Rikki sighed and threw the rest of her coffee out onto the ground. Sugar in coffee. What was up with that? She glanced up at the clear sky and tried to concentrate on that, to think of her sea, the great expanse of water, all blues and grays and greens. Soothing colors. Even when she was at her stormiest and unpredictable, the ocean brought her calm.

She went back into her house, leaving the screen door closed but the back door wide open so she wouldn’t feel closed in. She polished the cupboards fast where Blythe had touched them, leaving undetectable prints, washed the coffee mugs, and carefully rinsed off the sink around the coffeepot.

She hummed slightly as she packed a lunch. She needed high-calorie foods, lots of protein and sugar. Peanut butter sandwiches, two with bananas—even though there was an old saying that bananas were bad luck—and a handful of peanut butter cups and two bags of Reese’s Pieces would keep her going. Her job was aggressive and hard work, but she loved and reveled in it, especially the solitary aspects of being underneath the water in an entirely different environment—one where she thrived.

Extra water was essential and she readied a cold gallon while she prepared and ate a large breakfast—peanut butter over toast. She might not like sugar in her coffee, but she wasn’t stupid enough to dive without taking in sufficient calories to sustain her bodily functions in the cold waters.

She ate, toast in hand—she didn’t actually use her dishes. Her sisters had given her the most beautiful set with seashells and starfish surrounding each plate. She carefully washed the entire set on Thursdays and her wonderful set of pots and pans on Fridays—but she always had them displayed so she could look at them while she ate her sandwich.

She’d washed and bleached her wet suit the night before and made certain that her gear was in repair. Rikki repaired all her own equipment religiously, waiting for that one moment when all her senses would tell her there’d be a calm and she could go diving. Her gear was always prepared and stowed at all times so the moment she knew she could make a dive, she was ready.

Her boat and truck were always kept in pristine condition. She allowed no one else to step on her boat except the women in her family—and that was rare. No one but Rikki touched the engine. Ever. Or her baby, the Honda-driven Atlas Copco air compressor. She knew her life depended on good air. She used three filters to remove carbon monoxide, which had killed two well-known locals a few years earlier.