Daughter of Deep Silence

by Carrie Ryan

  They’ll push you under in a heartbeat if it will allow them to get their own head above the surface. By the time I’m within reach, she’s weakened enough that every time she slips under, it takes longer for her to surge up again.

  I maneuver behind her, one knee raised and ready to kick her away if she tries to turn and grab me. My plan all along has been to save her. Drag her to the beach while the media swarms, lauding me as a hero. Making it so that the Senator is in my debt. So that he cannot keep me from Grey.

  So that Grey himself feels indebted to me.

  The next thing I’m supposed to do is slip my arms beneath hers and lean back, pulling her to the surface on top of me. She’s within reach. I’m perfectly positioned.

  Yet I hesitate. Thinking for one brief moment that perhaps the best thing for Grey and his father is for them to lose someone they love desperately. So that they understand the pain of it. The absolute hollowness.

  It would serve them right. Whether they had a role to play in the sinking of the Persephone or not, it seems so unfair that they escaped with their family intact when I did not.

  When I didn’t even escape with my own self intact.

  In this moment I am the most powerful force in Grey’s and his father’s life. More powerful than even the sea itself. Their lives are mine to control, their futures mine to dictate.

  Mrs. Wells’s hand breaks the surface, but she is unable to pull her head above water. Still, I don’t move to rescue her.

  Could I really let her die? I ask myself.

  The most alarming realization is the sudden and sure answer: yes.

  I could absolutely let her die.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  But letting Mrs. Wells drown is not part of the plan. So I reach my hands under her shoulders and pull her to the surface. Her chest spasms as she flails, gurgling sounds choking her throat.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I tell her. “Hang on for me—just hang on!” I start kicking for shore, using the momentum of the waves to push us closer. “We’re almost there,” I promise.

  The moment my feet hit bottom I grab her wrists and haul her up to the beach, not even bothering to drag her completely free from the waves before turning her to her side. She retches, salt water gushing from her mouth and foaming around her nose.

  The wheezing sound afterward is desperate and panicked as she claws at the sand. I hold her head, hovering over her. “You’re okay,” I tell her again and again. She coughs, gasping and choking, retching.

  But she’s breathing. Her eyes open, lucidity slowly returning. Her body lies limp, exhausted, shuddering as she coughs and gasps. The sound of sirens grows louder and in the distance a news chopper roars into sight.

  I shift, sitting back on my heels and pulling her so that her back rests against my thighs, her head tucked against my stomach. I reach for one of the water bottles still attached to my belt and uncap it. Lifting it to her lips I encourage her to drink. She does, much of its thick liquid dribbling down her chin, but enough making it into her body to neutralize the toxin she’d ingested earlier.

  “Mom!” I hear the scream and glance over my shoulder. Grey comes racing from the house, sprinting down the boardwalk. The Senator’s not far behind, shouting, “Martha!”

  Grey crashes to his knees next to me, eyes wild and panicked. “Mom.” He reaches for her and then hesitates, not sure what to do. She tries to smile, tears streaming down her face.

  “She’s okay,” I tell him. “She was swimming and—”

  Just then the Senator arrives. “Martha!” He grips her shoulders. “Martha, are you okay?” She nods weakly, but when she tries to speak her voice is nothing but rasp.

  I scoot back, giving him access to her. “I called nine-one-one—the ambulance is on its way,” I tell him. But his focus is entirely on his wife. His gaze sweeps her body, searching for injury. Other than a cut down her calf from where I must have pulled her across a sharp shell, there’s nothing. Satisfied, he cups her face and leans down until his forehead presses against hers. “Thank God, you’re okay,” he whispers. His eyes are closed, eyelashes damp. He takes her hand and presses her palm against his cheek.

  It’s a tender moment, totally incongruous with anything I would expect of him, and I shift, looking away, uncomfortable.

  Just as the paramedics come storming onto the beach the news helicopter banks overhead, keeping enough distance that it doesn’t kick up sand, but close enough that I feel the spin of its rotors thumping through me like a heartbeat. I’m not surprised it arrived so quickly; almost any station has someone monitoring the police radio bands. While the news of someone drowning would be motivation enough to investigate, it’s the location that got them here quickly.

  That’s why I made sure to mention the Senator’s house as a landmark.

  The paramedics waste no time, kneeling next to Mrs. Wells and taking her vitals. Neighbors look on, crowded along their boardwalks, holding up phones and cameras, documenting it all. In the distance, sirens rage as several four-by-fours race down the beach toward us, lights blazing.

  When the lead paramedic asks Mrs. Wells what happened, she points to me. There’s a split second when my heart jolts, terror that she actually knows the truth—that I was the one to do this to her.

  But then she rasps out, “Saved me.”

  Eyes wide, I sputter an explanation. “She was swimming just fine and then—I don’t know.” My answer comes out rushed, almost choked. As though I still can’t believe it all. “She started flailing and it was obvious something was wrong. That’s when I called nine-one-one. But I couldn’t just watch—not when she needed help.”

