Daughter of Deep Silence (5 page)

I
t’s impossible to be in this house and not think of Libby. Pictures of her adorn the living room: as a baby, as a toddler missing her two front teeth, her face scrunched up in concentration as she learns to ride a bike. She stands next to a gleaming brown horse and holds a trophy for dressage, she leans against Shepherd on a ski slope on some impossibly high mountain.

But the picture I keep coming back to is the one of her at the beach. It’s hard to be sure, but she looks to be around thirteen, probably just a few months before the cruise. Her back is to the camera, sun-pinked shoulder blades drawn tightly together, as she races into the crashing waves.

There’s no hesitation, no fear. Her head is tilted slightly to the side so that I can barely catch her profile. She’s beaming, mouth open with laughter, and I wonder who or what, just outside the edge of the photo, has caught her attention.

It’s the last picture of her and it sits in a place of honor on the mantel. I’m standing, staring at it, when a woman clears her throat behind me. “Sorry to interrupt, Miss O’Martin.”

I turn to find Cynthia the party planner, with her clipboard clasped in her hands. She’s one of those middle-aged women who looks unnaturally bony. Her black hair is cropped short on one side, with a perfectly smoothed swoop of bangs across her forehead that’s starched with enough product that it could withstand a hurricane.

She’s the most-sought-after event planner in the South and though I’ve paid her an exorbitant amount for the fund-raiser, I doubt she realizes that I’ve been mentally planning tonight for years.

“I was just . . .” I gesture at the photos. “Lost in memories.”

She smiles. “I understand.” Her eyes slip past me to the portrait over the mantel: Libby as a baby clutched in her mother’s grasp while Cecil kneels with his arms around both. “You look like your mother.”

It’s an easy compliment to make and likely a hollow one. Even so, I allow a bit of a shy blush to dust my cheeks. “Thank you—that means a lot to hear.” I glance back at the portrait. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her.”

“I’m sure she’d be quite proud of the woman you’ve become,” Cynthia says. “Lord knows when I was your age I wasn’t nearly as put together.”

I laugh. “I find that hard to believe.” Her lips twitch and I know I’ve won her over.

She holds up her clipboard, a line of neat blue check marks march down the side of the list. “We’re almost through with the setup. Is there anything else you want to go over?”

I shake my head. “I defer to the experts on these things.” I wave my hand around the room. In the past few hours while I’ve unpacked, they’ve moved most of the furniture out, replacing it with high top tables draped in starched white tablecloths. In the center of each is a square vase filled with flowers from various counties around the state. It’s a nice touch. “This all looks great,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She smiles and starts back for the kitchen.

“Oh, there was one last thing,” I call after her. I grab a bottle of bourbon with a rounded bottom and a stopper in the shape of a horse and jockey from a nearby table. “I found this in my dad’s study. It was one of his favorite labels and I think I remember reading somewhere that it’s Mrs. Wells’s favorite as well. I just wanted to make sure it made it to the bar in case she or any other guests wanted some.”

Cynthia takes the bottle. “I’ll personally make sure Mrs. Wells is offered a glass when she arrives.”

With a nod of thanks I retreat upstairs to get ready. I take my time, making sure every detail is as it should be, my eyes sweeping back over my appearance, probing for any flaws.

After the rescue I’d had my chin sharpened and palate widened, my teeth veneered and my eyebrows reshaped. Thanks to bimonthly highlights and keratin treatments, my hair is shiny smooth, cascading to my shoulder blades in dark waves. With the help of tinted contacts, my eyes take on a darker brown tint that I then emphasize with purple-tinted mascara. Properly applied bronzer takes a bit of the roundness out of my cheekbones and highlight powder lengthens the appearance of my neck.

I watch myself smile, the corner of one side tilting higher, just like in all the photographs downstairs. Anything even remotely Frances has been steadfastly and systematically eradicated.

Everything about me is perfected and polished, and thoroughly, thoroughly Libby.

Though becoming her on the outside may have been a bit of a struggle in the beginning, it’s now merely a set of routines and habits. I’ve been practicing for so long that most of it is secondhand. Convincing Shepherd of my identity was my first test. Tonight will be the second.

