Daughter of Deep Silence (11 page)

T
here’s no better feeling than the deliciousness of a well-crafted plan executed perfectly. I spend the day picturing Grey’s expression in the kitchen this morning. His delighted surprise at seeing me, morphing into confusion and, in the end, rage at his father.

But it’s the emotion that came in between that causes my stomach to flip: that brief moment of possessiveness. It was raw and fleeting, the flicker that he would defend me against whatever it was that had caused my distress. That I was somehow his to protect. This is what confuses me the most—to him I should be practically a stranger and certainly not his responsibility. Not yet at least.

There’s no indication that he suspects my true identity or that he doesn’t take me at face value. He’s as fooled as the rest of them. And yet, it’s as though something in him responds to that part of Frances still left inside me. As though there is some sort of subconscious recognition.

This both elates and terrifies me.

When evening falls, I change into my swimsuit and head to the pool, hoping that floating will bring calm to the thoughts spinning so hectically through my head. With my ears underwater, the sound of my breathing becomes amplified, dominant, and I slowly relax, letting the rhythm of it unmoor my thoughts.

As much as I’d hated the ocean after the
Persephone
, I’d found myself more and more drawn to pools—my fascination with bodies of water unquenchable. At least with pools I have a sense of safety with knowing the boundaries, of seeing the bottom. The ability to thrust my head underwater and know that I cannot be lost.

Adrift on the ocean I’d been at her mercy. Floating in a pool I’m wholly in control.

Overhead, the sky morphs from blue to pink, and just when it begins creeping dark, I catch movement from the corner of my eye. It jerks me out of my meditative state and I splash upright.

Grey stands at the base of the boardwalk, expression hesitant and apologetic. He’s dressed casually: khaki shorts slung low on his hips and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair is ruffled from the walk along the beach, his feet bare. “Sorry to startle you,” he says. “I don’t want to interrupt.” He half turns back to indicate he’ll leave.

“No, please.” I wave him forward. “Come on in.” And then I realize how that invitation sounds given the context. “I mean, not
in
as in the pool.” But then that sounds rude. “I mean, unless you want to. Go swimming, that is. In which case you can totally come in. I just meant . . .”

He laughs, thankfully cutting off my rambling. “I know what you mean,” he reassures me. His shoulders relax a bit, my apparent awkwardness having done the trick of easing the tension.

I smile gratefully and kick toward the side of the pool as he crosses the patio. There are no chairs nearby and for a moment he stands while I tread water, staring up at him. It’s full twilight, the sun sunken behind the mainland and stars peppering the sky above the ocean.

I’d turned off the patio lights before coming out here and somehow it makes the distance between us seem greater than it is—his expression more difficult to read. “May I?” he asks, gesturing to side of the pool.

“Of course,” I tell him and he sits, easing his feet and legs into the water next to me. I dip my head back under the surface, ostensibly to clear the hair out of my face, but more because I know the movement puts my body on display and gives me an edge of power.

I want Grey to look at me. I want him thrown off balance, distracted.

It’s too dark to tell whether his ears are tinged pink but he clears his throat, his focus shifting to where his feet swirl lazily in the water. His smile slips a little, replaced with the same serious expression as before. “You seemed upset this morning and I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says.

“Oh.” I pause, reaching to cling to the wall beside him. “Yeah, I’m okay.” But I don’t say it with a lot of conviction. With a wet finger I draw damp circles on the concrete.

Grey watches, forehead furrowed in contemplation. “Did my father”—he hesitates—“say anything? That . . . upset you?”

“No.” I twist my lips, ensuring that the uncertainty of my tone undermines the response. I focus on my circles for a moment, rewetting my finger again and again. “He asked me to keep my distance from you.”

His fingers flex where he’s gripping the side of the pool and he drops his chin to his chest, jaw clenching. He takes several deep breaths, each one strained with anger.

I push off the wall and float sideways until I’m only inches in front of him. Pretending to be tentative, I touch one of my hands to his shin, my body slowly drifting closer. “It’s okay,” I tell him softly.

He looks down at me and I don’t know if it’s my continued momentum or him moving, but his foot brushes across my lower abdomen and I find myself between his legs.

Inside me, Frances jolts, sending electricity searing through my veins. I have the sudden urge to rest my cheek against his leg, to let the edge of my lips press against the soft flesh inside his knee.

To see if he tastes the same as he did four years ago.

