Heather took one of the longest showers she'd ever taken. She dreaded going down those stairs, facing those people. She'd have asked Kevin if she could go to his place, but they didn't have that kind of relationship. She wasn't sure what kind of relationship they had, if they had any at all. No, they did. They must. Two people having regular sex for several days had some sort of relationship, whatever it might be.

They'd stayed at that motel a lot longer than they'd meant to, drinking and screwing and (in his case) smoking. They'd talked very little and come and gone at different times, mostly to the nearby gas station and mini mart, and even when they'd been fucking, there'd been nothing affectionate about it. They weren't gentle or kind with one another; they weren't fiery and passionate, either. They merely used one another to satisfy their own needs, and when that failed, they'd turn away and satisfy themselves. There'd been no kissing, no words, only as much touch as was necessary, and no lingering in one another's beds afterward. Their interactions were a reenactment of all they despised about themselves, a means through which they could temporarily forget the rooted self-loathing so otherwise difficult to escape. Heather knew Kevin had no actual feeling for her beyond contempt, and she was relatively certain that contempt was mutual. They reminded each other of too much, held up mirrors to one another's skeletons. Since they'd been unable to face their own failings singularly, was it so wrong to take them out on one another?

Kevin was one thing. He was easy. Whatever their situation was, neither had sought to rationalize it. But the people downstairs? They were a different story.

When Heather had called her mother to tell her she'd be in town for a visit and hoped to stay with her, the woman had immediately berated her for ignoring all her calls; apparently David had shown up a week earlier expecting Heather to be there, and when she hadn't been . . . well, he hadn't taken it well. Heather hadn't responded to any of his texts, not answered any calls. She'd assumed he'd stayed home and all his messages would be wondering where she was, asking when she and her "friend" would pick him up so they could all head to Port Killdeer. She hadn't thought he'd go to her hometown himself. Thank God that when she'd actually arrived at her childhood house, David had been at Biggie's. She'd averted her mother's questions as much as possible and headed up to her old bedroom (which had remained largely unchanged since her teenage years) and then straight into a shower, sure she had more to wash away than just a little sweat and dirt.

Her main motive, though, was to kill time. The longer she could avoid seeing her family, the better. It wasn't as if she didn't like her parents. They were all right. Her mother had communicated with her over the years, done that mother thing and pestered about grandbabies (as if Heather needed more reason to feel inadequate), offered unsolicited updates on the town gossip, sought advice about towels and recipes and laundry until she realized her daughter seemed to have an understanding of gardening, which gave her the legitimate excuse to call with questions concerning weeds and pests and what to plant where, when. Heather had known her mother was merely attempting to maintain a connection with her one biological child out of some ingrained notion that only a failed parent lost contact with her offspring. They'd been close for most of Heather's childhood, doing all the things a mother and her only daughter were supposed to do--shop and craft and bake and paint, bedazzle clothing and punch out paper dolls and eat sprinkled doughnuts in cafés and hand-sew the best sparkly costumes for school events . . . all of Heather's friends had envied her closeness with her mother, the "cool" mom. But then had come senior year; Heather had barely made it through her nine months of classes, and the older woman had helplessly watched what she'd thought had been an unshakeable mother-daughter bond deteriorate.

Heather knew, though, that their relationship's foundation had begun to corrode long before her senior year, before working at the resort, before Ryan's disappearance, even. What had begun the process was her mom's marriage to her stepfather, when they'd let Danny into Heather's life.

Heather exited the bathroom into her bedroom, fluffy white towel around her body, wet hair dripping onto her chilly shoulders. Why her mother hadn't changed the room was a little beyond her. It'd been almost fourteen years since she'd left, and even when she'd come back in town for those fleeting holiday visits her husband had insisted on, she and David had put up in a hotel in Red Axe to be closer to the amenities of Walmart and farther from the possibility of reliving memories. David had been all right with it, although he'd questioned his wife's desire to remain distant at first. Ultimately, the fragility of David's pride took precedence in all his decision-making, and Heather's quick rationalization that she might run into old boyfriends seemed to do the trick of convincing her husband it was best to stay out of Port Killdeer.

Finding herself rooted to the floor, carpeting soft beneath her bare feet, Heather couldn't deflect the dull heartache as it crept in. As a teenager, she'd loved her room with its pile of childhood dolls and stuffies, its ribboned memory boards and sheer curtains, its pale blue walls and queen-sized bed. She'd even gotten one of those Pier One mosquito nets to hang over her pillows, and she'd spread the white netting along the sides to create a gauzy, ethereal alcove. Her bedroom set was Laura Ashley, white dresser and desk and headboard, and her duvet and shams were still that yellow and blue floral pattern. Everything matched and cried of perfection and comfort and charm. But when she saw the photographs and memorabilia weeping down the walls, she thought of the false importance of her younger years; when she saw the bay window gaping beyond her bed, she recalled sneaking out it to endure what ended up being the worst night of her life; and when she saw the bed beckoning to her in all its mocking childish patterns, the empty space against the perfectly displayed pillows where her porcelain doll had used to reign, she thought of Danny, of what he'd made her do and how she'd gone ahead and done it--how she'd told herself it wasn't wrong, even if it wasn't right, either. And suddenly, all of everything rushing back at her, Heather realized she couldn't stay in her old room; its associations were far too imprinted on her heart.

