Title Page

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Dedication

To my readers. I am awed that despite the gazillion other distractions in the world today, you still read my books. For that blessing, you have my eternal thanks—and a promise to give you the best I can possibly write. Deal?

Prologue

I remember the smell of sea salt on my skin and the rolling tumble of the surf. I remember the brilliance of a sun that popped the colors of our towels, boogie boards, and bikinis. I remember my sisters’ impatient hands pulling me toward the waves, my mother’s appreciative laughter, my father’s guarded eyes.

I remember burying body parts until an arm or a leg spewed grand eruptions of sand. I remember moon jellyfish and sea glass and wrack-line seaweed that hid the tiniest perfect spiral whelks. I remember a bonfire on the beach, the smell of singed hot dogs and salty chips, the glow of embers as the sky purpled from east to west over Block Island Sound.

I remember fog, lots and lots of fog—and, cutting through it, the crescendoing growl of a motor when my father’s boat left the breakwater. I remember its ghosted image fragmenting bit by bit, like the world we had known, until it was gone. I remember the sound of a gun, at least, I think I did, but it may have been fireworks in Westerly or the slap of a screen door on our porch.

I remember so much. But it is never enough. Nor is it the same as what the others recall.

Chapter 1

Every memory is real, but not all are based on fact. Time, forgetfulness, emotional need—any of these things can chip away at memory. But what if a memory is wrong from the start? What if what you think you saw, isn’t what was there at all?