  The paramedics return their focus to Mrs. Wells, loading her onto a backboard. As they start toward the house, a reporter with a camerawoman in tow races toward them.

  The Senator pushes them away with a growl. “Greyson,” he barks over his shoulder, “take the car and follow.”

  As though he hadn’t heard the command, Grey stands by the water, frozen. He’s staring down at the sand where his mother lay only a moment ago. There’s a dark patch of red, scarlet rivulets being pulled into the ocean by the seeping water.

  “Grey,” I say softly, moving toward him. My teeth chatter as the spike of adrenaline leaches from my system. I touch trembling fingers to his arm, lightly. “She’s going to be okay.”

  He looks up at me and his eyes churn deeper than the storm-cast sea. There’s something both fierce and lost about his expression, and I swallow, caught off guard. “Libby,” he begins, “I—”

  And then he lunges toward me, wrapping me in his arms. “Thank you—” he whispers in my ear.

  He’s cut off by his father. “Greyson!” he roars. “Let’s go!”

  Grey blinks, pulling back and shaking his head. There’s a damp spot on his shirt from my drenched jog bra, but he doesn’t notice. “I’m sorry.” He points toward his father, apologetic, and I nod.

  “Go,” I tell him, crossing my arms across my chest in an attempt to keep warm. “Of course.”

  For a few steps he jogs backward, still looking at me, as though there’s something more he’s trying to say. And then in one fluid motion he tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it to me. When I pull it on, it clings against the dampness of my skin and bra. But it’s warm and it smells like Grey.

  He smiles, fingers twitching in a wave, before he turns and dodges around the camerawoman as he chases after his father.

  It’s obvious from the self-satisfied gleam in the reporter’s eyes that she captured every second of the exchange between Grey and me. Just as I’d hoped.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The police quickly realize that interviewing me on the beach is impossible with all of the people hovering around. What began as a trickle has turned into a flood—not just reporters, but neighbors and townsfolk drawn to the scene, cameras and cell phon
es at the ready.

  So instead the cops lead me up to a table on the Senator’s patio. There are three of them—two male officers sweating in their uniforms and a female officer in plainclothes. She pulls out a chair for me but I hesitate before sitting.

  “Um, is it okay if I use the bathroom before we talk?” I rub at my forearm where some of Mrs. Wells’s blood still stains my skin. “I just need a second to—” My breathing’s a bit ragged, my chin trembling as though I’m overwhelmed.

  The female cop nods. “Sure thing. Take your time.”

  I mumble thanks and hurriedly make my way toward the kitchen door. The housekeeper’s the one to answer my knock, wisps of grey hair escaping the tight bun at the nape of her neck and a scowl on her face. When she realizes that I’m not a reporter or a cop, she grabs my shoulders, her eyes glistening with tears. “You are such a brave, brave angel.”

  She pulls me in for a hug and I’m too surprised to resist. “Thank goodness you were out on that beach this morning! Just thinking about what might have happened with Martha . . .” She inhales sharply.

  I say nothing and when she eventually relaxes her grip, I look down at my feet, feigning embarrassment at the attention. “I just did what anyone else would do,” I mumble. Except for the bit about poisoning her, I add silently.

  She smiles. “I like to think so. Now, can I get you something? Water? Tea?”

  I shake my head, shy. “I think the officers might like something, though—they’ve got to be burning up out there. I was just hoping to maybe use the restroom? Wash some of this salt off?”

  “Of course, honey, let me show you.” She leads me down the hallway, giving my shoulder another squeeze before returning to the kitchen. I turn on the water and splash a few handfuls on my face. When I’m sure the housekeeper is distracted with the task of taking drinks out to the officers, I slip out of the bathroom, leaving the water running and closing the door behind me.

  Holding my breath, I dash down the hallway and into the home office I’d caught a glimpse of when I was here the other morning. Though the furniture shares the same clean, sparse lines as the rest of the house, this room feels a little more lived-in. There are actual books on the shelves along with photos of the Senator with various Important People.

  Papers are stacked haphazardly across the glass-topped desk and I hurriedly shuffle through them. I have no idea what I’m looking for—it’s doubtful the Senator would just happen to have a confession lying about. Unsurprisingly, all I find are drafts of various senate bills, correspondence with fundraisers, and financial documents.

  I tug on the drawers, riffling through the usual office clutter of pens and paper clips, flipping through file folders neatly labeled with things like PAC, USCFR, and DMTR. Nothing stands out.

  I’d known the likelihood of finding anything was small, yet I can’t help the kernel of disappointment sitting heavy in my gut. I do a quick tour of the room, scanning the shelves just in case I missed anything. My eyes fall on a photo of Grey and his father, standing on the deck of the coast guard ship that rescued them.

  They have their arms around each other. Only the Senator is smiling.

  A flash of anger rips through me. I imagine the Senator at the hospital right now, by his wife’s bed. I wonder whether he’s afraid, whether he’s come even close to understanding how narrowly he avoided losing her today.

  I hope so. He deserves that fear. He deserves to know how easily and quickly you can lose the ones you love.

