Between the sunlight warming his face, the briny scent of the sea and the squawking of gulls in the distance, Rami had to admit the afterlife wasn’t half bad. At least he thought that until a blunt object poked him in the shin.
“Think he’s dead.”
The poking happened again, more insistently this time, and a shadow fell over him.
“Hey, mister! Are you okay?”
A groan was the best Rami could do by way of answer, yet even that was enough to send the two diminutive, blurry figures above him scrambling back. He blinked and the blurs resolved into a pair of kids, beach-attired and rosy with too much sun. They were maybe twelve or thirteen years old, on the cusp of adolescence yet already making strides in pissing off the elderly.
Rami winced as one of them shoved a phone in his face.
“Sick!” The camera clicked. “That’s going on Instagram, dude!”
Under different circumstances, that would’ve bothered Rami.
There was nothing normal about waking up waterlogged and covered in kelp, sand sticking to the hand he dragged over his face. “Where… Where am I?”
“Are you a drunk?” one of the boys piped up. “My dad says—”
“Is this Envern?” Rami scrubbed the grit from his eyes. He blinked and found that he recognized the pier jutting out over the water. The beach bordered by lighthouses at both ends. Stoneway Island just a couple of miles off the coast.
This was Envern, he wasn’t dead, and the last thing he remembered was getting swept off by a roiling sea.
The kids traded dubious glances when he mentioned that last part.
“I’m not crazy,” Rami snapped, pushing to his feet. He staggered, clothes stiff with salt, and tried not to feel as though he was protesting a given. “There was a storm…”
“Sure,” said the kid with the cell phone. “But unless you’re an Olympic swimmer or something, there’s no freaking way you came back from that. Come on,” he told his friend. “I’m bored. Let’s get out of here.”
Rami watched them go. He had been in the water. He was certain of that much. And with that certitude, another rose from the depths of hazy recall. He remembered a man, dark hands wrapping around and under his arms, yanking him from the surf as though he weighed less than a feather.
His face hovered above Rami, indistinct but for the corona of lightning slashing the sky, limning him in blue-white incandescence.
“Who are you?” Rami murmured as the memory faded.
The current lapped at the shore and offered no answers.
* * * *
Shoes squelching over the flagstone path, Rami did his best to ignore the long looks passers-by shot his way. He couldn’t duck into the picturesque Ruby Mill B & B fast enough.
Heads turned as soon as he stepped through the front door, his arrival announced by the chime of a jaunty bell. A suitcase forgotten in the middle of the lobby nearly sent him sprawling to the polished hardwood.
In the two weeks since he’d arrived in town, Rami had never seen the minuscule lobby of the equally minuscule inn anywhere close to crowded.
Mostly the Ruby Mill stood empty, plastic potted plants gathering dust and fungi happily blooming in airless rooms. Naturally, the one time he showed up in the lobby looking like a pauper, he had to run the gauntlet of a dozen stares.
At least the front desk was manned by the owner’s daughter, who knew him well enough not throw him out on sight.
Jessa blinked her sea-gray eyes at him. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
“I’ll explain later. Can I have another key?” On the walk back from the beach, Rami had patted his pockets for his personal effects. Both wallet and phone were gone, presumably lost to the ocean. His room key was likewise missing.
Jessa plucked another from the numbered pegs behind her. “You look like hell.”
“I know—”
“And you’re in so much trouble.”
“I—what?”
Jessa rolled her eyes. “Your appointment with Mrs. Lynch?”
“Shit.” That was this morning? Rami made to check his watch, but a good dunking in saltwater had stopped its hands at two and twenty. “Wait, how do you know about that?”
He’d hit it off with Jessa the moment he’d landed in Envern. They were close in age and for the last couple of weeks he’d been the inn’s only guest. But he didn’t make a habit of sharing his schedule with casual friends and his appointments with Mrs. Lynch weren’t exactly happy hour subject matter.
“’Cause she’s here.”
“Here as in…?”
Jessa pointed to the archway leading into the dining room. “Came in about an hour ago. I said you weren’t in your room, but she’s a stubborn one. Wanted to wait.”
“Fuck. You didn’t see me, okay? I’ll be down in ten.”
“Better make it five. She was my third-grade English teacher. I’d have better luck lying to a polygraph.”