I’m almost dizzy at the force of my own resistance.

But either he doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care. “It’s not okay,” he says, and there’s strained frustration—the kind that makes it sound like this is a familiar emotion between Grey and his father. The kind I intend to exploit to turn one against the other.

“Look, he’s your dad and he has a really high-profile job. It’s smart for him to be cautious—and maybe even a little paranoid,” I offer.

“He still shouldn’t have said anything.” He clenches his teeth as another wave of anger rolls through him. I feel it in the way his muscles contract, rippling under my touch, causing me to bob slightly in the water.

“He’s just worried about you.” I shift my hands from his shins to his knees. Even though four years have passed there’s a familiarity to the feel of him. “He wants the past to stay in the past,” I add.

Grey closes his eyes, exhaling in resignation. “Of course he does.” He says it so softly I’m not even sure he realizes he spoke aloud. Or that he intended me to hear it.

“Hey.” I squeeze his thighs to get his attention. “Look at me.” He does and I swallow at the heat rippling through my abdomen. At the part inside me that recognizes him on a level I can’t control.

Grey is the enemy,
I remind myself.
He’s a liar and a cheat.

“If that’s what you want as well—just tell me. And I’ll stay away.” I lean my temple against his knee. His skin’s warm, his heartbeat tripping under my touch proving that he’s unsettled by my nearness.

I bite at my lower lip before continuing. “I just . . . You know, it’s nice to be with someone who’s been through the same thing. Even if I don’t remember any of it—it’s nice to be around someone who isn’t always thinking of me as ‘that girl who survived that cruise ship disaster.’”

His legs tighten ever so slightly, his calves brushing against my sides, toes wrapping toward my back. Ripples break away from the movement, brushing around us, shushing against the wall of the pool. The night is full of crashing waves and screaming cicadas, but all I hear is the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

“That’s not how I think of you,” he says, almost a whisper. “I don’t want you to stay away.” There’s meaning and intent to it and the part of me that once saw him as my hero—the Frances part of me—screams with old memories of unmet yearning. She roars forward, surging with desire. Blood pounds ferociously through my veins as I press my fingers harder against the edge of Grey’s thighs.

Nothing but tension crackles between us, the kind that’s been pent up for years, circling and circling with no release. I’d assumed time had dulled the intensity of any emotions between us. But if anything, I feel them more acutely now.

It scares me how quickly the pull to him sizzles along my nerves, dimming out any kind of rational hesitation. Flashes of him come to mind: his hand skimming the edge of my shoulder blade; his lips pressed against the hollow in my throat; his hips pressed hard against my own.

My breath escapes in a puff and it’s like a call-and-response. The blackness of his pupils almost swallow his eyes whole and he’s already leaning toward me when there’s an explosion of brightness. The outside lights ringing the pool blare to life, section by section.

T
he lights catch me by surprise, and I flinch as though I’ve somehow been caught doing something wrong. On instinct I push away from Grey and he must feel the same because he rocks back on his hands, sucking in a tight breath and putting distance between us.

I glance at the house and find Shepherd’s shadow on the other side of the French doors leading into the kitchen. Right where the outdoor light switches are. I can’t see his expression, but then he flicks on the pool light, casting my body in hues of red and blue, making clear his intention.

When I turn back toward Grey, he’s standing. Water trails down his legs, puddling at his feet. “I should go.” His eyes flick back to the house where Shepherd still hovers inside, watching. It’s easy to read the question on Grey’s face: He’s wondering what the relationship between Shepherd and me is and why Shepherd felt compelled to interrupt our conversation.

It’s also easy to recognize how unsettled he is, how he doesn’t know where to take things from here. How to bridge the gap between such an intimate moment shared in the dark to the brightness of reality.

There’s no reason for him to know I’ve already figured that out. That it’s been set in motion for days. And so when he only tells me, “Good night,” before turning back to the beach, I’m not concerned that he doesn’t say anything about seeing me again.

But there’s a deeper part, the Frances part still stalking under my skin, that’s left unsatisfied. That misses the feeling of Grey’s legs bracing around me. With a huff of frustration, I dive underwater, letting the cool pressure of it drive away the staining heat of unmet desire. I stay deep until my lungs burn, and then I force myself to stay under even longer until I’m almost choking.

I want to punish my body for reacting to Grey—to starve it of what it needs until every part of me understands what is at stake here. I am alive purely by chance. This life that I lead is not mine—it is borrowed. Every heartbeat, even the air I breathe, is borrowed.

