Chapter 8
Kori
The first rays of sunlight filter through the cottage windows, finding me curled on the sofa where I’ve spent the night.
My eyes feel swollen, raw from another bout of crying that overtook me somewhere in the early hours.
The fire has long since died, leaving only gray ash and the faint scent of burnt wood.
And a coldness that chills me to the bone.
I sit up slowly, my body aching from the awkward sleeping position.
Outside, the sea crashes against the cliffs below Wavecrest, a constant, thundering reminder that the world continues regardless of my pain.
I wrap the knitted throw tighter around my shoulders and shuffle to the kitchen to make tea.
While the kettle boils, I catch my reflection in the window. My choppy haircut looks even worse in daylight, uneven chunks sticking out at odd angles. Dark circles shadow my eyes, making me look haunted. I suppose I am.
The tea is hot and comforting as I carry it to the porch, settling into the weathered Adirondack chair that faces the sea. The wind whips my hair around my face, and the salt spray mists my skin. I take a sip, then another, but the lump in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.
“Why her?” I whisper to the endless horizon. “Of all the women in the world, why my sister?”
The tears come again, unbidden and unstoppable. I set the teacup down before I drop it, hugging my knees to my chest as sobs wrack my body. The wind carries my cries away, scattering them across the water like the seagulls sweeping overhead.
I cry until I’m empty, until there’s nothing left but hiccupping breaths and a hollowness that echoes inside me. Five years of marriage. A lifetime of sisterhood. Both were destroyed in an instant.
When I can finally breathe normally again, I go back inside, determined to do something—anything—to keep from dissolving into tears again. I need to explore the cottage properly, take inventory of what’s here and what I’ll need from the village.
The main floor is just as I remember—a living room with the massive fireplace, a kitchen, a dining area, and a bathroom tucked under the stairs.
Upstairs are three bedrooms and another bathroom.
I chose the smallest bedroom, unable to face the master suite with its king-sized bed that reminds me too much of the one Mark and I shared.
I’m searching through the hall closet for fresh linens when something catches my eye—a long metallic object leaning in the corner behind a stack of board games. I reach past Monopoly and Scrabble and pull it out.
It’s a metal detector with a set of headphones zip-tied to it.
A memory surfaces of Jen’s younger brother combing the beach during that college trip, convinced he’d find pirate treasure or ancient Celtic artifacts. I’d forgotten all about it.
I turn the device over in my hands and check the battery compartment. Two D-batteries sit inside, probably dead after all this time. I head to the kitchen, where I know I’d seen some batteries in a drawer. I find a pack of new ones and replace them.
“Why not?” I say aloud to the empty cottage as I replace the batteries with fresh ones. The beach below is deserted this time of year, stretching for nearly a mile in either direction. Maybe I’ll find something interesting. At the very least, it will keep my hands and mind occupied for a few hours.
I change into jeans and a thick sweater, pull on the Wellington boots I found by the door, grab a light jacket, then put on the headphones.
The metal detector feels awkward in my hands at first, but by the time I’ve navigated the steep path down to the beach, I’ve figured out how to adjust the height and turn it on.
The machine comes to life with a series of beeps, the needle on the display jumping erratically. I have no idea what I’m doing, but it doesn’t matter. I need something to focus on besides the image of Mark and Lana together that keeps replaying in my mind.
The sand is damp and firm beneath my feet, perfect for walking. I start at the water’s edge, sweeping the detector in a slow arc before me as I move along the shoreline. For several minutes, there’s nothing but the occasional high-pitched whine when I pass over a particularly wet patch of sand.
Then suddenly—a sharp, insistent beeping. I stop, moving the detector back and forth until I pinpoint the spot. Kneeling, I dig with my fingers, scooping away wet sand until I touch something hard and metallic.
I pull out a bottle cap, crusted with sand and rust. Not exactly buried treasure, but I feel a small thrill, nonetheless. I drop it into my pocket and continue my slow march down the beach.
The rhythm becomes meditative—sweep, step, sweep, step. The constant motion and concentration required push all thoughts to the back of my mind. They’re not gone completely but temporarily contained.
I find more bottle caps, a few coins, a rusted key, and what appears to be an old fishing lure. Each discovery, no matter how trivial, brings a tiny spark of satisfaction.
I’m so absorbed in my treasure hunting that I don’t notice how far I’ve walked until the detector gives its most urgent beep yet. The needle swings wildly, indicating something substantial beneath the sand. I drop to my knees and dig with renewed enthusiasm.
My fingers brush against something smooth and round.
I work it free from the wet sand, revealing a heavy gold ring.
It’s a man’s ring, thick and ornate, with what looks like a family crest engraved on its face.
Celtic knots wind around the band, intricate and beautiful despite being caked with sand.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning it over in my palm. This is no cheap trinket—the weight alone tells me it’s solid gold. I rinse it in a tide pool, watching as the water reveals its gleaming surface.
The thought of finding more gold has me forgetting entirely about Mark and Lana as I head onward.
My heart races with excitement as I clutch the gold ring, my fingers tracing its intricate Celtic patterns. This is a real find! I wonder what else might be buried in this stretch of beach. Slipping the ring into my pocket, I continue my slow march, swinging the detector in methodical arcs.
The headphones suddenly emit a piercing tone—stronger than any signal I’ve gotten so far. I freeze, moving the detector back and forth to pinpoint the location. There, just ahead, is a slight mound in the sand I hadn’t noticed before, a rubber hose lying upon it.
“Please be more gold,” I whisper, setting the detector down beside me as I drop to my knees.
