Prologue
Remember when you were a child, and an adult would read you stories at night? And some of them began with "once upon a time…"
Well, my story isn't a fairy tale, and it isn't over, so I don't know yet if there will be a happy ending. I know I need to write this so that maybe someone will read it and understand that all too often, horrible things happen to the innocent and unsullied who don't deserve pain or suffering. Sometimes people are just plain evil, and that evil needs to be obliterated, wiped from existence.
My father was a good man who would have done anything for me. So was my grandfather. He died protecting us, and not a day passes that I don't mourn his loss. Perhaps it would have been easier to bear if we hadn't lost my grandmother, but she sacrificed herself as well.
They were good people. My parents helped them to live in my mind so I know they were decent people, despite any mistakes they may have made. They sacrificed their lives out of love. I know that's true.
And that makes the loss even more painful. It took so long for my mother to even think about them and not have their sacrifice play out in her mind. It played in mine as well and I cried every day for them, knowing the horror and agony they suffered to save me. I also give thanks to everything good in the world that I had my dad to cling to. Without him, I would either have killed myself or taken a quick dive into the darkness that hovered around me, always close by, trying to lure me in.
When he closed his mind to me, thinking it was for protection, I felt cut adrift, untethered, and completely alone. Then she called to me. Alex.
A girl like me. She'd been watching me from afar. Alex sent me a mental suggestion, and I acted on it, climbed the steps into the attic of our home, and found a trunk that belonged to my dad.
A big steamer trunk, antique, I think.
Inside it were journals, hundreds of them. I couldn't imagine why he had the journals of what was obviously a woman. At least until I started reading. Then it became clear. My mother wrote these.
She must have spent hours every night chronicling the events of the day and her feelings about what happened.
According to what I read, she started writing before I was born. At first, it was because she had no one to talk to, and later, her journals revealed she wrote so that she could send copies of her daily entries to her first husband. He was in the military stationed overseas. After he died, she continued to chronicle her days so that when I was grown, I could read about our life and family, and the things that happened to shape—or change–us.
It took me nearly a year to read all those journals. Sometimes I couldn't bear to read them. They almost broke me. But I couldn't stay away long. I had to know all of it. As I read, I remembered. Not merely what she had told or taught me, but what I'd seen in her mind, things I never told her I knew. These journals made it all clear. Once I finished the last page, my path came into focus with almost painful clarity.
Alex confirmed that.
She'd known before I did what I had to do. I knew that following the path that called to us would come with sacrifice and pain. I would live a lonely existence. But I couldn't turn away from it. Nor could I turn away from telling the story that led me to embark on this long journey.
This tale had to be told, but it had to be done in a way that protected everyone. It took a while, but with the help of my parents, we figured out a way.
She pushed back from the laptop and stared at what she'd written. Odd that she'd exposed herself and Alex. Not that anyone could connect them. And certainly no one could connect them to the events that had transpired. After all, how many people in the world had the name Alex?
Still, she hadn't intended to reveal any of her family's truth; she'd thought to shield them within the pages, telling the tale without divulging their role in any of it. The rationale was that if the tale was written as fiction, it would somehow insulate her, and others, from the pain of it.
It'd taken far longer than imagined, but there were parts of the story not told in the journals, and the entire story was needed. So, what wasn't possessed in memory, was found from other people mentioned in the journals. Some were eager to share what they knew. Others were less than keen, but with gentle encouragement they were convinced to give their part of the tale. After all it was merely just going to be a fictional tale based on the lives of people who once lived on an island off the Eastern Coast.
Some were reluctant, and some were eager, but in the end, everyone gave what was requested, even those who never spoke a word. Thanks to what she'd inherited from her father, she knew how to ferret information from people without them even being aware of her actions.
Now that the tale was written, pain rose, fighting its way out of the darkness where she'd imprisoned it, to gnaw at her until a sob forced its way from her lips.
Anger at her own weakness had her swiping at the tears that blurred her vision. She bit her lip to keep another sound from emerging, determined to be strong and allow no weakness to worm its way past her shield. So, with a deep breath, she scooted back closer to the computer and began to read again.
.
