Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Many towns have versions of this particular legend, of course, but what makes Sea Breeze’s special, is that our sea captain, in his big yellow slicker streaked with blood, always leaves a piece of his coat behind when he claims a victim.
Teens have been finding pieces of that blood-soaked slicker around town for generations. It doesn’t matter that no one’s been murdered around here since the early 1900s, news that a scrap of coat has been found always gives me the creeps. Elaina thinks it’s hysterical. She hates scary books and movies, but for some reason, real-life evidence that someone wants teens to be too terrified to make out in their cars around these parts, gives her the giggles.
At this point, I doubt I’m ever going to giggle again.
By the time I reach the base of the stairs leading down into the yacht’s main living area, my heart is punching holes in my chest, and my throat is so dry it makes a strange sound as I swallow.
So, I stop trying to swallow.
No sounds. No noise.
Just a silent journey to the bedroom where I will retrieve Mark’s phone from where it hopefully sits on the bedside table, delete my five text messages and the incriminating photo, and then make an equally swift and silent retreat.
For a moment, all appears to be going according to plan.
I make it through the graciously appointed living room, down the narrow hallway, with the bathroom and smaller bedroom on either side, and back to the master, where Mark lies sleeping beneath the covers.
I can just make him out in the gloom.
The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moonlight penetrating the curtains on the left side of the space. The curtains appear to be a lighter color, but they’re thick, rich people curtains, with a dense weave that keeps light out and sound in. I bet Mark could be banging his girl of the moment in this bed and no one on deck would hear a thing.
As I step inside, my footsteps silent on the lush carpet, I have the sensation of being swallowed. Everything feels muffled, like I’m in the belly of one of the whales that arrive here in the spring to gorge on plankton and fish.
Later, I’ll blame the sound-dampening properties of the space for the fact that I don’t hear Mark moving until it’s too late.
As for the fact that I don’t realize the man in the bed isn’t Mark until I’m pinned under his powerful body?
Well, I’m not sure what to blame for that except the darkness and bad fucking luck.
two
Weaver Tripp
A man who just captured an intruder.
A very beautiful, intriguing intruder…
Waking up to a man trying to kill me in my sleep in New York, would have been shocking, but not completely out of the realm of possibility. New York is a big, bad city, after all, not a sleepy hamlet like Sea Breeze.
Sea Breeze is one of the safest small towns in the country, a fact proudly proclaimed on its website, and one of the reasons I went out of my way to avoid coming back here, once I finally got out.
I couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy or the disconnect between the propaganda and reality.
This town wasn’t safe for me or my mother, not by a long shot, and hearing everyone from the mayor to the principal talk about how lucky we all were to live in such a sheltered haven, made my blood boil. I couldn’t get out of here fast enough. The second my diploma was in hand, I was on a plane to New York City, bound for a high-profile internship before starting business school at Columbia.
But that was fine. No one was sad to see me go.
Rodger, my much older brother and Dad’s favorite, was champing at the bit to take over the family business. By the time I graduated with my MBA and a job waiting for me at one of the biggest banks in the world, Rodger had the seafood empire well in hand.
He also had several dirty politicians in his pocket, men and women who, in exchange for large campaign donations, were happy to overlook the fact that the Tripps were violating Maine law. According to the state fishing code, professional lobster harvesting must be done by small, independently-owned operations.
Our operation is independently owned, but there’s nothing small about it, and nothing legal about the way my father and brother organized the business. For two generations now, they’ve forced members of our own family to pay a percentage of their profits to them in exchange for “help” with boat maintenance. Once my brother took over, he added another fee for shitty group health insurance that leaves everyone paying for most services out of pocket.
If I were a better man, I would have stepped in and called my brother on what he was doing. I would have protected the younger, more vulnerable members of the family. I would have been the hero our mother believed me to be before she died just six months after my abusive father, proving there’s no justice or mercy in the world.