Pulling clothes out of her bag, Heather dressed as quickly as possible, zipped her bag, and hauled herself back down the stairs. She'd been ready to dash right out of the house, get in her car, and drive back into Red Axe, stay at a motel--she'd call Crystal the next day to see if she could stay with her or something. She just couldn't do this here, not now, not anytime. If it was the end, what did it matter, anyway, seeing her parents again? None of them--none of anything--mattered. It was best to be alone.

But David was standing at the bottom of the stairs. His appearance startled her so much she nearly stumbled down to the first floor but managed to catch herself. She shouldn't have been so surprised; of course her mother would've called him when she'd arrived.

"Babe! Where--what are you doing?"

"I don't want to stay here." She reached the floor, having managed to maintain her balance so long as she moved slowly, and looked apologetically at her mother, who stood next to her husband. "I'm sorry, mom. It's just . . . it's too weird, staying in my old room."

Her mother frowned. "Honey, I've tried to keep it nice--"

"It's not that. It's just--there isn't enough room for me and David. Like I've told you before, it's not a good space for us."

David took hold of Heather's shoulders, laughed good-naturedly. "Listen Cheryl, it's not me, all right? I'm easy to please. But you know your daughter."

Heather cringed inwardly, not because he was throwing her under the bus but because his implications made no sense whatsoever. Heather's mother no longer did know her daughter, and even if she had, what exactly was David trying to say? But before either woman could protest, David directed his wife out the front door, making some excuses and promises to his mother-in-law that seemed to satiate her, and before Heather knew it, she was with her husband in his SUV, heading off into the night.

The minute the car was on the road, David's affect shifted. "What the hell is wrong with you, Heather?"

Everything had happened so fast; her initial thoughts went to what she'd been doing with Kevin, that David was asking about that, but then she realized he couldn't have known. "What . . . what do you mean?"

"I'm married to you for five years--five years of my life--and you never even tell me about your trauma?"

Trauma? What trauma? Was he talking about Danny?

"First guy you love goes missing and ends up dead, and you were the last person to see him? God damn, that's dark."

Ryan? How did he know--

"I'm sitting there in that hellhole-in-the-wall bar you've all got and the minute I say I'm married to Heather Finn shit hits the fan."

Annoyance flared. "I wasn't in love with him. I was a teenager. We were hanging out and he made a stupid choice and he drowned. That's it."

"Not what I heard. From the rumors, seemed he was torn up into pieces or something. Cults or serial killers . . . some of them said they thought you and your friends had done it."

Heather sighed. "Yeah, well small towns talk a lot of big nonsense. It was a long time ago."

"Now I know why you never wanted me to stay in town, to meet people."

That hadn't been the reason, but Heather knew it wasn't worth her time to try to explain things to him. She'd hoped to never see David again. He didn't mean anything to her anymore. Nothing meant anything to her. She allowed him to go on for another minute or so about all he'd heard from whatever idiotic barmates he'd kept at Biggie's, but when she realized he wasn't driving aimlessly and instead had a destination in mind, her stomach dropped.

"Where are you--what are you doing?"

David laughed, and there was something ugly in it. "Keeping secrets from me, fun ones, too. If I'd known you had a dark past I'd have married you sooner. I've just realized I don't know you at all."

Her thoughts fluttered to Kevin, to that summer, to the porcelain doll that had once been on her bed. For once, David was right.

"I thought maybe you could relive a bit of your past with me, you know. Since you've tried to keep it back."

He'd parked the SUV in the public lot by the resort road. The sun had set a while ago, but the encroaching summer kept the air warm enough that a few people were still hanging out down at the beach. Heather could see their bonfire in the distance, before the horizon shifted into black water. The playground hung in its web of calm; a few seagulls spun overhead, looking for leftovers from evening picnickers. Otherwise, she and her husband were alone, only the dark and familiar entrance to the resort next to them.

"What are you doing?" she sighed, rubbing her forehead. She had an idea of what was down there, now, and being so close to the place set her whole body on edge, and yet no one had disappeared on that property since Ryan had, years ago. No other scandal had occurred to frighten residents, as cruelly ironic as that seemed to the four who'd experienced far greater horrors there than the disappearance and death of a forgettable teenager.

"I thought we could take a little trip down memory lane. It's not open for another couple of weeks, right? Nobody will be there."

Heather raised an eyebrow and couldn't keep herself from snorting. "You couldn't pay me to walk down there with you right now."

"Are you serious? Really?"

The woman wasn't sure whether David was insulted or incredulous. Either way, no matter his taunting or pleading, she was in no way going to budge, and when he at last realized it, his pride and anger took over, and, no doubt fueled in part by whatever he'd imbibed at Biggie's, he determined to make the walk alone for no other reason than to make his wife angry.

Taking the keys and slamming the door behind him, David shouted, "When I come back, you owe me. I'm going to do whatever foul things I want to you, hear me? Whether you want it or not!"

As Heather watched him disappear past the guard booth, utterly bewildered at the parallel circumstances in the absolute fatuous wreckage that was her life, she found herself hoping he'd end up just as Ryan had and, an unfamiliar boldness coursing through her, she left the car and headed down to the beach, hoping that whoever was there would share at least a beer with her.