The Mermaid's Secret (30 page)

Two hotties like us.

On board, it's packed. Beautiful people, dressed in clothes as shimmery as sardines, cluster in small groups. They seem immune to the luxury surrounding them, but I've never seen such a fancy yacht.

Feeling nervous and out of place, I follow Sammy down to a set of stairs.

“Let's get out of here,” I say, but Sammy is in her element.

She grabs my hands. “Just relax. This is the last time you'll ever set foot on a boat like this. Like, literally.”

I'd rather be back at the apartment, just the two of us, or alone with Matthew. But this is Sammy's dream come true, and the least I can do is be her wingman.

On the upper deck, more beautiful people cram into the space, which is sweltering with body heat and baking in the glaring sun. They crane their heads like flamingos, looking past each other, jockeying for position near the center of the action.

A thousand scents ride on the hot air into my overdeveloped sensory receptors. Body odor and perfume. Sunburned skin. Diesel slick on water. Champagne. Silicone implants. A spike in adrenaline. The bass of hip-hop music beats in solar plexus and throat. The smell of blood from the fishing boats. The grinding of engines in the marina. The grinding of pelvises on the dance floor.

Within minutes, I lose Sammy. Her arms are swinging overhead, hips swaying. It doesn't matter that she doesn't know anyone here. She is the master of fitting in, as skilled as a skate hiding in the sand.

Sammy waves me over to dance with her, but I've never been a dancer. Don't see the point in learning now. This isn't my scene. I stand miserably against the starboard railing, watching.

A waiter walks by and I grab a crab cake off his tray. I swallow it, thinking about how food tastes under water. How much more precious it is. How much harder to come by. How much more satisfying when you eat it.

Below deck, there's a scuffle. I can hear anger in men's voices and the movement of bodies. I can taste the testosterone on my tongue. I lean over the rail, but I can't see the fight.

“Beat it,” the bouncer says.

“Get your fucking hands off me.”

“I'll make you leave.”

“I'm skipper of the
Sea Nymphe,
dipshit. I was invited.” Skipper of the
Sea Nymphe
. Trip Sinclair. This island is getting too small for the both of us.

Trip staggers up the stairs on the port side of the yacht. The girl on his arm is as drunk as he is, and she trips over the last step.

“We're here,” Trip announces. That smile across his face.

The girl stands up, snaps her gum.

The hotshot entrepreneur with the industrialist last name walks over and greets Trip with a fist bump. My view is obscured by the heads and shoulders on the dance floor bobbing up and down to the music. I can't hear what the two are saying, but everyone on the yacht is suddenly interested in Trip Sinclair. Trip grabs a bottle of champagne from the bar and chugs. Then he shakes it and lifts his thumb off the end, showering the dancers.

This is his crowd, his people.

The injustice of it pierces me. He should be in jail, not partying on a lavish yacht. He inserts himself into a circle of women, who dance around him, grinding up against him. The smile painted on his face. The smile Kay loved.

He looks up from the women and his eyes fall on me. The smile disappears.

I tense up. My muscles tighten. My palms sweat.

Now he's walking over to me. Stumbling, I should say. He steadies himself on the railing and turns his head to me.

“Something tells me you crashed this party,” he says.

I don't answer.

“I could have you arrested for trespassing.”

“Go ahead.”

He yells over to the yacht owner, “Hey Maxwell, you got a stowaway here.”

Maxwell, young entrepreneur yacht owner and first-class douche, can't hear him over the music. He gives Trip a thumbs-up.

“You obsessed with me or something? You want a piece of this?” He taps his crotch with the backs of his hands like he's some kind of rap star. “You've been showing up everywhere I am this summer.”

“You may have fooled my sister, but you don't fool me. I know what kind of person you are. The kind of coward who runs away.” Heat rises to my cheeks.

