Chapter Five
The Faroes are a remote cluster of islands set deep in the Atlantic, solitary and strange in their placement—about as far from anything as a person can get.
For several hours, it feels as if the plane is heading straight out into the abyss, with nothing but heaving, black sea below us.
Not even a single ship appears through my tiny oval window.
But at last, with a final jostle and moan from the plane, we land just after sunset.
I step out into a crisp, blustery landscape.
At the little rental car kiosk, I’m told by the freckled girl behind the counter that all the cars have been rented, and that I should have booked one ahead.
I’m surprised—in a remote place like this—that they would be out of cars, but I don’t press it and take a taxi instead.
In the back seat, I check my missed calls.
Five. Two are from the same reporter, Helen Ashcroft—she’s aware of the newest sighting of Saltwell Island, and she wants to know if I’ve heard, if I’d be willing to talk finally.
The rest of the messages are from clients letting me know they got my email and would like to reschedule.
When I get to the hotel, which I did book ahead of time, I’ll pull up my work calendar and call them back.
I only plan to be here a couple days. And the flight back to Seattle should give me just enough time to get my story straight.
Something simple: My nana was ill, getting on in years, had to go make sure she was okay.
But all is fine now, nothing to worry about.
Just the aches and pains of old age. If they ask me what kind of illness, I’ll shrug it off, say the doctors are still running tests.
I don’t want to tell a lie so specific I’ll have to remember it later.
And people are often less inclined to prod for details if they can see you don’t want to talk about it.
It hurts too much, best to leave it alone.
When I arrive at the lobby, wheeling my suitcase through the small, sparsely furnished room to the front desk, I find the place bustling.
“Checking in?” the round, stubby-nosed boy behind the desk asks.
I nod. “Ellie Mills.”
He punches my name into the keyboard, eyes trained on the computer screen, and asks where I’m from.
I can tell he doesn’t really care about the answer, but I say, “Seattle,” looking away from him to a group of two men and a woman who have just entered the lobby, speaking in low, hurried voices.
The men are wearing button-up shirts, and the woman is wearing a blazer.
This is a business trip—work-casual—they aren’t a family on vacation.
But what business is there in the Faroe Islands?
“So you’re used to the rain,” the boy comments with a forced grin, as if making a joke.
“Is the hotel usually this busy?” I ask.
“Sometimes, during whale season.” He makes a face, enters something else into the keyboard.
I just want him to give me my key so I can slink into my room and get into the shower.
I’ve hardly slept, the time difference is starting to wear on me, and I feel like I’m rattling around in my own skin.
“You here to see the ghost ship?” the boy adds, turning his attention to a printer that is spitting out my reservation in slow, chugging motions.
“What?”
He flips the printed paper up onto the counter. “Sign here,” he says. “Will you need a parking pass? There are only a few spaces in front of the hotel.”
I shake my head and sign my name on the bottom of the reservation. “What did you say about the ghost ship?” I press, sliding the paper back.
“That’s why we’re booked out. They all came to see the ghost ship.
” He nods across the crowded lobby, through a doorway into another room that I hadn’t noticed when I first walked in.
It looks like a small restaurant, the quaint B I don’t want to hear his voice thick with concern, his questioning.
I know he’ll think this is about him, that I’m running away from his offer of a long, happy life together.
So I send a text: Visiting home, will call soon.
I’m fine, don’t worry. Then toss my phone onto the bed.