Chapter One
Voices. Some hushed and others loud, all talking excitedly. Candles flickered, their smoke adding another layer of scent to the cloying odor in the room. Her heart beat so fast and loud she was surprised no one else could hear it, but no one even noticed her. It was as if she were a ghost, flowing through this nightmare.
Her foot slipped on something wet, sending her skidding and flailing arms waving as she struggled to regain her balance. When she fell, she landed face down into a puddle of something dark and wet.
Something that smelled a little like the stink at the butcher's shop when he was cutting up meat.
She pushed herself back into a squat and raised her wet hands.
Even as the scream erupted, the scene changed. She was out of the nightmare room of blood and laughter and into another place, this one dark as well. Here there were no candles, only the light of the moon filtering in through the blinds that covered the window.
A voice murmured to her, but she couldn't understand what it said. Hands smoothed her hair back from her face and air kissed her moist skin. "You only had a bad dream. Just a bad dream. Go to sleep now, Emmeline. Forget and go to sleep."
A prick in the side of her neck made her cry out. The pain was like being stung by a bee. Was it a bee?
Something intense and painful was inside her now, moving through her and making her feel sick to her stomach and dizzy.
She fought clumsily, trying to escape the hands that held her in place. Whatever burned its way through her veins made it hard to keep her eyes open. A flash of memory had her crying out, and for a moment, she was back in the scary place.
She was on the floor, and when she raised her head, she saw them. What were they doing here in this evil place?
"Forget all this. Just forget." This time the voice was different. Not one from childhood. This time it was the voice of her husband. How could that be?
He was dead.
Emmy's eyes flew open, and for a few moments, she lay there, staring at the ceiling. God, how she hated that dream. It'd been part of her life for as long as she could remember and was always the same. No, that wasn't true. Michael's voice had not always been part of it. That was something that happened after the birth of her daughter, Mikayla Nicole.
And his voice sure hadn't helped her make sense of the dream. Nothing about it made sense. Was it some deep-rooted fear from childhood she couldn't access that rose now and again when she felt insecure? She lay there thinking, trying once more to understand. And failing.
As was often the case, when her thoughts turned to the past, pains found their way past the restraints she'd placed on her mind and memories. There was so much about her life that Emmy would like to forget, so much pain and fear, and the worst of it–loss. The most heart-wrenching thing of all was that she'd lost the love of her life.
Even thinking about it made her ashamed. Her husband, Michael, had cared for her, stood up for her, and tried to protect her. He'd given her a chance at happiness and security and had been her trusted friend.
Emmy had loved him and still did. She missed him every day and was grateful for the time they had together. If only she could cling to that and forget that while she loved Mike, he wasn't the love of her life. There was another boy she'd adored before she married Mike, and she was pretty sure she'd never feel that way again. Even now, that love burned bright inside her. Emotion made her chest tighten, and tears threatened as a memory rose out of the darkness to dominate her mind.
"Please don't go." Emmy clung to his arm as if she could hold him back from walking out of the door and out of her life. "Please. Just stay."
"For what, Em? To watch you and Mike share a life, maybe start a family? This is the only chance I have. If I stay, Rupert and Mike will make sure I never amount to a hill of beans. They want me gone, and you know they always get what they want."
"Well, what about me? I–"
His laugh was more of a bark, and the scorn in his tone had her releasing his arm. "That's rich. What about you? You chose him. You. Chose. Him. And now you're the wounded party? Give me a break."
Emmy pulled back from the memory and the pain it still delivered. Maybe he was right. Oh, hell, she knew he was. She chose Mike because he provided safety and comfort, the assurance that she'd never sleep another night in the cold or go without a meal. She chose the life of a rich man's wife rather than love. And despite knowing the decision was hers, she felt as if he was the one who turned away, leaving her broken-hearted.
How pathetic was that?
How did a woman carry a torch for all these years with no hopes of her feelings ever being returned? Why couldn't she accept she was the one who made the decision that ripped them apart? And why couldn't she forget the way she felt when she was with him?
