Daughter of Deep Silence (26 page)

O
nce, only a few weeks after I’d been pulled from the ocean, I begged Cecil to take me to see my old home in Ohio. He refused, claiming it was too risky for me to be seen out in public. Especially in my hometown. What if someone recognized me?

Driving into my old neighborhood now, after a four-year absence, I understand the real reason he said no. It would have devastated me beyond repair.

It’s early evening when I turn onto my street and any weariness I may have felt from the ten-hour drive instantly disappears the moment the house on the corner comes into view. My breath catches as I slow to peer in the windows.

Little has changed—there’s the same sweep of flowers across the front porch, the same mailbox listing slightly by the curb. Lights blaze out of the downstairs window, highlighting the perfect scene of domesticity inside.

A family. Just like mine had been. The mother sweeping into the kitchen to grab something as the father and son take their places at the dining room table.

I wonder if they know what happened to the family who lived there before. Who measured the years in height marks on the wall in the hall closet. Who buried three goldfish, two hamsters, and a parakeet in the back garden.

Who are themselves buried in a cemetery at the edge of town.

I wonder if they realize how fragile it all truly is?

Somewhere nearby a car door slams, pulling me out of my reverie. I glance up to see a neighbor standing in his driveway, head tilted as he looks at me. He raises his hand, waving, the way you would to anyone else passing down the street. Automatically I lift my fingers from the wheel in greeting as I press on the gas and wend my way out of the neighborhood.

Josh Reilly
, I think to myself. That’s who waved at me. He’s two years older than me and was part of the popular crew at school. I’d spent countless hours riding my bike in front of his house, hoping—and failing—to “accidentally” run into him. And here I am back in town less than fifteen minutes and there he is.

It actually makes me laugh. All these things that had seemed like such monstrous concerns at the time—like trying to capture Josh Reilly’s attention—and now they’re worth nothing.

I make my way out past the edge of town and park my car where no one will pay much attention to it. Holding my breath, I call the hospital to check on Shepherd but nothing has changed. They’re still monitoring his condition, waiting for the swelling around his brain to go down. There’s nothing I can do but wait. They’ll call me if anything changes. I clench my teeth, hating how useless I feel.

There are still several hours yet before nightfall and I’m exhausted; I might as well try to grab some sleep while I can. But as I crawl into the backseat to take a nap, I can’t stop thinking about what my life would have been like if we’d never stepped foot on that cruise ship.

I don’t know if there’s a proper time to dig a grave, but I figure that after midnight is a pretty good bet. So when the dashboard clock ticks over into the new day, I slip from the car and grab my tools from the trunk. It’s cooler in Ohio than I’ve grown used to recently and my arms prickle into goose bumps as a dark breeze whistles past me. Soon enough, I know, I’ll be sweating so I don’t bother pulling on a jacket.

Overhead, clouds skitter across the sky providing me with a bit more cover. Not that it seems necessary, I think, scanning my surroundings. The cemetery’s not a large one, but thankfully it’s remote—tucked away past the outskirts of town.

I don’t need a flashlight to find my way. I already know exactly where to find my family’s plot nestled beneath the boughs of a drooping willow. Though Cecil refused to ever bring me here, that doesn’t mean I haven’t often thought about it. Planned it. Used pictures I found online to help me imagine what it would be like.

When I finally reach the gravesite, though, I find that I can only stare at the line of headstones. One for my mother. One for my father. One for me.

I’m stuck, frozen, the tip of my shovel resting gently against the ground. There’s something about seeing my own name and the dates beneath it that causes my lungs to squeeze.

It’s as though I don’t exist. Perhaps I never have. I’ve somehow become neither Frances nor Libby, but some sort of in-between. Something cold and hard, impenetrable to pain.

And yet pain has found me just the same. It seems as though it’s impossible to live a life without it.

I fall to my knees, curling over myself to press my cheek against the dew-stained grass. The layers of dirt between me and my parents are nothing compared to everything else that separates us.

