Claire’s face.
Then he played a video.
Five seconds.
Five terrible seconds of a woman laughing beside a man I had never seen before.
And suddenly, the old wound opened again.
Because if that woman was Claire, then she had not drowned.
She had left.
The next morning, Noah and I drove to Cresthollow.
We barely spoke. I kept my eyes on the road while my mind tore itself apart.
Ten years.
Six children.
Birthdays.
Fevers.
Graduations.
Nightmares.
Had she really been alive somewhere, choosing a different life while her children cried for her?
At the resort, the manager showed us security footage.
There she was again.
Same hat. Same dress. Walking through the courtyard like a woman with nothing to hide.
I turned away from the screen because for a moment, I thought I might be sick.
We spent the next day showing her picture around town. Most people shook their heads. A few hesitated.
Then Noah called my name from a small shop that sold handmade seashell jewelry.
The elderly woman behind the counter studied the photo and nodded.
“Oh yes,” she said. “She comes here often. Sweet woman. Always orders engraved shells with children’s names on them.”
Children’s names.
My hands started shaking.
She gave us an address.