If I can pull it off—if I can convince Grey and his father that I’m Libby—then the rest of my plan will fall easily into place. And if I fail . . . I shake my head, refusing even the possibility.

Before heading downstairs, I reach for my purse and slip free an old, tightly folded piece of newspaper from my wallet. I open it carefully, smoothing down the edges, and stare at the old me.

According to her gravestone, Frances Amelia Mace died on March 21, 2011. She’d just turned fourteen the week before. The newspapers ran her photo along with all the other passengers who died on the
Persephone
.

I collected all the articles, hoarding every clip I could find—anything that mentioned Frances Mace. At night, when the rest of school was in bed asleep, I’d pull an old metal lockbox from under my bed and spread the yellowing pages across the floor.

A hundred Franceses all staring back at me. Perpetually frozen in time. Just a girl—nothing special about her. Only child. Midwestern roots. Awkward smile.

The picture wasn’t the most flattering and I felt sorry for that. All over the world people would remember Frances as she existed in the class photo taken at the beginning of eighth grade: slightly blurry, one of her earrings tangled in her brown hair at that unfortunate stage of being grown out, braces peeking between chapped lips. Eyes hesitant, as though the man behind the camera had promised to count to three but snapped the photo on two.

Anyone glancing at that picture would know exactly what kind of girl Frances had been. Normal. Average. Typical. She’d had crushes on boys and flirted clumsily. The first time she’d held hands with a guy, she focused more on the sweat of her palm than the feel of his fingers laced with hers.

She’d spent hours texting and chatting with friends, dissecting conversations with guys for deeper meanings. At night, she’d daydreamed elaborate scenarios that would inevitably throw her and the boy of her dreams together—trapped in an elevator or an avalanche or on a deserted island.

There was nothing in her life she didn’t approach with a fearful passion, one eye trained on those around her, always anticipating their potential judgment; the other eye trained on the wilds of her imagination. The unrestrained belief that nothing in life would ever truly be off-limits. That it was only a matter of time.

It hadn’t seemed fair how quickly she’d been forgotten. For a few months her various social media accounts had displayed notes of shock and sorrow over her sudden death. People posted photos of her and shared their favorite memories. But eventually those had faded. Her friends had grown and changed, struck new allegiances in school. Moved on.

I envied them at times. Being able to forget Frances. I’d been unable to. In the early days after the
Persephone
, Frances’s rage and pain became so overwhelming that daily life was impossible. Cecil took care of her then, in a remote European hospital with an army of nurses and specialists—therapists and drugs.

And then one day, I’d been standing in front of a mirror staring at a stranger. I wasn’t yet Libby but I was no longer Frances. I hadn’t gained back weight after the rescue, I no longer had the energy to brush my hair. Nightmares stole sleep at every opportunity.

All I could do was replay the attack on the
Persephone
endlessly. Trying to find the clues I’d missed, the ones that would have allowed me to save my parents. Hating myself. No—reviling myself and wishing I’d died out on the ocean instead of Libby.

Knowing I didn’t deserve to have survived.

The same emotions rolled through me unceasing: rage, despair, horror. All with an undercurrent of helplessness. That was the one I could never escape: the helplessness.

And in that moment, staring at myself, despising myself, wishing myself dead, one word began glowing in the back of my mind. The only brightness in the black I’d plunged myself into.

Truth
.

Another, darker word followed quickly after.

Revenge
.

Whispering the words aloud had been like lancing an infected wound—the relief was immediate, the pressure finally relieved. The words were a box into which I could put all those crushing emotions. A way to store them for a while as I figured out how to recover.

Because suddenly I knew what to do. I saw a way forward. I decided that I would fight. I would use rage to push back the ragged edges of my grief. I would become Libby, I would recover my strength, I would bide my time, and I would plan.

Then one day, I would put those plans in action.

I
run into Shepherd in the foyer. He’s wearing the same shorts and T-shirt from before, his feet bare. “The fund-raiser for Senator Wells starts soon,” I point out.

He glances at me, his eyes quickly taking in my appearance. A muscle along his jaw tenses. “And?” he asks.

