Daughter of Deep Silence (12 page)

M
y run the next morning is uneventful and when I pass the Wellses’ house, it takes everything I have to keep my gaze straight ahead. I can feel the Senator’s eyes on me, watching, and I wonder if he knows that Grey came to see me last night.

It doesn’t particularly matter to me or my plans if he does. I’ve maneuvered Grey into enough situations where he’s had to disobey his father that I’m not concerned he’ll suddenly cave and do as his daddy says. As I’d expected, the hardest rebellions were the early ones—lying to his father about being with me on the beach that first night, going against his father’s wishes and offering me a ride home—and it’s simply gotten easier every time since.

I arrive back at the house sweaty and out of breath, and head straight to the kitchen for water. My steps falter when I find Shepherd standing in front of the sink. He’s wearing faded jeans with a ragged hem and an old T-shirt with the words, “We never know the worth of water till the well is dry” printed across the back. He stands with one bare foot tucked behind the other as he cleans the blender carafe.

I wonder if I can just barrel through and avoid the awkwardness of talking to him. But then he glances over his shoulder at me, the rising sun highlights his face, making his eyes glisten like the tips of waves. “Morning,” he says, smiling. As though the tension of the past two nights never existed.

“Um, good morning,” I respond. I wait for him to say something more, to bring up last night or even the night before. But he just continues with cleaning dishes, casual as can be.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say, going to the cabinet and pulling down a glass. I fill it with water from the fridge and gulp it down too fast. Rivulets spill around my lips, trailing down my neck, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Ever since my time adrift in the ocean I’ve become greedy about water.

“I’m not one for sleeping much once the sun’s up,” Shepherd says, grabbing a dish towel to dry the carafe and his hands before wiping off the counter. “Besides,” he continues, folding the towel and hanging it from the oven door, “I realized that I haven’t made it particularly easy for you to come home.” He lifts a shoulder. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget that the past four years were probably just as difficult for you.”

It’s not at all what I expected to hear and I frown, trying to fit this new information into my carefully constructed plans.

“Smoothie?” he asks, pushing a frosted mug across the counter toward me.

The gesture surprises me. “Oh, um . . .” My instinct is to decline. But then he leans back against the sink, a second mug clasped between his hands.

“I’m not going anywhere, Libby,” he says. “If we’re going to live in the same house, we can at least be civil to each other.”

I hesitate a moment longer before slowly nodding my head. He could be useful, I remind myself. Somewhere down the road I may need his help. “Okay, yeah. I’d like that.” I take the offered smoothie, ignoring the slight burn of the frosted glass against my fingertips.

He lifts his mug. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I echo, taking a gulp. The flavors are bright and cold, sending goose bumps flaring across my skin. “Mmm, yum.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, as though relieved, but keeps his eyes on his mug, his thumb tracing around the frosted rim. “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head.

There’s a beat of awkward silence and I take another sip. “Well, I’m going to head up and take a shower,” I eventually say. I start for the door, but he whips out a hand, wrapping it tightly around my wrist. Keeping me from leaving.

“What—” I start to protest.

He cuts me off. “Who
are
you?”

I frown, angry at the way my heart begins to race. “What are you talking about?”

He steps closer. “Who are you?” he demands, louder.

“You know who I am,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “What the hell’s gotten into you?” I struggle against his grip but it tightens enough to be painful. Pulling me closer.

His eyes scour my face. “You’re not Libby. Who are you?”

He says it with such certainty that I know—
I know
—he’s figured it out. That I’m not Libby. I try to figure out where I messed up, what I did to tip him off. But it doesn’t matter. His knowing who I am isn’t part of the plan. It could ruin everything I’ve been so carefully constructing.

I need to get away from him. “This isn’t funny,” I warn, trying to pry his fingers from my arm. He spins me around, shoving my back against the sink.

A deep, welling panic spikes through my gut.

“Tell. Me. Who. You. Are.”

“Let go of me,” I bite out between clenched teeth. But even
I
can hear the uncertain fear in my voice.

He knows
.

He leans closer, his chest a wall crowding me against the counter. Trapping me. “Tell me,” he growls, “who you are.”