With a groan of frustration, Emmy kicked off the bedsheet, rolled over onto her side, and looked out of the opened French doors that led to her small private patio. Thanks to the new screens she had installed last week, she was no longer plagued with mosquitoes, which meant until summer's heat descended again, she could leave the doors open and feel the breeze coming in over the waters of the Atlantic.
Her home, Water's Edge, an elegant Bed & Breakfast, had earned the distinction of one of the finest B&Bs in the southeast. It was originally built by a French pirate, Pierre Leroux, for his wife and family, on a small island off the east coast of the United States, straddling Georgia and Florida's border, but claimed by the state of Georgia.
The island was part of the Sea Island chain that stretched along the east coast from South Carolina to Florida and named Holly Isle in honor of Leroux's beloved daughter.
While not nearly as well-known as some other barrier islands, Holly Isle was sixteen miles long and five miles wide at its broadest point. Overlooking the East River and the Atlantic. Water's Edge stood as the centerpiece of the island, with a thriving seaside village built around it. The estate boasted of four antebellum-style buildings surrounding an enormous central courtyard that featured an immense pool, fountains, lush gardens, and inlaid stone pathways.
The social center of the B&B was the oversized veranda that overlooked the courtyard. This was the most popular social spot. Here, guests gathered to enjoy morning coffee and breakfasts, and a glass of wine or mixed drink and appetizers during Happy Hour.
Emmy counted herself lucky to live and work at Water's Edge. To her, it was a dream come true. She took pride in telling prospective guests about the place. Being the only B&B on the island, it was an exclusive vacation destination.
Twenty guest rooms graced with a bygone era's elegance blended seamlessly with modern amenities and conveniences discriminating travelers expected.
Each guest room had a private bath, many with oversized jetted tubs and all with Turkish towels, and bathrobes, along with green bath amenities. Guests were given use of covered golf carts for trips into the village or to the beach, or free bicycles if that was their choice. Wi-Fi was free and complimentary beach gear included towels, chairs, umbrellas, and even beach pavilions for the day.
There were classes in scuba and snorkeling, paddle-boarding, and boats to take guests on tours of the river, marshes, or to the mainland. In Emmy's opinion, Water's Edge rivaled the famous B&B's in places like Charleston, Savannah, and Amelia's Island.
But then, she was a bit prejudiced, because she worked darn hard to help make it a five-star destination for travelers. It was the least she could do to repay the kindness the family who owned the island had shown her.
At present, the sound of crickets, a few frogs, the distant waves breaking on the shore, and wind rustling the branches of the trees combined into a quiet little symphony that should have lulled her back to sleep. Most nights, it would have. Not tonight.
That made her stop and wonder if the reason for the dream was the date. This marked the day, six years ago, that two officers in dress uniforms rang the doorbell and spoke those awful words. Words that altered the life of the people who lived here forever.
Six years ago, she stopped being a wife and mother and became a widow and a mother. The man who loved her and made her feel safe was gone. Her friend was gone, and she could never share things with him she'd always intended to say but never found the courage.
She thought about the last time he was home on leave. She'd tried to talk to him about things that had gone too long unsaid, but as always, he silenced her. "Things are fine the way they are, Em. We're better off than most couples. We love each other, and maybe we're not starry-eyed romantics, but we have something more valuable. We like and respect one another. And Mikki's the most incredible kid in the world.
"Let's not worry about what we don't have and focus on what we do."
He'd gotten no argument from her. How could she disagree? Mikki was an amazing little girl who owned Emmy's heart. And Mike's caring blessed her in ways only three people in the world would ever know. He claimed the same was true for him. Maybe, in the greater scheme of things, they were the perfect pair.
Still, there were things she should have said while she had the chance and questions she should have asked. Like why he insisted she stay away from his Uncle Tristian. Tristian was his uncle by marriage, the spouse of Clarice, Michael's aunt and his father's only surviving sister. She died when she was not yet forty from a boating accident that rumored to be no accident at all.
From what Emmy knew, Tristian inherited everything Clarice owned, including her share of Water's Edge. The way Michael told it, Clarice's death didn't diminish Tristian's place in the family. He and Mike's father, Rupert, had been friends since they were boys, and that friendship remained rock solid.
A few years before Rupert died, he bought Tristian out to the tune of sixty million dollars.