“Legally, I'm not allowed to talk about your sister.” He laughs. “But, off the record, I talk about her
all the time
to my therapist. Almost as much as I talk about my grandfather. ‘The traumatic episode you experienced contributes to your risk-seeking behavior, Trip.'” He laughs again. “People like me need to feel through our emotional numbness, you see.”

My hands turn into fists.

“Alcoholism.” He pulls a flask from his jacket and takes a sip. “Another side effect of being a Sinclair.”

I feel the anger boiling inside of me. The unfairness of it is what kills me. And the waste. Kay was kind and smart and thoughtful. She wouldn't have turned her back on the person dying next to her. She took care of people. She took care of me. She was great. And she was ours.

I think about the great white shark—the balance-keeper of the ocean. Where's the balance-keeper in this world? How can he commit murder and walk free? How can Kay be dead while Trip lives a life of entitlement and booze? Where is the balance in that?

Trip's date has wandered off to the dance floor. He puts his champagne-soaked arms around me.

My ears are ringing.

“You want an apology?” he asks, his breath thick with whiskey and champagne. He chokes out a laugh. “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…”

His laughter is like venom. His words, a pin in the balloon of everything I believe. I see red. My body is shaking. And then I lose myself. The animal takes over. The predator comes out.

My hands are on Trip's body. I lift him off his feet. Shock in his eyes. The sour smell of fear. The edges disappear. All I see is him. The look in his eyes. The smile, plastered to his face. He slaps at my hands.

I toss him over the railing.

He scrambles, reaching to get purchase on the slick yacht surface. He whacks the metal railing, the fiberglass hull, and splashes in the water.

Behind me, there are shrieks. Girls who got their hair wet. People yelling, “Man overboard!” Someone jumps in after him. The music stops.

The bouncer with the tattoos is running up the port stairs. Sammy has me by the hand. We are pushing through the crowd. We are running down the starboard stairs. We cross through the glittering saloon to the port side. We are running down the gangplank. We push past a throng of people standing at the entrance, waiting to get in. And we run through the marina, past the Schooner Wharf until we are on Spinnaker Street, and we keep running.

 

T
WENTY-SEVEN

“Can I borrow some sugar, sugar?” Lady Victoria is at my door in a silk kimono, her hair wrapped in a turban. She jingles a measuring cup at me. “I'm making a cake.”

“Seriously?”

I don't have time for this,
I think to myself. Tomorrow is the new moon. I've got farewell letters to write and phone calls to make and bank accounts to close and my room to clean. No one wants to leave behind a pile of dirty underwear to be remembered by.

I've got to make sure I leave Sammy some money to help with rent, and instructions for Sheriff on how to find me. Giving up your life requires planning.

And then there's Matthew. The biggest loose end of all. I need to see him tonight to say good-bye.

Or ask him to join me.

I pause too long. Lady Victoria bats her cat eyes and brushes past me to the kitchen.

“Come on in,” I say.

“My my. What a shame. This place has such potential. Just look at the view. It could be a private little Shangri-la. Instead, it looks like you girls plundered the Dumpster behind the Goodwill.”

I sulk and rifle through cabinets, looking for sugar.

“Aw, don't be sore. I was just playing with you, kitten.”

I find of box of brown sugar. “Here,” I say, and toss it to her.

“This is hard as a brick. I almost broke a nail.”

“Well it's all I've got.”

“Candy yam, what's eating you? Talk to Lady Victoria. I'm a good listener.”

I look out at White's Wharf and the sea beyond.

“It can't be all that bad,” she says. “Take a load off and let me help you. It tears me up to see my little ray of sunshine so blue. I care about you, darling. I plan on lip synching at your wedding someday.”

I plop down on the stool next to her. She folds her hands daintily in her lap.

“I'm … moving,” I start.

“Where you moving?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“I'm going to miss you, sweet cheeks.” The thick outline of lip liner accentuates her frown. “Tell me, is it better than here, this mysterious new hideaway?”

“It's great,” I say. “I'm excited to start a new life there.”

“So what's the problem, then?”

I exhale sharply. “I'm having a hard time letting go.”

