“Why did . . . ?” Monroe’s voice was fragile, but still it managed to slip through the pain that held Mia in its grasp.

Monroe. Focus on Monroe. It was too late for Asher.

Mia was all but holding the girl in her lap now, rocking her as she would a frightened child.

Too late for Asher. Too late for Monroe.

No. Not too late for Monroe.

“Why . . . ?”

Why what? Why what? Again, the anger flared, and she wanted to shake the girl into answering. Why what, Monroe?

Instead, she petted at Monroe’s hair, trying for comfort.

The fog’s tendrils slid along the edges of her skull again, whispering promises of silence, of escape.

Mia looked at Asher instead of giving in to them.

Pale cheeks, so pale. Not like the ruddy chapped pink he’d get from running through the woods, from getting teased, from giggling after three too many shots of whiskey. Long arms and legs, uncontrolled now, so much like in life, where he’d flop on a bed, on the ground, in the back seat of a car, his body almost graceful in its uncoordinated movements. Fingers curled toward Mia. Reaching for her. Like he always had since they were kids. Best friends forever.

“Why did . . . ?” Monroe tried again, and it brought Mia’s attention back to her. It had to be the last time; it had to be. Her lips were white at the edges, almost so white they were blue.

“What? Why did what?” Mia asked. If these were Monroe’s final words, Mia would at least hear them.

Then with one last shudder, an inhale, an exhale, Monroe met her eyes.

“Why did you do that?”

Mia stilled. Then a shudder. An inhale. An exhale.

“Shhh. Shhhh,” she whispered as Monroe slipped into the darkness.

Now

The bloated hand disappeared beneath each whitecap, only to knock against the bow of Greg Lawson’s boat in between the swells.

The paleness of it stood in stark contrast to the boat’s cheerful red bottom, and Greg could only stare, a lobster cage still in his tight grip. Icy droplets of ocean spray slashed at his exposed cheeks, tangled, and then froze in his beard. The dock beneath his feet rocked, but muscle memory born from spending forty years on the sea kept him upright. It was the only thing that did.

“Oi,” Brandon called from the helm. “Stop pissing around. It’s freezing out here.”

Greg finally remembered to breathe. “Get down here.”

The curse Brandon shouted back nearly got lost in a gust that swept along the crests.

“Get. Down. Here.”

Another wave, and something more solid than a hand bumped the boat.

The cage crashed to the deck, bouncing off the rope that lay coiled at Greg’s feet as he crossed himself.