a half smile on her face; her teeth chattering, slowly her eyes drifted closed, her body still … and the smile faded away.
EPILOGUE
TWO MONTHS LATER
SEAGULLS CRIED OVERHEAD in a bright blue sky; the beating of their wings was briefly heard over the ocean’s waves cresting on the sandy shore. The beach stretched as far as the eye could see, with fawn-colored grass waving in the wind on low-rolling dunes. Not a building or person in sight, just the never-ending blue ocean sparkling under an October sun. The air was pleasantly warm, about seventy-five degrees. Brookings was known as the Banana Belt of the Oregon coast. Inland, autumn had come, the leaves turning sienna and burnt umber, with a crisp bite to the air, but here, on the sandy beach, a warm, gentle breeze caressed their skin.
Riggs watched Emma clutch a handful of sand and slowly release it at arm’s length into the wind, carefully watching which way it blew. Jordan was weighed down with photography equipment—a shoulder bag with lenses and film—though she used a digital camera as she snapped pictures of her sister. Waiting patiently, honored to be there, Riggs held the polished pewter urn. Her heart heavy, she breathed in the ocean air. Only yesterday she’d attended Dr. Kessler’s preliminary hearing, packed with a never-ending media circus. The public couldn’t get enough coverage of the murders, or of the twisted scientist’s sick exploration of stem cells. The trial was scheduled for November. It would be lengthy and highly publicized. The night he was arrested, Kessler hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot at the lab before police cars blocked his exit. Panetta had the privilege of arresting him. He would rot in prison. That, at least, gave her some satisfaction.
“We’re ready,” Emma said soberly, her pretty face set in hard lines. Just sixteen, and she already bore signs of long-term grief. Her distant gaze sheltered a deep sorrow.
Fighting back tears of compassion for these brave young women, Riggs turned at the sound of footsteps crunching on the sand.
Whit waved a handful of tissues. “I had to run to the car. I never have tissues when I need them.”
“I might need one of those,” Riggs confessed, wiping a tear away. It had been such a long journey of recovery for this family that she’d grown to love. As Whit handed her a tissue, Jordan captured the moment with her camera. She was a natural and would follow in her father’s footsteps, her photography credits already well beyond her years.
With a deep sigh, Whit embraced her daughters. “Are you ready?”
They nodded, their gaze turning to the urn.
Riggs passed the urn to Whit, noting the scars on her forearms. She’d undergone blood transfusions, surgery to reconnect the tendons, and months of physical therapy. She brushed a hand across one scar. “Does it still hurt?”
“Sometimes I get jabs of pain. The doctor said it would take a few more months, but eventually the pain would stop.”
“How is the physical therapy going?”
“Fine. The worst part is I’ve lost my ninety-words-per-minute typing speed. I’m lucky to get forty-five now. You know I’m not the most patient person.”
Riggs laughed. “That’s true enough.” In reality, Whit had had a miracle recovery. She’d stubbornly refused to die, largely for the love of her daughters.
“Well, I guess it’s time.”
“Are you all right?” Riggs asked.
“Yes. We need to do this, not just for me, but for my girls. They need closure as much as I do. Not that John will ever truly be absent from our hearts and minds, but we can learn to live without him in a physical sense.”
“I understand.”
“I know you do. You lost your mother at a tender age. That’s part of why I wanted you to be with us. To help me with Emma and Jordan.”
“It’s my pleasure to be here. I’ll help all I can.”
Whit took a deep breath and let it go. “It’s been over a year since John’s death. It’s time to let go … and he loved the ocean. Years ago, just after nine/eleven when we first met while reporting in Baghdad, we reconnected in the States and decided to spend a week at the coast to sort of decompress after the terrible images of war, and somehow ended up in a small town on the Northern Oregon Coast. We watched the most amazing sunset on the beach that night. John said to me: ‘The sea revives a person’s spirit, his soul. Just the sight and sound of the waves and the vast expanse of the ocean makes me forget the horrors of war. Like all of my pictures are just from a bad dream, that nothing but beauty exists in the world. Every ugly thing is washed away.’”
“That’s beautiful, Whit.”
She nodded, tears on her cheeks. “Because of that, after we married, we spent every Christmas here on the Oregon Coast. We both like the rocky shores and the hiking trails through the woods. No crystal-blue waters and palm trees for us. This place, with its stormy winter months, the waves crashing into the cliffs and the rocky shores, was both thrilling and cleansing. I know it’s where John would want to be. I was reminded of that when Jordan showed me her sunrise pictures of the coast. He loved his freedom more than anyone I know. Keeping him in a box was wrong.”
“I think it’s best for all of you, since you’ve found such peace here.”
Whit nodded, wiping away the tears. “Would you say a prayer?”
Emma and Jordan gathered with them as they all held hands, the wind from the sea flapping their dresses against their legs as the sand shifted under their feet.
With a quiet voice, Riggs prayed for John’s soul to find a final resting place free from pain and sorrow, and for Whit and the girls to feel his love with them always.
The girls each held the urn, saying a private farewell before passing it back to their mother.
Whit walked into the surf, the water lapping at her ankles, and removed the lid from the urn. With her red hair swirling in the breeze, she raised her arm and slowly emptied the ashes into the wind, while Jordan tried to focus the camera through her tears, and Emma stood stiffly watching.
Riggs circled an arm around Emma’s shoulders. The gesture of comfort was Emma’s undoing, and she buried her face in Riggs’s shoulder to cry.
“I didn’t want to cry for Mother’s sake,” Emma sniffed. “I tried … I tried so hard to be strong for her.”
“It’s natural to cry. You don’t need to be strong for your mother. She’s strong enough for all of us.”
Standing in the waves, facing the sun, Whit said her final farewell.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Jennifer Greer began her writing career as a journalist. She graduated from California State University, Fresno with a degree in journalism and worked as a crime reporter for the Fresno Bee. Interested in foreign affairs, she traveled to Russia in the late 80s and lived in London studying art and literature. While abroad she traveled into the war regions of Croatia and wrote an award winning article on the women and children refugees. She lives on the Oregon Coast. This is her first novel.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Greer
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Croo
ked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-384-0
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-385-7
Cover design by Melanie Sun
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
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First Edition: July 2020
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