The number of times my heart has beat when theirs has not. The number of breaths I’ve taken, steps I’ve traveled, words I’ve spoken. While they’ve been here. Motionless. Voiceless. Bloodless.

Dead.

Because of Alastair Wells and Thom Ridger.

But just as on the yacht when I lay on the bed where they’d placed Libby’s body, I don’t belong here. I am not dead the way Libby and Frances are.

Though somehow I’m not alive either.

I am nothing except this: a girl reborn of the deep ocean silence, meant for nothing but vengeance.

Which is what pushes me to my feet. I grab the shovel and thrust the bladed end into the ground. Letting anger bolster my courage and spur me forward.

Thankfully, it’s a myth that a grave must be dug six feet deep. In actuality, most cemeteries only require twenty-four inches of dirt between the top of the coffin and the surface. Just enough to make sure the grass can grow back.

Which is a good thing because, even fueled by rage, my muscles begin to protest before long. By the end of the first hour, they’re burning and at the end of the second they’re screaming.

That’s when the tip of the shovel connects with something solid. And I gasp. With relief and perhaps also a bit of dread.

Here’s the thing about revenge: How many times does someone say, “I’ll kill him,” when they feel wronged? Their first instinct to lash back violently? But the truth of the matter is, death is too swift and sweet.

Living is more difficult. Living with pain, with guilt, with loss.

I’d rather my enemies live a long and healthy life. What better way for them to fully reap the rewards of their misdeeds?

A
fter the long drive back to the O’Martin estate, the first thing I do is call the hospital again to check on Shepherd. He’s still unconscious—only time will tell if there’s been permanent damage. The rage of it crashes over me like a tidal wave, robbing me of the last of my energy. I collapse into bed and sleep through the afternoon and evening. Waking only long enough to check in once more before passing out again.

When I finally do wake the next afternoon it’s to my cell phone ringing. I fumble to answer, sleep making my voice raspy as I say hello. The caller explains she’s one of Shepherd’s doctors and I jolt in bed, my heart constricting painfully. But the news is good. Though Shepherd’s still unconscious, the swelling around his brain has gone down enough for them to run several scans and the results have been encouraging. She’s optimistic that, barring any complications, he’ll make a full recovery.

I practically sob with relief thanking her over and over again before asking when I can visit. “Anytime,” she tells me, and I let her know I’ll be in tomorrow.

Even though I know it’s a lie.

After hanging up I let out a long sigh, collapsing back onto the pillows. It isn’t long before the implications of the news set in. Now that I know Shepherd will be okay, I can start the endgame.

I scroll through my call history, looking for the Senator’s number from when he helped me locate my “lost” phone in his car. I spent much of the long drive back from Ohio planning through every detail, including what to text the Senator. I quickly type out the message:

Senator Wells, this is Libby O’Martin. Certain information has come to light that I’d like to discuss. It’s probably best done in person. Would this evening work? Maybe around 8?

A bubble appears under my text, indicating he’s typing a response. I wait for several minutes. When his reply finally comes through it’s a curt
I look forward to it.

Smiling, I roll onto my side and stare out at the ocean, contemplating how I want to spend my last day. There are still a lot of preparations to be done. I’ve had to scrap my original plan—come up with something new and speed up the timeline. But I’m content with what comes next.

I’ve made peace with my impending death.

A few hours later, my hand trembles as I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ears. In front of me, a fireproof lockbox sits open on my dressing table. Inside I’ve stashed a variety of important documents: Libby’s birth certificate, a baby book containing a lock of her hair from when she was an infant.

Next to it are two stacks of journals: Libby’s from before the
Persephone
, mine from after. I flip through Libby’s first, running my fingers across a random page. It’s been strange to know her so well, parts of her that she shared with no one else. For a while I thought that by living her life I’d somehow kept her alive, but I’ve come to learn I’ve done just the opposite.

I’ve robbed her of her right to be remembered for who she’d been. Though I plan to remedy that soon—give her the chance to be mourned as she deserved.