“
Libby
,” I whisper. Because I don’t know how to be anyone else. Not anymore.

He shakes his head. Angry. His fingers tighten, cutting through muscle to bone. “Libby has a scar along the back of her knee from when she was five and fell climbing a chain-link fence.”

“Scars fade—I used Vitamin E oil on it,” I argue, refusing to cede anything.

His hands shift, grabbing the counter to either side of my hips, caging me in. “Libby’s left eye has a streak of green across the outer edge.”

“People’s eyes change as they grow up. And don’t forget I spent a week blinded by the sun in the ocean. There was permanent damage.”

He leans closer. “Libby’s bottom teeth were crooked.”

“I got them fixed.”

“Libby’s left pinkie toe is bent from when she broke it jumping from a tree swing in the neighbor’s yard.”

My breath flutters. “Things change, Shepherd.” I lick my lips. “
I
changed.”

“No!” he roars, slamming his palm against the counter next to me. The vibration of it shudders through me. “You aren’t
her
!”

“Why can’t you just believe me?” I shout back, desperate.

“Because I loved her! I adored her! I noticed
everything
about her!”

Sensing a weakness, I turn this around on him. “Oh, that’s why you don’t want me to be Libby? Because you can’t face the fact that I don’t love you?” I laugh, a mocking bark that’s cold and cruel. “Is it easier for you to believe I’m someone else than to believe I don’t love you anymore?”

He presses his lips together, the muscles along his jaw clenching as he draws several deep, shuddering breaths. He’s livid and his hands grip at the counter on either side of me, fingers like claws.

There’s exhaustion and resignation in his voice when he finally says, “You tied your towel wrong.”

The statement is so preposterous it catches me off guard. My eyes fly to meet his and I almost flinch at the accusation in them. “What?”

He leans away from me slightly, giving me space. “You didn’t care when I put the dish towel back after cleaning up a spill just now. You sleep with your windows open. You got your ears pierced.” Misery is visible on him now, in the way he holds himself so rigid as though he can somehow fight off the truth.

I roll my eyes, but he just lowers his voice, continuing. “That’s what you don’t get. I have to admit, you’re pretty brilliant at pretending to be her. That smile, slightly crooked. The way she twists her ring when she’s flustered.” He shakes his head. “But you missed the stupid things that no one ever thinks about. That no one would ever notice if they weren’t hopelessly in love.”

“Like how someone ties a towel?” I ask, incredulous.

“Libby was allergic to wild blackberries,” he says softly. I look at him blankly. He picks up my mug from the counter. “What do you think I put in your smoothie this morning?” He lets it fall, not caring when it smashes against the floor.

My mind scrambles. How could I not have known about that—how had Cecil never told me? I desperately try to turn it back on him again. “You fed me something I’m allergic to? You could have killed me!” I spit at him.

He stares at me, breathing fast. And for a moment I think I have him. The tension leaves his shoulders. “I’d have never put Libby in any danger,” he says, almost incredulous at the very suggestion. “Wild blackberries made Libby sneeze. We figured it out one day while out catching crabs in the creek.”

I scoff but he leans closer, each word precise and ordered. “I’ve been testing you for days.”

His eyes are a storm, violently tumultuous. And I can so clearly see the truth of it:
He knows
. This isn’t him grasping at straws. This isn’t him chasing a hunch.

He knows that I’m not Libby.

It becomes difficult to breathe.

“And you’ve failed every one.”

W
hen Shepherd’s fingers brush my cheeks, they’re damp with my tears. He pulls my chin until I’m facing him. It’s like drowning all over again. Those moments after jumping from the
Persephone
when the world went dizzy and all there was was falling and then sinking, sinking, sinking so deep into the ocean that I thought it would drag me down forever.

“I know you’re not Libby,”
he whispers.
“Who are you?”

There’s no surface I can swim toward anymore. And there’s nothing left in me to fight against the surge of water.

For the first time, I wonder if this is how Libby felt out on the raft when she decided to give up. If she experienced this same kind of lightness. That it could be over. There could be an end. If only I let go.

I run my tongue over my lips, but it does nothing to ease the dryness. “I’m Frances,” I whisper. “Frances Mace.” The name once so familiar, now so foreign.