Michael didn't know what prompted that, and his father never told him. All Michael knew was it had put the Leroux family in a bit of a financial cash bind for a couple of years until Rupert rebuilt the family coffers and secured his children's inheritance through what he called sound investments.
That changed nothing between Rupert and Tristian, but something must have happened between Michael and Tristian, because Michael turned against Tristian. Emmy had tried to get Michael to talk to her about it, but all he would say was that Tristian wasn't who he appeared, and she should stay far away from him.
Since then, Tristan still visited from time to time. He'd anchor his yacht offshore and invite Michael's mother, Marion, to dine with him. She always accepted but never asked him to Water's Edge.
Emmy had honored Michael's request and, during Tristian's visits, made sure she and Mikayla stayed at the estate. She often wondered why Michael hated Tristian so and why Marion didn't. Why hadn't she simply demanded answers? That question led to the awakening of a dozen others that all screamed for attention, making sleep an impossibility.
Unable to lie there, smothering in unanswered questions and self-reproach, she rose, slid on a pair of loose drawstring shorts, and pulled on a soft t-shirt. Barefoot, she padded through the residential quarters and was just stepping into the kitchen when the lights came on.
Startled, Emmy jumped and threw her hand up to shield her eyes against the brightness. "What are you doing up?" Her mother-in-law, Marion, turned from where she stood at the freezer and added. "Like I need to ask. Same as me. I was going to soothe myself with some ice cream."
Emmy understood. She might be unable to sleep because she'd lost her husband to war, and time hadn't erased the pain, but Marion had lost as well. Emmy wasn't sure which was worse, but suspected Marion's loss was more keen. To lose a child had to be the most brutal grief to bear. Marion had lost not one but both her children and her husband. Emmy and her daughter Mikayla were all the family Marion had left.
"I'd rather have tequila," Emmy said. Ice cream wouldn't numb this pain. Enough tequila might. At least for a little while.
Emmy didn't fear disapproval for that statement. She expected the smile she received. "Even better," Marion agreed. "You get the shot glasses and bottle from the bar. Top shelf. None of that cheap stuff. I'll cut the lime."
"No salt on the glasses, remember?" Emmy said as she headed back out of the kitchen and toward the bar in the community room where guests often gathered.
"Yeah, yeah," Marion's grumble carried no heat. She had some blood pressure issues last year, and the doctors put her on a sodium-restricted diet. She was loyal to the diet most of the time, but now and then, she did like to have a margarita and a plate of nachos, which blew the sodium restriction sky-high.
Emmy returned with the tequila bottle, placed it on a tray with two shot glasses, and waited for Marion to add a bowl of sliced lime, two chilled bottles of ginger ale, their favorite tequila chaser and two glasses of ice.
"All righty then?" Emmy lifted the tray. "Veranda?"
"Let's go outside by the pool."
"Follow me."
Emmy carefully made her way through the spacious sitting area at the back of the house and to the wall of glass that formed the rear wall. French doors opened inward and folded back along the glass, creating a wide opening onto a comfortably covered and screened veranda, with massive ceiling fans that whirled lazily, softly stirring the air.
Well-made rattan and wicker furniture with deeply padded cushions furnished the space, along with sturdy tables for ease of setting a drink or a plate of food. Bamboo flooring gleamed, with soft rugs placed to provide comfort for bare feet.
Marion's prized Tiffany-glass lamps provided subdued lighting for those times when the veranda was a place of quiet and comfort, and tall, artistically placed floor lamps provided illumination when there were guests interested in a game of cards, dominoes, or some other activity.
Beyond that was an in-ground pool with a wide inlaid rock border providing ample room for lounge chairs and umbrella tables for dining outside. A large area to one side housed a round fire pit. Adirondack chairs and small tables formed a crescent around the pit.
Three fountains now turned off stood like sentinels, surrounded by brick walkways and gardens. The entire area overlooked the sloping lawn with its pebbled walking paths, shade trees, and flower gardens, providing a panoramic view of the Atlantic on this side of the estate.
Tonight, Emmy and Marion could sit and share a drink without worrying about waiting on guests. It was a much-needed respite from the holidays' hectic schedule and the influx of their regular snowbirds, the folks from up north who came and spent a couple of months every year to escape the bitter winter.
