The afternoon turned into a lazy supper at Brad and Ash’s house, an old Victorian place at the end of a road, perched near some cliffs, which I thought was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Once the dishes were done, and we’d played cards together (kids vs. adults—we won by ten miles thanks to Ash), Mom and Brad sat out on the porch while Ash showed me his old school photos from England, laughing as I made fun of his uniform and choppy hair.

“Why did you come to Maine? Your dad’s work?”

“Not exactly. We needed a change.”

I swallowed, unsure how to ask the question and decided on, “What about your mom?”

After a moment’s hesitation Ash said, “She was depressed. She died.”

My mouth dropped open. How could I have been so forgetful, so crass and careless? I’d only half listened when Mom had told me his mother was no longer alive, and there I was, bringing it up. He seemed so sad, so lost. I’d hurt him, and I couldn’t bear to see the look on his face, or knowing I’d put it there. I decided there and then I’d do anything to make it up to him. It was a promise I’d never forgotten.

The noise of the boiling kettle pulled me out of the memories. As I was pouring the water into my mug, a noise behind me made me jump and I spun around. Ash walked into the kitchen, dressed in his favorite pajamas and the soft New York Giants T-shirt I’d given him for his twenty-fifth birthday, a shirt he’d left behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right. Are you okay?”

He pointed to his temple and pulled a face. “Headache. Do you have any pills?”

“Of course. They’re in my bag.”

Once I’d given him some aspirin and he’d headed back to bed, I opened my laptop and was about to focus on researching amnesia when another thought hit me. On the way home from the gas station, Ash had told me a little more about the trailer he’d hidden in. I frowned, typed “Asher Bennett Maryland” into the search bar. Nothing. What had he been doing down there? Traveling through or living there longer term? I drummed my fingers on the table before widening the parameters, covering New Jersey to Florida, Delaware to Kentucky, but the only Asher Bennetts I found were under the age of ten, or over fifty. I’d almost given up when I went back to basics, and the headline of a small article on OceanCityToday caught my eye.

HOPE FADING FOR MISSING BRITISH SWIMMER

I leaned in, heart beating fast, palms sweating, my fingers unsteady as I clicked on the link and began to read.

10

LILY