Narrator: Besides Roxy’s guitar found washed up on the shore, only two pieces of evidence remained: her car, a Chevy Camaro, left in the parking lot of The Indigo Lounge – and later, a so-called ‘strange’ note that hasn’t been released to the public, which lays out some degree of intent, allegedly written by Roxy herself.

Though calling them ‘pieces of evidence’ isn’t even quite correct.

Law enforcement never investigated her case with consideration for foul play. A suicide, or a runaway, or something more sinister – the truth of what had happened didn’t seem to matter to anyone. Because she was so troubled, known for causing a ruckus, supposedly prone to disappearing spells anyway, nobody was concerned. Of course this happened to Roxy, they might have said – the firecracker, the unpredictable loose cannon, the enigmatic spitfire.

A cool bolt of lightning as commanded by the universe, finally instructing a hot-blooded woman to sit.

Local apathy didn’t do much to ward off the media circus that ensued – expected given the disappearance of someone talented and attractive and young – and although the spotlight on Sandown waned relatively quickly, the tourism industry never fully recovered and the eighties boom would eventually be regarded as its peak.

And perhaps the island’s industry isn’t the only thing that never recovered.

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

When I wake up it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed or if it’s passed at all. Hot panic grips me, half because of the strange, harsh midday shadows from the restless trees, skittering in the breeze like quick beasts, and half because I’ve forgotten where on earth I really am. I recount the events from earlier in the day to make sure they have actually happened and I’m not watching a fake life flash before my eyes while I’m dashed across the Delawarean interstate.

It’s warmer now. The thin sheets are saturated with sweat where I have lain unmoving and there’s a gnat flying dizzy circles in the far corner. There’s one word blinking in my mind: untethered. This settles the fear. I am no one, in an anywhere place. This is what I wanted.

I sense, now, two pairs of eyes on me: Celeste’s and Roxy’s at once.

I head back into the lobby, mildly delirious, and rub my eyes. A clock ticks. The carpet’s scratchy against my bare feet. There’s a set of French doors in the back past the lobby, open a crack in a gesturing way, like they’d been expecting me, and I move through them out into the daylight, severe and bleaching. Here, there’s a small gazebo and then, further back, the woods.