My fingers work frantically, digging through the damp sand. The tide is starting to come in, and I don’t want to lose whatever treasure is waiting beneath. I scoop handfuls away, my excitement building as I uncover what looks like a silver ring.
“Yes!” I exclaim, brushing away more sand to reveal not just one, but several rings. They’re beautiful—ornate bands, some with gemstones catching the weak sunlight. I’ve hit some kind of jackpot.
I dig faster, uncovering more. These rings are all arranged in a strange pattern, almost like... fingers? The thought flickers briefly through my mind but is quickly dismissed in my treasure-hunting fervor. I reach for one stunning emerald ring, trying to pull it free.
That’s when the unthinkable happens.
The ‘rings’ move. No—not just move—they curl around my wrist, gripping with surprising strength. I scream as I realize I’m not holding jewelry at all, but a human hand adorned with multiple rings, rising from beneath the sand.
I try to pull away, but the fingers tighten their grip. Terror floods through me as more sand shifts, revealing an arm attached to the hand. My heart hammers against my ribs as I struggle to free myself.
“Let go!” I shriek, yanking backward with all my might.
It’s then that I realize this person needs my help.
Frantically, I start scooping the sand away and uncover his face. He’s sitting there with earplugs in his ears, a nose plug, and the rubber hose in his mouth. I remove all three and cringe when he says, “That son of a bitch is going to get what’s coming to him.”
“Who did this to you and why?” I ask, ignoring his outburst, as I continue to clear the sand away.
“Detox and my cousin.”
I stare at him in disbelief, my heart still racing from the shock of finding a living person buried in the sand. His answer makes no sense. “Detox? Your cousin did this to you?”
He finally looks at me properly, his bleary blue eyes focusing on my face. I’m suddenly aware of how I must look—puffy-eyed, tear-stained, with my ridiculous choppy haircut whipping in the wind. Recognition dawns in his expression.
“Airplane girl,” he says, his voice gravelly from the sand and salt. “The crying one.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Of course. It’s the drunk man from the flight—Kane. The one who tried to comfort me while his family restrained him. Now he’s half-buried on my beach, and I’m kneeling beside him like some deranged treasure hunter who thought his rings were free for the taking.
“I wasn’t crying,” I lie automatically, then realize how absurd that sounds given my current appearance. “I mean, not on purpose. The wind makes my eyes water.”
Kane doesn’t respond to my pathetic excuse. He’s busy trying to free himself from his sandy prison, but his limbs are clearly stiff from being immobilized. I reach out to help, digging around his torso to loosen the packed sand.
“Thanks,” he mutters as I help him to his feet.
He’s wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, both completely soaked with seawater and covered in sand.
He looks ridiculous and somehow dangerous at the same time, with those tattoos crawling up his arms and those heavy silver rings that I mistook for buried treasure.
He brushes sand from his body, wincing as he stretches his limbs. He then bends down and picks something up. Before I can process what’s happening, he grabs my wrist and pushes up the sleeve of my jacket.
“What are you doing?” I try to pull away, but his grip is firm without being painful.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he uncaps a pen with his teeth and starts writing on my forearm. I watch, too stunned to protest further, as he scrawls a phone number in messy digits across my skin.
“In case you ever need help,” he says when he finishes, finally releasing my arm.
I stare at the blue ink on my skin, not sure whether to laugh or run away. “You think I’m going to call a man I found buried on a beach?”
“You pulled me out,” he points out with a shrug. “Seems like we’re friends already.”
“I thought you were jewelry,” I admit, immediately regretting my honesty when his lips curve into a smirk.
“You thought I was jewelry?” He looks down at his tattooed, ring-adorned hands and then back at me. “That’s a new one.”
“The metal detector...” I gesture weakly toward the abandoned device. “Your rings set it off.”
He glances at the metal detector, then back to me, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Why were you crying? Really?”
The directness of his question catches me off guard. “I wasn’t—”
“Airplane girl,” he interrupts gently. “I know crying when I see it.”
Maybe it’s the absurdity of the situation, or perhaps it’s just that I’m talking to someone who knows absolutely nothing about me, but suddenly I want to tell him.
“My husband’s been sleeping with my sister,” I say, the words coming out in a rush. “I found out right before our fifth anniversary party. So, I came here instead.”
Kane whistles low. “That’s rough.”
“Yeah.” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite my layers. “Hence the crying and the terrible haircut I gave myself.”
He studies me for a moment, head tilted. “I like it. Makes you look dangerous.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “Dangerous is the last thing I am.”
“Don’t be so sure,” he says, his eyes lingering on mine. “You saved a strange man on a deserted beach. That’s either dangerous or stupid.”
“Maybe both,” I admit, finding myself smiling despite everything.
The sound of an engine breaks the moment. We both turn to see two cars pulling up at the top of the cliff path. A man gets out of each one, Declan and Rory, if memory serves me.
“That’s my ride,” Kane says, nodding toward them. “And probably another round of torture.”
“Will you be okay?” I ask, suddenly concerned. They buried him alive. What kind of family does that?!
He grins, a wolfish grin. “I’ll survive. Always do.” He takes a step back, then hesitates. “What’s your name? Properly, I mean.”
“Kori,” I tell him. “Kori Blake.”
“Kane Murphy,” he replies, extending a sand-covered hand for me to shake. When I take it, he holds onto it a moment longer than necessary. “Use that number if you need anything, Kori Blake. Ireland can be a lonely place.”
He starts to walk away, then stops, turns around, and grabs my arm.