* * * *
Upstairs in his room, everything was exactly as Rami had left it. The bed turned down, his suitcase in the bottom of the wardrobe, his clothes haphazardly hung above it. A paperback John Grisham novel sat on the bedside table, his glasses next to it. The phone charger snaked out from behind the desk, where his laptop awaited use.
He thought of checking his email—or shooting his boss a message to say he was still alive. But Larson & Li had a large client roster and no one was waiting with bated breath for updates on Mrs. Lynch’s relatively marginal case.
He could’ve died last night and no one would’ve noticed.
Five minutes.
Skin dry and itching, Rami peeled off his waterlogged leather jacket and polo shirt, and turned on the shower. Steam began to fill the cubicle as he removed the rest of his clothes.
Hot water had never felt so good. Rami ducked his head beneath the spray and closed his eyes.
A wave crested over him, pushing him under just as he made to claw his way to the surface. Water filled his nose, his mouth. He was choking on it, grasping for a handhold and knowing he’d find none, knowing the current had pushed him too far from shore already and if he kept struggling he’d only drown faster. Unable to stop.
He opened his eyes with a gasp and slammed both hands against the cold, damp tile at his back.
The four walls of the bathroom took shape around him.
He’d made it back to shore. He was fine.
He was fine.
Fingertips pruny and very, very cold, he shut off the water jet and padded, barefoot and dripping, into the bedroom. His hands shook as he yanked the suitcase out of the closet. He had unpacked everything upon arriving at the Ruby Mill—or almost. His medication would’ve been too obvious to leave out.
He tapped out two pills and swallowed them down with tap water.
Five minutes later, dressed and mostly presentable, he considered his reflection one last time, finger-combed his black hair into some semblance of order and trooped downstairs.
The trick to being a good legal assistant wasn’t knowledge of the law as much as a reassuring attitude. If a client believed he had all his ducks in order, they were much more likely to play ball and give him access to the information, thus helping him help his firm deliver. If not, they could—and did—stonewall out of pure mistrust.
Despite her frail, gray-haired appearance, Mrs. Lynch was the type of client who harbored an innate suspicion of the legal profession and everyone in it. She let out a noisy exhale as Rami entered the rustic, nautically themed dining room and thinned her lips. “Do I need to remind you, Mr. Awad”—which in her exaggerated New England accent became Ay-ward—“that you work for me?”
An apology had been brimming on Rami’s tongue before he stepped over the threshold. It slipped out easily. “I’m so sorry—”
“I am not accustomed to waiting on my employees. I assume you have a good excuse for your tardiness?”
Rami found it easy to imagine Mrs. Lynch as a schoolteacher. Jessa really wasn’t kidding. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did. May I sit?” He drew back one of the chairs at her table and did so before she could respond. “I’m happy to say my colleagues have looked over some of the documents we sent and they agree with my initial—”
“Try me.” Fifty-eight and impossible to impress, Mrs. Lynch scrutinized him with a cool gaze over the rim of her floral teacup. Her voice had a blade’s keen edge.
Rami flattened his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Best to get the raking over hot coals out of the way so they could get down to business.
“I had an accident,” he confessed.
“You don’t seem injured.”
“I think I should be, but I got lucky.”
Mrs. Lynch arched a carefully sculpted eyebrow as if to say explain.
“There was a storm last night. I happened to get caught up in it.” Crisp, to the point, statements short and facts allowed to take precedence over sentiment—at this rate, Rami was well on his way to convincing himself that the whole thing had registered on a purely rational level.
Anti-anxiety medication truly was manna from the gods.
“You went out in a storm? I fail to see how that recommends you or your firm.”
Rami winced.
“Still,” Mrs. Lynch went on. “I suppose Manhattan is rather sheltered from the Atlantic. You’re lucky to have made it out alive.”
“Well, to be honest I don’t think I did much of anything.” Rami set his smile to self-deprecating. “I’m pretty sure someone helped me. Think there was a man… There aren’t any mermaids around here, right?” Rami looked up from the paperwork, vying for a smile.
Mrs. Lynch looked as though she’d bitten into a lemon. “Heron is up to his old tricks, I see.” She stood with purpose, expression wavering between irritated and disconcerted.
The latter gave Rami pause.
Mrs. Lynch rallied with an imperious glower. “I expect better from you, Mr. Awad. If your firm cannot deliver on its promises, then I will find someone who can.”
“Mrs. Lynch, I assure you…”
Sucking her lips, Mrs. Lynch smoothed an invisible wrinkle in her skirt and ignored his attempt. “This meeting is over. You may walk me to the car.”
