Chapter Four Nic
Chapter Four
Nic
The party’s winding down earlier than anticipated. It started pouring about an hour ago, which scared off half the guests.
Fine by me. I’ve had about enough of this job for one night.
I’m out on the back porch cleaning up stray glassware. It’s chilly and humid, but even so, it’s better than being in that house. I’m trying to avoid Harriet, and there are only so many rooms where I can hide.
For the first time tonight, I stop to take in the view off the porch, beautiful even through the gloom.
The twinkling lights of the Yacht Club to my right, the houses peppering the coast to the left.
The waves kicked up by the rain crashing against the beach.
I wonder what it would be like to wake up to this every day, the privacy, the ocean yours for the taking, like you’re in control of it instead of the other way around.
My eyes land on a few scattered objects down on the beach.
Trash.
There’s nothing that pisses me off more than littering, especially near the ocean. It messes with wildlife, seeps into the water supply, destroys reefs.
I stomp down the stairs and swipe up the crumpled cocktail napkins and wineglass left at the bottom. I shove it all into the trash bag in my hand to sort out later and turn to head back inside.
As I do, my eyes catch on something about fifty yards down the beach by the edge of the water—short and bulky, like a chunky piece of furniture.
I squint through the dim light trying to make out details, but it’s too far away, the night too dark. My best guess is that it’s a party guest, passed out on the sand.
Great. It’s probably someone I went to high school with, one of Harriet’s many friends who ignored me back then, who I served canapés to tonight. This should be fun.
I’m tempted to ignore them, but Harriet’s stepfather was such a dick about the tea sandwich, I can only imagine what he’d do if someone drowned after drinking the alcohol we served. He’d probably sue us before the body was even cold.
I didn’t spend the last eight years of my life helping my mom build her business to lose it because some asshole drank too much champagne and died on our watch.
I set down my garbage bag and start trudging across the beach.
As I get closer, the shape I thought was one person splits into two. One lying prone on the sand, the other crouched above them, staring down.
In the dark, it feels wrong. Menacing. My chest tightens.
“Hey!” I yell, but the wind tosses the word out to sea. I start to jog through the wet sand toward them. “Hey!” I yell again, and this time, the croucher hears me. Their head whips up, and they leap to their feet, taking off down the beach.
In my surprise, I stumble, but I manage to catch myself before face-planting into sand.
Once I’m stable, I push into a full-on sprint, gaining on them. Closer…closer… I dive forward, crashing against their back, and we hit the ground hard.
“Ow! Fuck!” they shout from under me. “Get off me, you dick!”
I roll off them sideways in shock. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
“Jesus, Nic. What the hell?” My sister is sprawled next to me on the sand, chest heaving.
My sister. Out here on the beach, hours after getting fired.
Out here on the beach, standing over a motionless figure. Running away from me.
Dread twists in my gut.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her.
She sniffs, pulling herself up to a seat. Her arms wrap around her legs, and she tucks her body into a tight ball. She’s crying.
Sara never, ever cries.
“Sara. What’s going on?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“It’s… I…” She sniffs.
“What?”
She lifts a trembling finger and points toward the ocean’s edge. “That.”
The other person is still lying where she left them, waves gently lapping against their side. They haven’t moved.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I turn back to my sister. Her eyes are wide. Haunted.
“Sara.” The word scrapes its way up my throat, painful. “What did you do?”