It’s a distraction for Joy. Likewise for me, but only at first. As her head grows heavy on my shoulder, I feel the weight of our future and, with it, the same confusion I felt earlier. We’re not facing a World War, certainly not one in which Joy can be snatched from me. Still, I feel fear. I want to see the future but can’t—not about my daughter, not about my sisters, not about an ongoing role of Bay Bluff in my life.

Midway through chapter three, she falls asleep. Closing the book, I treasure the weight of her head on my shoulder for a while. Then she turns away onto her side, breaking the contact, and my tether is gone. The night is dark, the sea sounds powerful through the open window. I am insignificant against it. I feel lost.

Slipping deeper into the sheets, I listen for movement in the rest of the house, but the utter stillness only reminds me that Tom Aldiss is dead. How to process that, when my feelings for the man are so mixed? I try to distract myself thinking of the people who came by today, but their faces blur. Jack, my parentage, new info on Elizabeth, Anne pregnant—these issues have been put on hold by death. I don’t even feel better when I think of New York. Job, condo, friends—all seem like another world, distant and distinct.

The ocean floods the darkened room with the rumble of the tide. I might as well be out there, floundering in the night waves, because I can’t see a freaking thing. Always before in my life, I’ve had direction. I’ve known where I wanted to go. Hell, five days ago I did. But something has upset the balance. Dad’s death? Being in this place again with Margo and Anne? Seeing faces from the past? Being with Jack?

Being. With. Jack.

I’m trying not to think about him, but it isn’t working. I can push thoughts of him to the back of my mind, but they slip forward again. That’s what this place does to me. He’s always in my head, hovering like a gnat.

After swatting him away yet again, I cave. I’m tired of fighting. With all else that’s going on, I want to be weak.

Slipping from bed, I pull on my sweatshirt and run quietly down the stairs. Minutes later, I’m on the beach, that much closer to both the ocean and his house. The latter is dark, save the kitchen light. I could cross the sand, climb the steps, and open the door.

But my feet don’t budge. They’re asking me why I would go there. And they’re right. I have to get through this myself. It’s what I’ve done all these years. It’s what I’ll do again when I leave this place.