“Sweet cheeks, leave the past where it belongs—behind.”

“Wish I could. But this might be it. I might never see the people I love again. My dad, Sammy. And there's this guy.”

She slaps her knee. “Ha! I knew it. You are too charming and positively too scrumptious to be unattached.”

I smile.

“Have you asked this boy to move with you? Love is a powerful motivator.”

“It's complicated,” I say. “There's a chance he might come with me.”

“Hallelujah.”

“But there's another boy, too.”

“A three-way! Ooh-la-la.”

“No. This guy's a jerk. He did something terrible and I want him to pay for it. When I leave, no one is going to make it right.” I think about Trip Sinclair and his mock apology, his whiskey-breath slur.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

“Oh, honey. You got to let it go. I know of what I speak. Imagine how I was treated in middle school. A boy named Victor who preferred Jimmy Choos over Michael Jordans. Do you think I would have turned out to be the Incomparable Lady Victoria, queen of the stage, diva of the drag, if I carried their contempt in my heart? No, ma'am! I learned to let go and trust in the universal law of karma. Everyone gets theirs. What comes around goes around.”

“I hope you're right,” I say, though I have my doubts.

*   *   *

When Lady Victoria leaves (without her sugar), I go through my room, seeing what I can take with me. I won't need clothes, towels, or sheets. Pictures will get destroyed. Phones are useless. I'll bring a knife, of course, a shucking tool, and a net. But what can a mermaid really possess?

I'm trying to figure out how to waterproof my flashlight and spare batteries when my phone buzzes.

“Hello.”

“Jess. Where are you?” Sheriff, sounding tense.

“At my apartment. What's wrong?”

“Trip Sinclair came to the station. Sheila called to let me know.” There's a pause, and I can hear him breathing heavily, like he's been running.

“Did he turn himself in? Is he going to go to jail?” Maybe karma is at work after all.

“He's filing charges against you. Says you assaulted him.”

“
He's
filing charges against
me
?”

“There are witnesses. Lots of witnesses. Plus the other incidents over the summer. He wants you for assault and stalking.”

“He's the one who needs to be arrested for assault!”

“Don't you think I know that?”

“It's so unfair!”

“This is serious, Jess. They're taking a statement from him right now. That damn lawyer is involved, Grant le Carre. He wants to get a restraining order so you can't come near him during Regatta. He'll get it, too.”

“Well, they can't arrest me where I'm going.”

Another long pause.

“Nomeha,” his voice breaks. “They're going to come for you tonight. They can hold you for forty-eight hours, until arraignment.”

I look down the hall, half expecting to see the cops on the other side of the door with some kind of X-ray vision.

“But the full moon is tomorrow.”

He takes a breath. “I know that.”

“What are you saying, Sheriff?”

“You need to get out of here, now.”

My father, the man who's dedicated his life to upholding the law, is telling me to run from it.

I think about the reputation he'll get after I leave. The cop whose daughter absconded. The Creary name forever tied to scandal.

“But
you're
the one who'll take the rap.”

“I've been a cop my whole life,” he whispers. “Right now I just have to be a father.”

“Sheriff. Are you sure?”

“You know how these people are. They always get what they want. They always win.”

“But I need more time. I have to find Matthew and say good-bye.”

“Cops'll be there soon, Jess.”

This is it,
I think. There will be no more good-byes. No more last hurrahs. No more tying up loose ends. “I won't get to see you again,” I say, choking back a cry.

“I know.” He tries to sound strong, but I can hear right through it. “Maybe you can come visit me when I'm on harbor patrol. Maybe you, your mother, and I can figure out a way.”

“I'll do my best.”

“I know you will. It's time for you to leave.”

“I love you so much, Dad.”

He cries. I can feel his pain, as fresh as the day he stood in our living room listening to the news that Kay's body had been found on the rocks. As fresh as finding out that his wife left him to fulfill a different type of destiny.

“You two take care of each other,” he says. “Promise me.”