Chapters (31)
- Cover
- Praise for Faker
- TITLES BY SARAH SMITH
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
I walk out of the water, wrap myself in a towel, and stroll toward the far end of the beach, away from the small crowd of beachgoers. When I’m far enough away that I’m sure no one can hear me, I stop, then stare at the endless expanse of crystal-blue waves. On this clear day, the cloudless sky is so vibrant, it almost matches the color of the water. The wind picks up, and with it, the waves go choppy. I picked this beach to swim at because it was Dad’s favorite on the whole island. He loved this nearly mile-long stretch of sand because it was never as crowded as some of the other beaches on the island. It was where we spread most of his ashes after he passed, save for the small amount we keep in a ceramic urn at home. My eyes burn as I look out at the horizon.
“I miss you so much, Dad. You have no idea.” My voice is barely audible against the endless crash of waves. “It’s so hard without you here.”
I pull the towel tighter against me. Normally, a swim is enough to help me feel at peace. But lately, with the new food truck competition and the food festival on the horizon, I have to speak. I have to talk to him, even though I know he can’t say anything back.
“I’m trying so hard,” I sniffle. “I just . . . I hope I don’t let you down.”
My voice breaks just as the last word leaves my lips. I stutter a breath and take a peek around. Just a handful of sunbathers about twenty feet away and a jogger hitting the shoreline. Luckily, no one has seemed to notice the woman wrapped in a towel standing alone talking to herself.
Just then, something soft brushes against my leg and I glance down. A plump white cat with gray spots looks up at me.
“What the . . .”
It mews before working itself all along my ankles. Wiping away the tears, I chuckle, then crouch down to pet it. Unlike the random feral cats I’m used to seeing on the island, this kitty is crazy friendly. It stops and sits on the sand, letting me scratch its chin. Even through the ocean noise I can hear it purr. I’m smiling until the cat stands up and reveals a bloody stump that used to be its tail.