Confused, Rami knew better than to argue—or, worse, delay. He slid back his chair and offered his arm, which she didn’t take.
The lobby had emptied, thankfully, and Jessa must have been in the back.
Without witnesses, Rami held the door open and awkwardly accompanied Mrs. Lynch to the town car idling by the curb. A minivan had been blocking the view before, or else Rami would’ve known what to expect. He would’ve been ready.
“Mrs. Lynch, if I could just explain—”
“I’ve heard enough.” Mrs. Lynch slid elegantly into the plush leather back seat and gestured to the driver to close the door.
Her chauffeur must’ve been about eighteen and not entirely clearheaded, but he did as he was instructed, shielding Mrs. Lynch from Rami’s attempts at persuasion.
Moments later, the town car pulled away with a squeal of tires, engine revving faster than seemed wise given Envern’s hairpin turns.
It should have been a relief to see the car disappear uphill toward Mrs. Lynch’s temporary rental, but Rami felt as though he’d talked his way into trouble rather than out of it. Knocked for six, he wound up back in the dining room, where a picturesque view of beach and ocean taunted him from beyond the French windows.
Sinking into a chair, Rami scratched his head. He could feel a headache coming on.
“That sounded like it went well.” Jessa slotted a cup of coffee in front of him. “On the house.”
Rami inhaled the steam rising off the mug’s surface. “You goddess, you. Cathedrals should be built in your name.”
Jessa laughed. “I’ll settle for a pay rise. And some of your Manhattan friends deciding that what they really need is a holiday out here. Fuck the Hamptons.” She settled herself into the seat Mrs. Lynch had just vacated. “If it’s any consolation, you were doomed the minute she walked in here. Punctuality is a bit of a bête noire with her. Did you know that’s her third driver in a month? She really goes through ’em.”
“Bête noire?” Rami repeated, amused.
“What, you think you’re the only idiot who went to college?”
Rami grinned into his coffee. It was darker than his usual. He wondered if caffeine was recommended in his circumstances. Then again, trying to pin down precisely what those circumstances were wasn’t helping his headache. A beach, a storm, a strangely strong swimmer wrenching him from the waves—it barely rated as evidence.
Jessa cleared her throat. “Wow, you’re really the life of the party today.”
“Sorry.” Rami’s smile turned abashed. “Am I keeping you from work?”
“I’ve got five minutes.” She arched an eyebrow. “So? Did you go swimming with all your clothes on, what? Come on, man. Deets!”
Twice now Rami had tried to explain himself and twice he’d been met with either derision or disdain. With little conviction, he laid out the story again for Jessa.
“Huh,” she said, once he’d finished.
“Huh? That’s it? I tell you some guy saved my life and you’re barely moderately impressed?”
“What can I say? I lead a very exciting life.” The deadpan approach lasted a handful of seconds before yielding to interest. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“I was a little busy—you know, trying not to drown. But Mrs. Lynch mentioned someone named Heron…?”
“She would.” Heavily ringed fingers cupped around her mug, Jessa leaned forward. “Heron used to be her husband’s caretaker. Guy still lives on the island.”
“That can’t be true. The will says—”
“Whole town knows what the will says,” Jessa cut him off. “But I’m telling you Malcolm Heron slipped through the net. Mrs. Lynch kicked up a fuss when he wouldn’t move out, but for some reason she hasn’t sicced the cops on him yet. The guy’s a recluse, lives off the sea and only comes into town if he needs fishing supplies or library books. He’s pretty weird.”
Rami had read Mr. Lynch’s will—all three contradictory copies thereof—and knew exactly how little tolerance the late Mr. Lynch had had for anyone trespassing on his island. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with what happened to me?”
His sojourn in Envern had been brief so far, but not so brief that he hadn’t formed an opinion of Jessa. She was refreshingly irreverent, as outspoken as a megaphone and perfectly aware of the town’s oddities. He had never known her to be tongue-tied.
“If I ask you to leave this alone,” she began in a tentative tone, “will you?”
“I don’t know what this is. You’re looking at me like—”
“You’re not the first,” she interjected. “A lot of people have stories to tell about near-death experiences in Envern. Disproportionate to our population and popularity,” Jessa added wryly. Her smirk was short-lived, expression folding once more into a wary mask. “If that’s not enough for you, then there’s something you should know about the Lynches.”
Rami flattened his palms against the table. “Tell me.”