Chapter 14
JACOB
M arcus had offered me a room at a place they owned, the Palmetto Rose, some upscale spot that probably smelled of money and starched linen. I’d turned it down, my voice flat, not wanting to owe him and his people a damn thing more than I already did.
A cheap motel suited me better—grit over gloss, no debts to collect. So I’d driven there after leaving Camille, the duffel heavy on my shoulder, her scent still clinging to me like salt.
We’d parted on the beach, her hand lingering in mine, her eyes promising something words couldn’t hold.
“Tomorrow,” she’d said, her French accent curling the edges, low and warm. “Where we first saw each other. After your swim. Nine?”
“Nine,” I’d agreed, my throat tight.
I’d wanted to pull her back, keep her under the stars, but she’d slipped away, her SUV vanishing into the night.
The motel room greeted me with the stale reek of coffee and cheap air freshener, the kind that tried to mask cigarette smoke but only made it worse. I collapsed onto the lumpy mattress, boots still on, staring at the water-stained ceiling.
My body was spent—raw from the fight at Salty Mike’s, the yacht, the tent where Camille had claimed me as much as I’d claimed her.
But for once, the ghosts stayed quiet. No faces, no voices, no weight crushing my chest. Just darkness, warm and enveloping, cradling me like the ocean until my phone alarm buzzed fifteen minutes before sunrise.
I rolled out of bed, my head clear, the hangover gone. I didn’t need the hour-out-and-back swim today. My mind was right where it needed to be—sharp, grounded, tethered to the thought of Camille at nine.
I pulled on my black Speedo jammer, grabbed my goggles and fins, and headed to Folly Beach.
The sky was a bruise of pink and gray, the air thick with salt and the promise of heat.
The beach was empty except for a few retirees shuffling along the shore, their morning walk slow and deliberate, like a ritual older than me.
One old man, his faded Marine Corps ballcap tilted against the sun, raised a hand as I passed. I waved back, respect automatic. I wondered what he’d seen—Vietnam, probably, jungles and blood and a country that spit on him when he came home.
I’d walked through my own hells, in the Corps and before, but those old-timers carried a weight I’d never fully grasp. They’d fought when the world didn’t just question the war but the men who bled for it. My respect for them was bone-deep, unyielding.
The thought drifted as I waded into the surf, the water warm against my calves.
I snapped on my goggles, slipped on my fins, and dove in, cutting through the waves with clean strokes.
No marathon battle with the deep today—just a quick workout, fifty feet out, then a hard left to swim parallel to the coast. The rhythm came fast, arms and legs syncing, breath steady.
The ocean didn’t fight me this morning. It carried me, the current a gentle nudge along the shore.
I timed it perfectly, looping back to my starting point, breathless but alive, my heart pounding with something close to joy. I pulled off my goggles, shaking water from my hair, and froze.
A blonde little girl was jumping in the waves nearby, her shrieks sharp and bright. Small, maybe six, her hair glinting like gold in the sun—she looked so much like her . The likeness was a knife to the chest, stealing my breath.
My eyes flicked to the sand, where a woman—blonde, distracted, face buried in her phone—sat on a towel. The resemblance to my ex-wife was uncanny, like a ghost had stepped out of memory onto the beach.
I shook my head, laughed at myself, a rough, hollow sound. It wasn’t them. Couldn’t be. I tugged off my fins, trudged out of the water, my feet leaving deep prints in the sand, and grabbed my towel from where I’d left it by a dune.
My duffel was untouched, phone and keys still tucked inside. I dried off, letting my heart rate settle, soaking in the morning—the salt air, the gulls, the night before with Camille. Her laugh, her body, the way she’d said my name like a challenge.
A shriek snapped me back. Not joy—terror. The little girl, the one who looked like Lily, was farther out now, her arms flailing as the waves dragged her. The riptide had her, and her mother was still glued to her phone, oblivious, earbuds probably drowning out the world.
I was already moving, dropping the towel as I ran toward the water.
“Hey!” I shouted, my voice sharp, but the mother didn’t budge.
I sprinted and when I hit water, I dove in, the current grabbing me like an old friend, strong strokes carrying me with the rip. The girl’s head bobbed, then vanished, and my heart slammed against my ribs.
Not again. Not again.
The words pounded in my head, panic and memory blurring into one. I crested a wave, scanning, ready to dive under, but she surfaced not five feet away, gasping, her eyes wide with fear. I lunged, my arm hooking around her waist, pulling her close. She sputtered, coughing, but I had her.
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice rough, desperate, loud. “I’ve got you, Lily. It’s gonna be okay, Lily.”
I swam with the current, letting it carry us until it weakened, then cut toward shore, one arm around her, the other stroking hard. Her small body trembled against mine, but she was breathing, alive.
My feet hit sand, and I stood, carrying her to the shallows.
That’s when I heard the mother—a banshee scream tearing down the beach. At first, I couldn’t make out her words, just the raw panic in her voice.
I set the girl down, her feet splashing in the surf, and she looked up at me, older than I’d thought—maybe eight or nine, not six.
“Who’s Lily?” the girl asked, her voice steady despite the water dripping from her hair. She didn’t look freaked out, just curious, her eyes clear and calm.
Before I could answer, the mother reached us, her face twisted with rage.
“Get away from her!” she screamed, grabbing the girl’s arm, yanking her back. “You fucking pedophile! You’re attacking my daughter!”
I froze, hands up, water streaming off me. “Ma’am, I?—”
She slapped me, hard, the sting sharp across my cheek.
“I’m calling the cops!” she shrieked, dragging the girl toward their towel, gathering their things in a frantic rush. Her voice kept going—awful accusations, each one a blade. Pedophile. Creep. Monster.
The girl looked back at me, confused, but didn’t fight her mother’s grip. They disappeared up the access path, the mother’s screams fading into the wind.
I stood there, shocked, panting, the surf lapping at my ankles. My cheek burned where she’d hit me, my heart hammering. The beach was empty again, no retirees, no witnesses, just me and the ocean.
I’d thought I was saving Lily.
My Lily.
But that was impossible. Lily had been gone for years, taken by the water, by a mother who’d looked away when it mattered most. The likeness—the blonde hair, the careless mother—had ripped open a wound that’d never really healed.
I laughed, a broken sound, and shook my head. What the hell had just happened?
I glanced up, my breath catching. Camille stood at the edge of the dune, her dark hair loose, her eyes wide with shock.
She’d gotten here early, just in time to see the end of it—the mother’s screams, the slap, the girl being dragged away. Her gaze locked on mine, a mix of confusion and something else—concern, maybe, or recognition of the rawness I couldn’t hide.
Monster.
I stood there, water dripping, my chest heaving, unable to move, the weight of the moment pinning me to the sand.