And even though he must understand what this means, he still asks the question. “And Libby?”

“She died on the life raft.”

He turns his face away, but not before I catch a glimpse of the anguish. I glance down at the mug broken at my feet, giving him this moment. Suddenly his hands on my shoulders aren’t keeping me pinned to the counter, but are keeping him standing.

“
I’m sorry
,” I whisper. But how can that ever be enough?

He says only one word: “Why?”

When I don’t answer fast enough, he lifts his head, expression cold. “Why are you here? Why are you . . .” He pushes away from me so that he can scan me top to bottom. “Why are you her?”

“I can explain,” I tell him, hands up as though to physically fend him off. He stares, waiting. I cross my arms over my chest, fighting back a shiver. Trying to find the right words to make him understand.

With a sigh, I tell him the truth. “The
Persephone
wasn’t struck by a rogue wave. She was attacked. Armed men boarded her, killed everyone on board, and sank her.”

His jaw clenches, anger brewing in his eyes. And then he barks out a scornful laugh. “This is ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head. He starts for the door. But I can’t let him leave, not without him understanding.

“Wait!” I chase after him, grabbing at his arm.

He whirls on me. “Don’t touch me!” Warning is written all over his expression.

“I can explain! Please,” I beg.

“You’re pathetic,” he bites back, continuing toward the garage.

I flinch, the barb striking deep. Hating that this man now knows my deepest secret. “For Libby!” I call after him. His shoulders bristle. “Please, just give me a chance to explain—for her.”

When he turns to me his eyes are murderous and I force myself to meet them head-on. His resolve doesn’t waver. “If you really cared about her—” I start.

He draws a sharp breath. “Don’t you
ever
question my feelings for Libby,” he snarls, jabbing a finger toward me.

I use his emotions to my advantage. “Then just listen to me. I know you don’t trust me. But please, just give me this.”

We stand, both drawn so tight we’re almost quivering. The air conditioner hums, cold air blanketing across my sweat-dampened clothes. Shepherd’s gaze flickers down and then aside. Then he nods, once.

I let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.” He responds by clenching his jaw. I try to think about the best way to explain—how to make him understand. “There’s something in my room you should see.”

He says nothing as I lead him upstairs. When we reach my room he hesitates at the threshold.

For the first time, it feels like I’ve lost control of everything. Up until this point, I’ve played this game of revenge like chess, pushing the players around the game board, knowing how to move each one to impact the others. The endgame always firmly in sight.

But now, Shepherd’s changed the rules. Suddenly he can move the pieces around as well and it throws everything into jeopardy.

I’ve lost the ability to control him.

The only thing I have left is the truth.

I fall to my knees and reach under the bed to pull out the fireproof briefcase. My fingers dance over the lock, such a familiar pattern of numbers and movements. And then it’s open, revealing stacks of notebooks and albums, some of them bursting at the seams with yellowed newspaper clippings. Years of meticulous research. Documentation. Planning.

“It’s all here,” I say, gesturing. He doesn’t move from his place in the doorway.

I push to my feet, starting toward the bathroom. “I’ll shower,” I tell him. “Give you time to look through it all. Then we’ll talk.” He says nothing in response.

Once in the bathroom I pull off my sodden jogging clothes. And then I just stand there, staring at myself in the mirror. I search for signs of Frances, trying to recognize myself again.

But I’m not sure there’s anything of her left. Certainly not enough that Grey could see it. I’ve spent so long holding the pieces of Libby around me that I’m not sure I’m even capable of letting go.

My eyes fill with tears, blurring the image in front of me. No longer looking at the individual features, just seeing the whole—those things that Frances and Libby always shared. Oval face. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Wide forehead.

What’s left of either of us? Unsettled, I twist the O’Martin signet ring on my finger. Libby’s old habit, now mine. I pull the ring free, holding it up between my reflected selves.

It was the first thing of hers Cecil gave me. A seal between us that I’d accepted his proposition. I glance at my bare hand, the skin at the base of my finger indented, a paler white. A ghost of the ring.

A reminder that even if I chose to, I could never be free of Libby. She is entangled in me, now and forever.