My weakness toward Grey only confirms what I’ve known for years: Frances is too weak. Her heart too easily turned toward forgiveness and understanding.

Lungs bucking and desperate, I hold this body hostage until Frances retreats. Until everything is aligned inside me with one desperate goal: survival. Only then do I burst to the surface, gasping.

Unsurprisingly, Shepherd stands, waiting. “Impressive,” he says, one eyebrow raised. At first I think he means the length of time I can hold my breath but then he adds, “Girls down here have been throwing themselves at Greyson Wells summer after summer.” He grabs a towel from a table and holds it open for me. “Not one of them has sustained his attention the way you have.”

Moving toward the steps, I take my time reaching up and pulling my hair off my shoulders, twisting it to get the water out. And then, just to tease him a little more, I tilt my head to the side and jump a few times to dislodge water from my ear. My bikini covers enough, but not that much, and Shepherd’s hands tighten ever so slightly around the towel.

I step forward, taking it from him. “Perhaps they weren’t using the right bait.” I wrap the towel around my waist, folding the top over to keep it snug at my hips. Shepherd takes in every movement, and though it’s just a flash, a frown crosses his features.

“Maybe not,” he says, looking me over one last time before turning back to the house, leaving me feeling as though I’ve somehow missed something important.

After showering that night, I slip a photo free of its hidden pocket in my wallet and prop it against the mirror. The edges are worn to the point of being frayed, the color smudged in the bottom-right corner. But the two girls with arms draped across each other’s shoulders, their chins jutting out as they smile and their noses pink from the sun, are the same as they have always been. Trapped in time, a snapshot taken with Grey’s new cell phone by the pool on the
Persephone
and e-mailed to all of us the day before the attack.

Slowly, I sink onto the cushioned stool, leaning forward until my own reflection hovers just to the edge of the photo. As though I am a ghostly third to their duo. My eyes flicker across the picture, picking out the similarities and differences, comparing them with my own reflection.

It’s a ritual of mine. A reminder of who I used to be. Who I am now. At the time, other passengers on the cruise had joked about our likeness. We’d been constantly asked whether we were sisters and every time it secretly delighted me. Because the very idea that I could be mistaken for Libby was beyond flattering. Despite the uncanny similarities, it had seemed impossible that I could ever be mistaken for her.

Now it sometimes feels that I have only ever been her. That Frances was an imaginary friend lost to wind and distance long ago.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d refused Cecil’s offer. If I hadn’t so readily jumped at the opportunity to escape my life, as though that would somehow allow me to escape from the pain of everything I’d lost. I’d step out of the shell of one girl who’d become an orphan and into the shell of another girl who still had a father.

Libby hadn’t seen her parents murdered. She hadn’t felt the desperate awakening of what it truly meant to be alone in the world. To have no home. Nothing to anchor her.

Pretending to be Libby allowed me to pretend that everything Frances experienced belonged to someone else. And for years it seemed like Frances was okay with this decision. What was left of her settled deep inside me, curled and protected against the world. Letting the facade of Libby take over, protect her.

But now, being in this home that never belonged to her, slipping into this life that was never rightfully hers, Frances is beginning to wake up. I can feel her stretching under my skin. Her heart beats inside of mine, the rhythm of it now off as though she’s no longer content letting me set the pace.

As though she’s contemplating revolt.

I see hints of her now, in the mirror. A flicker of her eyes shifting behind my carefully crafted Libby mask. She’s hungry, I can tell. And she’s angry. She’s raw emotion, unhealed from the past and if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that emotions have no place in any of this.

It’s funny, most people think that revenge is a passionate affair, driven by rage and pain. But it can’t be. Feelings such as those make you weak. They overwrite thought and cause reckless impulses that lead to poor decisions.

If anything, revenge is the
absence
of emotion. It’s pure, calculated thought stripped bare of entangling emotions. It’s cold, deliberate action.

Frances was always the emotional one which makes her weak. Given the chance she would let her feelings sway her thoughts. She would second-guess. Hesitate.

Libby is none of those things. At least not the Libby I’ve become. She’s crafted and honed for this one purpose, forged by misery and rage, until every raw edge was seared away.

Until she could feel nothing. Nothing at all. There are no soft corners to Libby, no weaknesses. She is the perfect armor against the world.

And the perfect cage for keeping Frances safe and protected.