The scent of night-blooming jasmine combined with the slight smell of salt from the coast, and a hint of the marsh from across the river, that sulfur odor that came from decomposing peat.
Emmy had lived with the smell for so long, she was barely aware of it. Why it struck her tonight was a little puzzling. The scent of the marsh seemed more dominant than usual.
Dismissing the thought, Emmy set the tray on a table between two of the chairs, poured two shot glasses to the rim, and handed one to Marion, who'd taken a seat.
As she glanced at Marion, it struck Emmy that despite the loss and heartache Marion had suffered, at fifty-five, she was still a vibrant, beautiful woman. Average in height, even now she possessed what was once referred to as an hourglass figure with firm and shapely legs. Her hair won her many compliments. It was primarily dark but streaked with gray that was more of a platinum blonde shade and framed her face in a layered cut that should not have favored a woman of her age, but on her seemed a perfect fit. Her blue eyes with dark lashes and topped by elegant dark brows. With skin that was still taut and glowing, and a smile that could power a city, she was, in a word, stunning.
Marion waited for Emmy to sit and raise her glass, then looked skyward as she spoke. "I know you don't want to bring it up, just like I know it's what has you awake this time of the night. It's the same thing that robbed me of sleep, and I need to say something to you about that.
"We didn't want life to be this way, but we had no choice. We supported Mike and what he felt he needed to do because we loved him. He knew the risks. He knew the life of a Marine medic was just as dangerous as any other soldier stationed in Afghanistan, and yet he signed on for one tour after another because he felt he was needed, and it was his duty."
Marion paused, cleared her throat, and started again. "God forgive me, but I've wished every day since he died, he'd put his duty to his family above duty to his country, but that wasn't the way of it. I guess I'm just a selfish mother who would choose to have her son here, alive and watching his daughter grow."
She then turned her gaze to Emmy. "You're as much a daughter to me as he was a son, and I'm grateful every day that you agreed to stay here with me, to help me run this place and let me have a role in Mikki's life. I love you, Emmy, and I'm proud of you. So, here's to us. We've weathered more storms than most and are still standing. Let's hope that continues."
"Amen," Emmy was too overwhelmed with emotion to say more, so she merely touched the rim of her glass to Marion's and then turned hers up to her lips. The burn of the tequila was a welcome excuse to breathe out a forceful "whew" and wipe her eyes.
Two more shots later, she leaned back and stared at the reflection of the moon on the water in the distance. There was never a night she gazed at this sight that she wasn't taken by the beauty and filled with gratitude that she and her child had a home here, one where Mikki was safe and loved.
"I remember the first time I came here," she said softly.
"So do I," Marion replied. "You were the cutest little thing. All big eyes and pigtails, full of life and questions and as sweet as the day is long."
"I thought this was a castle," Emmy admitted. "I'd never seen a place so huge, with so many rooms and everything so perfect and beautiful. It was like something out of a fairy tale."
She glanced at Marion. "I thought you were the queen. A beautiful queen, so gracious, loving, and kind. Michael and Melinda were the prince and princess and Mr. Rupert, the powerful king who protected everyone in his kingdom."
Marion's smile faded. "They were my heart, my babies. Melinda took one look at you and declared you were her very bestest friend."
Emmy nodded with a smile as she recalled that time of her life. "I didn't know how to act–having a princess wanting to be my friend. My mom–well, you know. I'll never be able to thank you for giving her a job. That was the first time I can remember we ate regularly and didn't get kicked out of where we were staying. I thought we'd be happy here until…"
Emmy let the rest go unsaid. Marion knew the tale as well as Emmy.
"When God closes one door, he opens another," Marion said after a brief pause. "Or at least, that's what I've always heard."
"Do you believe it?"
"I don't know, Emmy. I've often asked myself what I would do if someone showed up here–someone who fell in love with you and offered you what you deserve. To be loved and cherished, build a life, and maybe have more children. Would I stand in the way, or could I let you and Mikki go? As much as I'd like to think I'd choose whatever made you happy, I don't know how I'd live without my girls."