“And you’re not ready.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Right. Because I’m not going.”

“Why not? You’re the one running the conservation and the whole point of hosting this thing is because the Senator supported Cecil’s efforts along the coast.”

Shepherd stares at me for a long moment. “So you call him Cecil now?”

My fingers twitch, wanting to ball into a fist with frustration at the stupid misstep. I let my gaze fall to the floor, searching for a quick explanation. “I guess it’s easier to deal with the fact that he’s gone if I call him Cecil instead of Dad.” I add in a chin wobble and it’s enough that Shepherd doesn’t press the point.

“I’m not going to the reception because Senator Wells is a douche,” he says instead. I cough to cover my surprised laugh and his eyes lose some of their hostility toward me, but none of the passion for the subject. “He pays lip service to environmentalism and conservation, but does nothing to back it up. If anything, he’s a proponent of development. He’s been pushing bills through congress to expand drilling on protected land and even convincing his crony friends to build on Caldwell.”

“But don’t you think that if Dad were still alive he’d be the one hosting—”

He cuts me off. “Cecil hated the Senator—hated it when the guy built down the island. So, no, Cecil wouldn’t have done anything that involved Senator Wells.”

The doorbell rings, interrupting. I realize that in the course of arguing we’ve stepped toward each other and are now uncomfortably close. We stand that way for a beat longer than necessary. I let him take in the familiar smell of Libby’s shampoo, the soft scent of the rosewater sachet she hung in her closet. Even her deodorant is the same as it was four years ago.

Scent is one of the most powerful memory triggers and I know that right now Shepherd’s mind is on fire with memories of Libby. And now he’ll associate every single one of those memories with me: the young woman standing in front of him. Tying me in the present to the girl of his past.

He’s the one to step away, his expression somewhat haunted. His eyes sweep my face, a silent question in them. He blinks, and it’s gone. “You pierced your ears.”

I’m taken aback by the unexpected statement. “Yes,” I say, my fingers unconsciously lifting to twist at Libby’s mother’s diamond earrings.

He nods. “I guess you got over your fear of needles, then.”

I almost smile. It’s been a long time since I’ve learned something new about Libby. But I can’t have him dwelling on the inconsistency, so I give him something else to dwell on instead. I look at him pointedly. “I’ve gotten over a lot of things in the last four years.”

I’ve been standing in the foyer greeting guests for what feels like an eternity. I’d banked on my presence to induce a fairly high turnout, knowing that many in the state would pay good money to see a reunion such as this. The three survivors of the
Persephone
disaster, meeting for the first time since the ship went down four years ago. It’ll be the talk of the summer—already photographers from various newspapers stand poised, waiting.

Which is fine with me because every single aspect of this party is a ruse. Completely designed with one goal in mind. So while I wait for the unwitting players to arrive, I patiently shake hands, accepting condolences from strangers for Cecil’s passing months before. Giving them the bitter-sad smile they’re expecting in response, letting my eyes frost with carefully controlled tears.

And then the door opens. Everything in the world comes to a stop. Conversations fall away and it feels as though the air pressure in the room has dropped, every lung drawing breath at the same time. Holding. Watching. Waiting.

Senator Wells comes first, his presence larger than any television could capture. He wears a perfectly tailored suit, his “you can trust me” salt-and-pepper hair impeccably combed, and just the right amount of humble confidence furrows the ridge between his eyebrows.

I swallow thickly and square my shoulders as he approaches. He presses my hand between both of his. “I can’t thank you enough for your generous support of my campaign.” His words come out honey sweet, but if anyone else in the room could see his eyes they’d know the truth. That he’d rather be done with me, that our paths never cross again.

That he doesn’t trust me. And he shouldn’t.

But of course, the money from this fund-raiser is simply too much for him to pass up. Which is exactly what I’d been counting on. As the world turns and the sun rises and sets, politicians will always be in need of money. Senator Wells is no exception.

I smile, letting the corners of my lips wobble. “It’s the least I could do for all the support you’ve given my father’s conservation efforts.”

