Since the Day We Left (Hadley Cove #5)

Prologue

Thirty-Six Years Earlier

A glass vase shattered against the wall, exploding into jagged shards.

Wilting wildflowers bobbed in the spreading puddle.

“This ain’t working, June! Your part-time job ain’t paying the bills!”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now? You’re the one who—”

“I don’t wanna hear it! We need money, not excuses!”

Her dad stormed down the hall, leaving her mother in the middle of the living room, hands trembling at her side. When she turned to Wendi, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “Go play outside for a while, sweetheart. I just ... I need to rest.”

Rest meant crying. Wendi knew that by now.

She nodded, grabbed her sketchbook, and slipped out the back door, the screen clattering shut behind her.

The wind tangled Wendi’s hair as she nestled into her favorite spot on the beach. At nine, her little alcove, hidden between weathered rocks and scraggly dune grass, felt like it belonged only to her.

She had stumbled upon it last summer, fleeing from girls who had made fun of her clothes. And now, this was where she always came when her parents’ fights got too loud for the thin walls of their house.

A fiddler crab darted sideways, vanishing into the sand. Wendi smiled—even the tiniest creatures had their own places to hide.

Waves lapped at the shore while seagulls wheeled overhead. A feather drifted down, landing near her foot. Wendi picked it up, tucking it into the spiral binding of her sketchbook.

“The world is full of hidden treasures,” her mom had told her once, during a rare beach day, gathering seashells. “If you’re willing to look.”

Wendi spotted a familiar lump in the sand. Reaching over, she brushed away the top layer and unearthed the small metal tin she’d buried a few days before. After shaking off the remaining grains, she pried open the lid and tipped the tin, letting her treasures tumble into her palm: a piece of sea glass the exact blue-green of her mother’s eyes when she was happy; a perfect sand dollar; a shark tooth; and her prized possession—a spiral shell with bands of cream and caramel. She’d found it after a storm, half-buried, waiting just for her.

For a moment, she cradled them, then set them next to her. She pushed strands of hair away from her face as she focused on sketching the waves. Motion was the hardest thing to capture—waves never rested, just like her thoughts.

She paused, tilting her head, before shading in the foam where it touched the sand. Mrs. Abernathy had called her drawings a “genuine gift” last week.

She shifted on the sand, erasing a small smudge.

Dad didn’t even look at my last art project.

A familiar knot formed in her throat, one she’d learned to swallow down while keeping the tears at bay. Her grip tightened on the pencil as she looked out toward the water.

“Not now, Wendi,” he’d snapped, barely noticing the watercolor of a lighthouse she’d held out. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Go show your mother.”

She’d left without another word, tucking the painting into her folder. It remained unseen.

Wendi let out a slow breath, pushing the memory aside. She turned back to her sketchbook, tracing the faint horizon line where the sky and sea blurred together.

A shadow moved along the shoreline, and her pencil hovered mid-stroke.

No one ever came here. This place was hers .

But now, a man and a boy trudged along the shore. The man wore a dark suit, his tie flapping in the wind, and shoes dangling from one hand. The boy—her age, maybe a little older—had his hands shoved into his pockets. His dress pants were rolled at the ankles.

Something about them made Wendi’s chest tighten. Maybe it was their slow, careful steps, or the way they seemed disconnected from the beauty around them. They reminded her of the somber faces, the organ music, and the flowery scents at her grandma’s funeral last year.

They stopped.

The boy flinched as the waves lapped his toes. The man placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Wendi shrank back into the safety of her hiding spot.

Reaching into his suit pocket, the man pulled out a small container and twisted the lid. He stepped into the surf and emptied it. Gray ash spilled out, swirling in the breeze. Some seemed to have clung to his fingers, which he rinsed before returning to the boy.

Wendi’s chest tightened.

Someone’s gone.

Forever.

The man tried to put his arm around the boy, but he jerked away, his face crumpling as tears streaked his cheeks.

The man looked helpless—the way adults sometimes did when they ran out of words. He glanced at the boy, then stepped deeper into the waves, his back to the shore, shoulders shaking. The water was up to his knees now.

The boy stood alone, his fist pressed to his mouth, stifling sobs. His other arm clutched his middle, as if holding himself together.

A hollow ache echoed inside Wendi. She knew what it was like to cry alone.

Her mom had always warned her about strangers: “Not everyone is nice just because they look like it.”

But leaving the boy to cry alone felt wrong—like walking past an injured bird and pretending not to see. So Wendi slid the spiral shell into her pocket and stood.

The boy didn’t notice her until she was beside him. He startled, quickly wiping his face with his sleeve.

Wendi froze.

Does he even want me here? Maybe I should go.

For a beat, she waited quietly, giving him a chance to decide.

When he didn’t move, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her spiral shell. She held it out, palm open. The sunlight caught the shell’s swirls, making them glow.

“It’s magic,” she said. “From the ocean. It’ll help.”

On her worst days, she would hold it to her ear, listening to the ocean trapped inside. Its steady whooshing reminded her that some things stayed the same, no matter how much the world around her changed.

His deep brown eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, flicked between the shell and Wendi before he finally reached for it.

Their fingers brushed as he took the shell, sending a strange flutter through Wendi’s stomach. He curled his fingers around it, gripping it tightly.

“Here,” Wendi said, gently guiding his hand. “Hold it up to your ear, like this.” She mimicked the motion with her empty hand.

His eyes drifted shut as he listened.

“Can you hear it?” She leaned forward, hopeful. “The ocean?”

The boy went still. Then, after a pause, he nodded—just barely. A look of wonder crept across his face—the same look she’d imagined she had worn when she’d first discovered the shell’s magic. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

His breathing steadied, and his shoulders relaxed. The shell fit in his palm like it had been waiting for him, as it had once waited for her.

In that moment, Wendi understood—giving something away didn’t leave behind an emptiness, but a quiet fullness, knowing it was exactly where it belonged.

She lowered herself onto the sand and hugged her knees to her chest. The boy hesitated, then sat too—still leaving space between them. He kept the shell clenched in his hand as they both watched the man in the waves.

Neither spoke.

The sun began its descent, turning the water into sheets of copper and rose gold, while shadows stretched across the sand.

Wendi knew it was time to go.

If she stayed out too late, her mom would worry, and the last thing she wanted was to add more sadness to the day. Standing up, she brushed the sand from her shorts and took a few steps backward. The boy looked up, still seated, still holding the shell.

When she turned to leave, Wendi couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder one last time. The man had returned from the water and now stood beside the boy, who was holding up the shell, his lips moving—speaking. The man’s gaze lifted, meeting Wendi’s across the beach. He gave a small nod that she returned before continuing on her way.

Arriving back at her secret spot, where her sketchbook lay open beside the tin, she kneeled and reached for the scattered treasures, carefully placing them back inside. Then she snapped the lid shut, scooped out a shallow hole, and buried the tin, smoothing the sand before crossing a few twigs over it.

Wendi turned back to her sketchbook, dusting away the specks of sand. After a final glance at her work, she shut the book, secured the elastic band around the cover, and tucked it under her arm before heading home.

As she climbed the wooden steps leading away from the beach, something made her pause. Looking back, she saw the man and boy standing together, their heads bent over the tiny treasure she had given away.

Somehow, with one less piece, her collection felt more whole.

Her mom was right. The world was full of hidden treasures.