"You won't ever have to, Mama," Emmy insisted and reached for Marion's hand. "You've lost all the children you're going to lose. I'm not going anywhere, and until it's time for her to go out on her own, neither is our intrepid Mikki."
That last sentence brought a smile to Marion's face. "She is that isn't she? She and that iPhone are all over the place, taking photos and talking to people. And those little videos she posts on her YouTube channel and TikTok are downright adorable. I guess I've said it a dozen times, but that one she did about surf fishing was the reason the Dodson’s booked three weeks here. She's a darn good little marketer."
"Indeed, she is," Emmy grinned. At almost eight-years-old, Mikayla had already decided she would be an "on the air reporter" who filmed her own segments and showed people what was real.
She was committed to her craft and amazed Emmy with her creativity and the depth of her insight into people. For the thousandth or ten thousandth time, whatever the count might be, Emmy wished Mike could know what a remarkable little girl she was.
There was another, more prolonged period of silence. Emmy, lost in thought, suddenly recognized that the moonlight on the water had changed. That made her realize how long she and Marion had been sitting there. She opened her mouth to ask what Marion was thinking, but closed it when Marion spoke softly.
"It's an awful thing when a mother has to bury a child, Emmy. It's the worst thing that can happen. When Melinda was–when she was taken, I thought I'd never get over it. No one had a clue who was responsible, and I needed so much to blame someone, to hate someone.
"For a little while, I blamed Nash for her death. If she hadn't been so dog-gone crazy about that boy, always chasing him around and trying to get his attention, maybe–"
"Don't," Emmy stopped her, maybe a bit too quickly. She spent her life being careful not to mention his name, but she couldn't allow him to be blamed. "You know, it wasn't Nash's fault. He cared about Melinda, just not that way. How could he? They grew up together. She was like his little sister."
"You and Mike grew up together, and you ended up getting married."
"Apples and oranges," Emmy argued. She never had and didn't intend to ever discuss with Marion or anyone how and why she and Mike ended up together. That secret would accompany her into the grave, just like she'd promised.
"Yes, I know, you're right, and I'm not proud of it, but I admit it. In time, I stopped telling myself that lie. I know he had no hand in what happened to Melinda.
"But," she turned her head to regard Emmy. "Even though I never spoke the words aloud, and I don't believe I acted any differently toward him, I've often wondered if it played a role in his decision to leave."
"You know it didn't, Mama. This place would never be a permanent home for him. He wanted to travel and explore, find his own way and the place where he felt he belonged."
"I thought he had that here. We loved him, you know, just like our own. And when he left…" Marion sighed, and her voice lowered to almost a whisper. "It seemed like Nash abandoned us when he left."
"I know. I miss him too. Or at least the boy I knew."
"You and Melinda," Marion shook her head. "Lord have mercy, you were both so crazy about him. Rupert and I prayed every night that he had the good sense not to take advantage of your schoolgirl crushes. If one of you had ended up pregnant... well, thank the stars, we didn't have to face that."
Emmy didn't know how to respond, and luckily, Marion didn't appear to be seeking one because she continued. "Do you think you'd fall for him if you just met him today?"
Emmy considered her answer. She'd never revealed the extent of her feelings for Nash to anyone. Not even to Mike. She wished she had. Maybe it would have lost some of its power if she'd shared it. But she hadn't and wouldn't now.
However, in her heart she knew that even if she were ninety and met Nash again, she'd still be attracted to him, and yes, still fall for him. He left them twice, once around the time Michael enlisted and the second shortly after she and Michael married.
Both times, his leaving shattered her. She was grateful; that Mike was there, willing to help her move on and try to make her feel wanted and loved. That's part of why she loved him. He might have needed her just as much, but he honestly cared about her.
No one had ever cared for Emmy that way, and she was so grateful she wouldn't have walked away for all the passion and excitement in the world. Nash was always going to be the guy who stole her heart and then broke it. Michael would still be the one who put it back together, protected and cherished her and Mikayla.
Despite how she'd felt about Nash back then and perhaps even how she still did, if she had to do it all over again, she'd say yes to Michael. The time they had together was the happiest of her life. She'd always be grateful for that and tried not to let her thoughts turn to anything that dulled the brightness of her memories.