The second stack of journals is written in my own hand, at first carefully crafted to mimic Libby’s until it became my own by habit. Just like so much of her. These pages are too difficult to flip through. Too painful.

They’re more the truth about who I’ve become than anything else.

I shove each stack into a separate waterproof bag and then pull my notebooks out from under the bed. The ones that so carefully lay out my research, that show every step of my original plan before it went off the rails. I’d spent several hours filling in the missing details—everything about Ecuador and DMTR. The Senator’s corruption and Grey’s complicity in covering it up. Enough to bring them all down. I shove it all into the second waterproof bag along with my journals, and a backup of the video from Grey’s phone, making sure to seal it up tightly.

And then, with everything else taken care of, I look up, into the mirror. For the last time I slip free the picture of Frances and Libby taken on the cruise ship. I tuck it under the edge of the mirror so that once again I’m the ghostly reflection, hovering above the two smiling faces frozen in time.

What would those two girls think if they could see me now? Sitting in a house doused in gasoline, a box of matches in my pocket. Would they think me weak that after four years I’m ready to finally end this? To be done with both of them?

It’s been hard to carry around the ghosts of
two
girls. Their expectations and dreams. Truthfully, I’ve failed both of them.

Behind all three of us, the ocean is reflected in the mirror, and for one longing moment, I wish I were back in that raft alone at sea.

Where life was a simple: one more breath. One more beat of my heart.

I sigh and stand. Leaving the photo tucked in the mirror. Leaving the reflection of the ocean. Leaving the fireproof box. Leaving the two waterproof bags. One of Libby’s life, the other of Frances’s.

For the past four years, my life has always been leading to this moment. I was spared from the ocean, but my body has only been on loan. I’m nothing more than a specter come back to haunt those who’ve wronged me.

It’s too late for my own redemption. Maybe at some point I could have veered away—perhaps if I’d left Libby’s ring sitting on the table and refused Cecil’s offer. But now I’ve gone too far down this path of revenge.

I can’t go back to who I was before—she doesn’t exist. I’d known that going into this.

My death has already been written and there’s no way to take it back. My only goal is to take the Senator down with me. I glance at my watch—I have an hour and a half before I’m supposed to meet him.

Just over an hour before I finally get to confront him. To ask him face-to-face what happened before finally making him pay.

I make my way downstairs to double-check that I have everything in place. But when I turn the corner into the kitchen, I realize that there’s one contingency I never planned for. Someone’s here.

“Hello, Libby,” Thom says. He’s standing casually next to the kitchen island. A large black gun rests on the counter by his hand.

Adrenaline pours into my system, causing my pulse to skyrocket.

I take a step back and his fingers twitch toward the trigger. “You won’t get far,” he warns. “I’m an excellent shot.” His lips shift into a slow grin. “But I guess you already know that.”

Of course it’s Thom. The Senator sent him to do his dirty work, which means the situation has just become infinitely more dangerous. This is not at all in the plan. My eyes dart around the room searching for a way to handle this new variable.

“You were expecting the Senator,” Thom says matter-of-factly.

“I—” I cross my arms over my chest, buying time as I try to figure out my next move. “Why are you here?”

He laughs. “No, the question is why are
you
here. I’m guessing it has something to do with this?” He reaches over the papers scattered across the island—copies of the proof I have of the Senator’s involvement—and picks up the old battered phone. It’s Grey’s, from the cruise. After a few clicks, the sound of the attack fills the room.

My knees go weak and I brace a hand against the doorway. “Stop.”

He lets out another laugh. “Oh, I’ll do more than that.” He spikes the phone on the floor. It shatters, pieces skittering in every direction. Then he smiles, satisfied.

“I made a copy, you know,” I inform him.

He shrugs. “None of it’s enough to cause anyone to take a second look. If you think any of this is proof”—he swipes his arm across the counter, sending the papers flying—“then think again.”

Pages flutter to the floor, hitting gasoline-soaked puddles. I clench my jaw. “You’ll pay, you know. So will Senator Wells.”

His smile has no humor, only power and contempt. “That’s the thing. No, we won’t.”