Chapter 32
The Morning It Happened
The storm passes over our house in fragments, or at least that’s what it feels like. There are moments when it seems almost ludicrous that I’m trying to sleep.
Beau and I stay in separate bedrooms, the weight of the revelations of Simon, my visit to his hotel, and the security hack wedged between us.
All through the night, I’m stirred by loud thuds, only to be pulled back into an uneasy sleep.
At one point, I hear the hollow crack of wood giving way as the wind pulls a branch loose.
Then an eerie hush falls over our bedroom again.
The sounds of heaving winds and deluging rainfall invade every dream.
By early morning, the sound of scratching pulls me out of my sleep.
It starts as a subtle dragging noise that rapidly becomes persistent and impossible to ignore—scritch, scritch, scritch.
I look at my phone. It’s almost 6:00 a.m. According to the weather app, the eye of the hurricane is north of us now, the outer bands passed over Winter Park a few hours ago.
The forecast calls for rain on and off all morning.
The windows that usually usher in bright morning sunlight are filled with a wall of dark gray clouds and rain. Sunrise is about an hour away.
Scritch, scritch, scritch.
“What is that sound?” I say, reaching for Beau, but his side of the bed is cold. I sit up, remembering that he’s not here.
In the thick silence, I can hear the low hum of our generator, meaning our appliances and air-conditioning are running but little else. Our renovation was plagued by supply chain delays, including one that had us ditching plans to rewire our electrical panel for storms like this.
Fuck.
I’m out of bed and looking around, remembering Simon and the night before. A fully functioning electrical panel seems like the least of our troubles right now.
A closer inspection of our bedside window reveals the source of the scritching sound: a wayward branch from the oak tree near our bedroom.
The wind had wrenched it loose from its perch, but instead of crashing to the ground, it had become tangled among the other branches.
Suspended in an awkward embrace, it swayed and scraped against the glass, its jagged edges dragging on the windowpane.
Beyond the tree, the lake’s water level is high, and the storm has left tree limbs and palms strewn across the backyard.
But in the predawn light, it’s hard to make out every detail.
I pull on a pair of Lululemon shorts and pad barefoot out of the bedroom, toward the guest bedroom.
But he’s not there.
Maybe he went to watch the storm.
Beau loves the science of weather systems. He probably fell asleep on the couch.
The sofa cushions look mashed, like maybe he did sleep there, but as I look out to the pool deck, my view of the wreckage gets a little sharper.
Heaps of downed branches and a ticker-tape parade of leaves appear to be the worst of it.
The usually blue water of the pool is clouded with dirt and scattered tree limbs.
But tangled in the gnarled mess of the violence the storm rained down, there’s something at the surface of the pool that doesn’t look as wild or natural as the rest of what’s gathered in the water.
Is that a shoe?
I go to the doors that overlook the deck.
Jesus. Is that a person?
It looks like someone is facedown in the pool.
But that’s not right.
I open the pool door to get closer, panic rising like bile in my throat. The water is clouded and dark, tinged with a baleful shade of red. The Buffalo Nickel chain is broken and splayed on the deck.
Is that Beau? Is Beau dead in our pool?
My body goes into a shaking kind of shock, and I’m trying to get my feet to move when a voice screams from the side of the deck, “Stay inside!”
I jump. “Fuck!”
Beau is waving his hands for me to freeze.
Thank Christ, he’s alive.
“Este, get back inside. I’ve got this.”
“Got what?” I look between him and the body. And it is a body. “Who is that? What the fuck is happening? Is that blood?”
We turn back to the red in the pool. Both of us are silenced by the shock. It’s smothering, and for a second, I don’t know if I’m breathing.
“I’m calling the police.” I pull out my phone.
“Just wait,” Beau cautions. “We have to figure out what we’re going to say.”
“What we’re going to say? There’s a goddamn body in our swimming pool, Beau. That’s what we’re going to say. I’m done moonlighting as a detective. This is…fuck. This is so fucked.”
I punch 911 into my phone and hit call. As it rings, I lock eyes with Beau, an ocean between us. The frenetic pace of my racing heart is the only sound I can hear.
What has he done?
The thud of my heartbeat roars so loud, I can barely hear the ringtone of the call.
I begin to rehearse. My name is Este Walker. I live on Isle of Sicily Road…
“911,” the operator answers. “What’s your emergency?”