"I doubt I'll ever set eyes on Nash again," she said, knowing Marion was awaiting a reply. "I hope he's alive and happy and has memories of growing up here that are as good as mine."
"I hope so too, honey. In some ways, when he left, I felt like I lost another child. But enough of that," Marion stood and stretched. "It'll be dawn in a couple of hours, and I have a full day planned, so I'm going to get some sleep."
"I'll be in soon. Sleep well."
"I hope so. Love you, sugar."
"I love you."
Emmy watched until Marion entered the house, then she turned her gaze back to the view.
Memories floated through her mind. Some good. Some that made tears stream down her face. She didn't try to stop or encourage any of them; she just let them come. For a time, she lost track of everything around her, consumed by her memories.
Something she said to Marion earlier about how she felt she'd wandered into a castle the first time she came to Water's Edge turned Emmy's thoughts to a part of her life she'd tried to forget. Most of the time, she could turn her mind from memories of life with her mother, but tonight a memory from that time claimed her.
It was a week until her birthday. A week until she'd be five, and her mom promised they'd have a cake and Emmy would get a present. Merely the idea of a birthday cake had her so excited she couldn't stop talking about it.
Emmy sat on the floor of their bedroom while her mom lay across the bed, chain-smoking and drinking, something she said made her medicine work better. The needle for her mom's medicine lay on the bed beside the ashtray.
The other people who lived in the house were in the family room, watching TV, or sitting at the kitchen table. Emmy knew because the television was turned up loud, and people were almost yelling to talk over the sound.
"Can I have a chocolate cake with white frosting?" She got onto her knees and held onto the edge of the bed. "Mommy, can I? Can I have candles? Will you wrap my present with a bow and everything? When do we get to have cake, mommy? Do we gotta wait till night or–"
"For crying out loud, shut the fuck up!"
Emmy automatically flinched and fell back from the bed when her mother sat up, red-faced and watery-eyed. "There ain't gonna be no fucking cake or nothing else if we don't get some money, so tonight you and me are gonna go visit Mr. Santos on his boat, and if you're a real good girl and do what he tells you, he'll give us enough for me to get more of my medicine and something for your birthday."
Emmy drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She couldn't look at her mother. It took every bit of courage she had to shove the words from her mouth. "Please don't make me, mommy. Please. I don't need a cake. Please. He hurts me, mommy."
"Well, I need my medicine, and the only way I can get the money is if you go be a good girl for Mr. Santos. Besides, it's not that bad, Emmy."
"It is, mommy, it is." The words got harder and harder to pronounce when the tears came. Little hiccups became bigger, making her sentences broken and uneven. But she had to say it. She had to make her mommy know, so she wouldn't let that man do those things again.
"He–he spanks me really hard and–and he sticks his fingers in my peepee part and my fanny, too. It hurts really bad, mommy. And he makes me do–stuff to his peepee too. I don't like it. Please, don't make me."
"Shut your fucking mouth, you ungrateful little shit!"
"No, no, mommy, please, no!" Emmy screamed and crab-walked backward as her mother came off the bed after her. But there was no escape. Not from the beating her mother gave her or what Mr. Santos did to her later.
And the next day, there was no cake and no present. Once again, her mom had lied. That was the day Emmy realized her mother didn't love her. She was simply a way for her mom to get the money she needed for that stuff, which she called her medicine.
And it was the moment Emmy knew if she wanted to survive, she needed to run away. Or pray there was a God like the people said in the church she went to once, and he would save her from her mother and men like Mr. Santos.
Emmy snapped back to the present and swiped angrily at the tears on her face. Letting memories of her past rise from the darkness only brought pain she'd fought her entire life to suppress. She wouldn’t let them claim her now, make her weak or bitter. She'd survived. The Leroux family took her in as their own and made her feel loved and safe.
Her mother was no longer alive. She overdosed years ago, according to Marion and Rupert, and could never hurt Emmy again.
It took a few minutes to turn her thoughts from the hell that was her childhood. She walked over to the edge of the yard and gazed down at the waters of the Atlantic, breathing in slow and deep and focusing on the sound of the surf drifting up the hill on the night breeze.