Senator Wells tips his head to the side, frowning slightly. He knows I’m lying. What he doesn’t know is why. “Though it’s belated, please accept our condolences on his passing.” He slips an arm around his wife and she nods as she takes my hand.

“It’s a shame your father isn’t here to see what a beautiful and gracious hostess you’ve become,” she adds. The problem is that she’s being entirely sincere. The back of my throat tightens unexpectedly. I know she means Cecil, but for a moment I can’t stop thinking about my real father. The way he’d take my hands and pull my feet on top of his and dance me around the room on Christmas Eve.

I close my eyes against the dizzying memory. “My beautiful Frances,” he’d say as we spun in circles.

It’s been so long that I can’t even remember his voice. All the different ways he’d say my name: to wake me up in the morning; to call me to dinner; to scold me; to cheer me on.

To tell me he loved me.

That, along with everything else, was taken from me on the
Persephone
.

How did I think I could come back and not be affected?

Mrs. Wells squeezes my hand and says, “I’m sure you miss him terribly.”

I nod. Words impossible.

And then, while I’m still reeling, a scent so intimately familiar washes over me. It’s as though I’ve been set on fire the way it causes my skin to burn. I open my eyes and he is there.

Grey
.

He’s wearing pressed khakis and a light pink button-down shirt that emphasizes the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. His hair’s cut short, the bangs sweeping across his forehead already streaked lighter by the summer sun. I’d forgotten how improbably blue his eyes could be, how prominent his cheekbones and the slanted angle of his jaw.

I’ve imagined this moment so many times that it seems impossible it’s never actually taken place before.

Ever since the
Persephone
sank, I’ve daydreamed this reunion a dozen different ways. At first I pictured him sopping wet, shirt plastered to his chest, as he swept into the room and didn’t even hesitate before wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in for a kiss as necessary as air.

Then later, as I began to understand more what it meant that he’d lied about the
Persephone
, I imagined tracking him in the dead of night, slicing a blade across his throat before he could even say a word.

Over the past four years Grey has been both my daydream and my nightmare, my fantasy and my darkest desire. He’s become my obsession—I’ve read every article with the slightest reference to him, tracked his high school sports teams, stalked him across every social media platform that exists.

I thought I was prepared for him.

I was wrong.

Standing in front of me, he simply occupies more space than I expected. It’s one thing to see a picture of a boy full grown, but it never completely erased the way he’s always been in my head; what his bony shoulders felt like cupped in my palms, the angle my head tilted to meet his lips.

It takes everything I have to keep my expression calm and neutral when everything inside me is strung tight enough to snap. I want to leap across the distance between us and claw my nails down his cheeks and demand answers. How did he survive? Why did he lie? Did he know it was going to happen?

What is he hiding and why?

A warm flush pools along my lower back, spreading out in all directions. I want to run. Hide. Take a moment to regroup, refocus. But I can’t do any of these things and so I stand, feet rooted in place, and wait while his gaze sweeps over me.

Frances flexes under my skin.
See me!
she screams when Grey’s eyes finally find their way to my own. A slight frown pinches the skin between his eyebrows and my breath comes faster—needing him to believe the disguise, but wishing that he’d remember me well enough to see through it. For a moment, we share the same stunned expression: something disquieted if not a little startled.

“Libby.” The name escapes his lips on a breath of air, and behind me comes the collective movement of each guest straining forward to hear.

His voice triggers something inside me, a flood, hot like adrenaline. But there’s a taste there as well, a slow contraction of my stomach. I can’t help it, my eyes fall to his lips.

A memory from the cruise rises unbidden: the two of us together on deck, the night sky infinite as he kisses me for the first time. His forehead had been pressed against my own for what felt like an eternity. The distance between our lips minuscule, yet infinite. His fingers found their way to my temple, slowly sweeping my hair back behind my ear. Goose bumps trailed in the wake of his touch.

Please, can I kiss you?
he’d asked, the question whisper smooth. I’d barely begun to nod when his mouth met mine.

It’s hard to believe there was ever a time when the biggest questions in my life were as simple as this:
Please, can I kiss you?
My back stiffens and I force a well-practiced smile.

“Grey,” I respond with a dip of my chin.