  There’s the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing—likely the housekeeper taking drinks out to the officers. I use the opportunity to slip back into the bathroom, wash some of the blood and sand off my arms, and turn off the faucet. I’m not overly concerned about getting caught somewhere I shouldn’t be—saving Mrs. Wells’s life will give me quite a bit of leeway.

  But there’s no reason to arouse suspicions this early in the game.

  Outside the two male officers stand when I approach, one of them pulling back a chair for me. I tuck myself into it, pulling Grey’s damp shirt tight around me. Overhead news helicopters bank and the female officer waits for them to pass before introducing herself as Detective Morales. It’s almost impossible to tell her age—her long black hair is pulled up in a ponytail and her face is smooth and unlined. Instead of the dark blue uniform, she’s wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt with a badge stitched over the pocket. She shakes my hand with a wide, friendly smile. “Feeling better?” she asks.

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  “So, Miss O’Martin,” she says. “This is just a formality—any time the police respond to a distress call we need to fill out a report. You’re not in trouble here, okay?”

  I nod, my expression uncertain.

  “How old are you?” she asks.

  “I just turned eighteen,” I tell her.

  She nods. “Do you have a parent you want to call? They’re welcome to be here with you if you’d prefer.”

  It’s a simple question, and other than the fact that Caldwell is a small community, there’s really no reason for her to know that my father died earlier this year and I’m technically an orphan.

  But I can tell in the set of her expression that she already knows this about me. It may be imperceptible to most people, but when someone’s looking for information they don’t already know, there’s an anticipation that causes their pupils to dilate.

  Hers don’t.

  That’s the moment I understand how she’s been so successful at her job: She has the easy kind of manner that makes you instantly want to be her friend. It’s not until you look closely that you notice the shrewdness in her eyes.

  This is a woman who misses nothing and it puts me on guard.

  I clear my throat, lifting my knees up to my chest and pulling the shirt over them so that I look small and vulnerable. “Both of my parents are dead,” I tell her. The other two officers at the table shift, uncomfortable at the trembling emotion in my voice. They’re both middle-aged men with wedding rings and the kinds of bags under their eyes that indicate sleepless nights caring for young children. I’ve immediately gained their sympathy.

  That’s one of the benefits of being an orphan: instant sympathy.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss O’Martin,” Detective Morales murmurs.

  “Thank you. And, please, call me Libby,” I tell her, adding a hesitant smile.

  “Okay, Libby. Can you walk us through what happened this morning?”

  As I begin recounting the story, she leaves it to the officer on her left to take notes. It’s a smart tactic—maintaining the appearance that she and I are just having a conversation so that I’ll let down my guard.

  It doesn’t take long for me to go through it all. When I’m done, Morales asks a few questions, just to make sure she’s got the details right. “Are you close with the Wells family?” She looks so earnest asking the question that I doubt even the two officers with her realize she knows the answer.

  I wrap my arms around my shins, hugging them tightly. It makes me look even more childlike. The two male officers shift, again. “Grey”—I clear my throat—“um, we were on the Persephone together.”

  The two men draw sharp breaths and Morales leans forward. “Oh, honey,” she says. “I should have remembered that. I’m so sorry.”

  I lift one side of my mouth, a trembling smile. “It’s okay.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Did you and Grey keep in touch afterward?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “You’ll have to tell me how you’ve been able to pull that off,” she says with a laugh. “There are a few people in Caldwell I’d love to avoid running into. That’s the problem with small towns.”

  Another excellent tactic: wrapping a serious question in a joke. I don’t respond.

  There’s still sand crusted along the side of
my leg and I run my finger against it, slowly dislodging it. She knows as well as I do that most people despise silence, that the easiest way to get someone to talk is to say nothing, sit back until they rush to fill the empty space.

  It’s Morales who cracks first and I have to bite back a small smile of success. “Well, I guess that explains the media.” She gestures toward the reporters flocking the beach. “Not that a prominent Senator’s wife almost drowning wouldn’t be news. But when the rescuer turns out to be the only person other than the victim’s family who survived one of the biggest disasters in recent memory . . .” She shakes her head, her eyes still on me. “That makes for good TV.”

  Something about her expression causes my heart to race. The way she’s scrutinizing my reaction. There’s absolutely no reason for her to be suspicious of me. As far as she knows, I’m just a teenage girl—an orphan—who happened to be in the right place at the right time to save someone’s life.

  But telling myself that doesn’t stop adrenaline flooding my system. Nor does it stop a warning in my gut. “My dad always used to say that truth is stranger than fiction,” I tell her.

  “Mark Twain quote,” Morales says, smiling and standing. “Let me give you a ride home. Keep you away from the media storm a little while longer.”

  The housekeeper leads us through the kitchen to the front door. Morales takes the lead, me trailing behind. I watch the way she’s able to take in her surroundings so subtly, without drawing attention to the fact she’s cataloging everything. Once we get outside, I bet that if I quizzed her on how many glass globes were arranged on the silver platter on the living room coffee table, she’d have the answer.

  It makes me wonder what she’s noticed about me that I don’t want her to. What have I given away without realizing it?