Just as she felt calm restoring, she noticed the smell of the marsh again. How odd to have that smell overpower the ocean's scent and the budding flowers in the surrounding gardens. What would cause the marsh odor to be so strong?
Maybe she should take a page from Marion's book, put all the upsetting thoughts aside and try to get some sleep. Emmy returned to where she'd been sitting, planning to load the tray with the glasses and tequila and take everything inside.
Something–she didn't know what–movement in the air–startled her and she whirled around, scanning the landscape. Despite seeing nothing, unease sizzled through her, fear following quickly on its heels, strong enough to have her turning in a circle, fearful of what might be behind her.
Aside from herself, there was no one around. Emmy turned her gaze back to the table. Beside her glass lay a long-stemmed red rose. She picked it up and winced as a thorn stabbed into her thumb.
Emmy regarded the rose.
It was the wrong time of the year for the roses at Water's Edge to be in bloom, so where had it come from? Just as the question appeared and without warning, her mind was taken over with a vision, blinding her to her surroundings. Emmy felt as if she had been transported from her reality to a place she didn't know. Or did she? Had she been here before?
The moon dipped low in the sky, glinting briefly on the water as the boat she sat in cut slowly through marsh grass. Emmy stood to get a better look around and realized she knew where she was, in a boat on the opposite side of the river from where she lived. Miles of marsh stretched along the river, with inlets cut into it that fishermen used to get to the river from their homes.
That answered the question of where she was, but not why she was there.
The answer to that question came in a sudden jolt as the boat stopped. Emmy moved up to the bow to determine what was in the way. The scream that erupted from her had something large, close to the boat, splashing and moving swiftly through the grass. She fell back, breathing hard and her heart pounding. Had it been real, she might not have had the courage, but since she knew this had to be a dream or hallucination, she moved to the bow again and stared into the water.
Emmy saw it again. A long-stemmed red rose floated on the water. Beneath the surface was a pale face with blond hair that waved in the water's slight movement. Eyes that were milky and open wide stared sightlessly upwards.
A glimmer drew Emmy's attention, and she reached into the water. It took two tugs to break the thin chain that encircled the neck of the corpse. Emmy raised her hand to get a better look. It was a heart locket. A secret heart.
She'd seen this before. Not once, but three times. And each time, bodies were found, bodies of young women someone had abused and killed.
Oh, God, it's starting again.
That thought dispelled the illusion, and Emmy was once more standing in the back yard, holding the rose so tightly that thorns had penetrated her skin, leaving her hand bloody.
She threw it aside, quickly loaded the tray, and turned for the house. She could go in, call the police and tell them what she saw.
Chances were, whoever she told her story to would listen, promise to have someone follow up with her during the day shift, and if they remembered, they'd tell the Chief.
He wouldn't want to hear it. Wouldn't want to deal with her again. People didn't like the word vision any more than they did the word psychic, so she avoided uttering either. And maybe she was wrong this time. Maybe there wasn't a body in the marsh.
If there was, the police would find it. Chief Miller, or his son, her childhood friend, Butch, who was now a deputy, would, she told herself. Just like they found Melinda and brought her home. Her and that necklace. The heart that hid a secret inside.
Emmy didn't know what that secret meant, but the police did. Melinda was the victim of a serial killer. One who left each of his victims with a present. A tiny gold heart locket with a minute hiding place inside it.
Hidden within the locket, they found a tiny, folded piece of paper. Written on it was one character—the number six. Melinda was victim number 6 of the Low Country Marsh Killer.
That thought had Emmy's stomach clenching and made her tremble. She would wait until morning, and then she'd call her childhood friend, deputy Butch Miller, and see if there were any missing girls. If so, maybe she'd tell him about her vision. After all, she had once helped him find his lost dog using her ability, and she'd also gone to his father with the other visions of bodies in the water. Melinda and the other two victims. He'd found them because he listened to her and acted on what she said.
She believed he would again. If there were no reports, then maybe she was wrong. Perhaps this time, her vision was false.
Emmy prayed that's how it would turn out.
