She was whacking the hell out of everything Edward had done to her, taken from her. Every hit was for Rose and Maeve. For Liam. For every dream Lily had ever had. For the life that still beat in her body, in spite of everything he had done to quash it. Lily thought of her magazine that never was, of the years she had missed with her friends, of the fact that Liam and Rose were miles away.

“Go for it, Lily,” she heard Tara say now.

Hitting the tennis ball, Lily felt sobs welling up from deep inside. The night was silent, except for the owl's call, the sound of the ball bouncing and hitting their rackets, and the breath tearing from Lily's chest as she fought her way back, trying to become that Hubbard's Point girl of long ago, who used to have so much fun.

Driving back from Baltimore, Patrick was all torn up about what had happened. He had failed on his mission. He felt more dejected with every mile he traveled. He knew he should call Marisa, let her know that at least Sam was safe at home, but he just didn't have the heart. When he got to the Black Hall exit, he turned off the highway and headed down the shore road. Picking up Flora at the boatyard, he drove toward Hubbard's Point—he'd check on Lily for Liam, buy some time before he broke the news.

But when he got to Maeve's place and knocked, no one was home. The car was in the turnaround, a light was on in the kitchen, but Lily didn't answer. Patrick's heart thudded—she had disappeared from here once before. He thought of the thumbprint on the hot-water heater and walked around the house, to try to get into the basement.

Maeve's house was almost like a ship; it sat right on the rock ledge, jutting out into Long Island Sound. Although it was dark, the sky was filled with stars, and the almost-full moon had started to rise in the east. Heading through the rose garden, he saw the damnedest thing. Staring at the dark water, he saw it again: a flash of white.

It rose up from the deep, crested the surface. In the moonlight, it looked shiny and hard, almost like a huge, glistening piece of driftwood. A massive tree trunk, stripped of its bark, polished by months in the waves. But as Patrick leaned closer, he saw that it had eyes. Large, liquid dark eyes that blinked at him.

“Holy shit,” Patrick said, jumping back.

Flora started to growl. She ran down to the seawall, just above the tidal pools, pacing back and forth. The sea creature didn't move. Unperturbed by one large Labrador retriever, it just rested on the surface of the water twenty yards out, gazing straight at Patrick.