What Lies Beneath the Tide

Chapter One

Alex

The thin line beneath the strap of her cardinal dress was barely a faint marker against her khaki-colored skin. She’d worn it on purpose. Not just for the comfort but for the ease with which it might be slipped off her later.

Too bad it was a wasted effort.

She was attractive. Her honeysuckle hair was curled loosely at the ends, settling just below her peaked breasts—the plummeting neckline forcing them together. It was meant to be an inviting distraction that hopefully persuaded Alex to take her home later.

Another wasted attempt.

He wasn’t opposed to a nice dinner with a beautiful woman. After all, he’d agreed to it, though more out of obligation than for personal desire.

When Diego asked him for a favor, Alex thought it was a joke.

You want me to go out with your ex?

She’s not my ex, Diego insisted. She’s just some woman I used to go out with.

That’s an ex, Alex countered, his voice laced with humor.

Diego didn’t find it funny. I just need you to get her off my back.

Reluctantly, Alex agreed. And now, as he sat across from the slender woman, whose crystal eyes glazed over him in hunger, he understood exactly why his friend called in this favor.

A badge bunny.

He didn’t judge him for it—couldn’t have even if he wanted to, considering they’d all taken one home at one point or another. Even Alex wasn’t innocent. It was a rite of passage, a statement throughout the force with some guys competing on how many they could tally by the end of a quarter.

Usually, they were a one-and-done deal, but some were harder to shake than others. Judging by the woman sitting across from him now, Alex realized that Diego had dug himself a hole he couldn’t escape alone.

She was bouncing in her chair all night—one hop away from slipping out of her dress entirely, and Alex had no intention of being treated to a show.

You seem a little tense, she purred. Her blue eyes, glossy from the bottle of wine she’d insisted on having. Leaning over, she twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. What’s wrong Alex? Am I making you nervous?

He tried not to roll his eyes. Sure, it would be easy to take her home and bury himself between her legs, but then what? By morning, he would have forgotten her name—what was it again?

Oh my god, Jessica! Is that you? A woman yelped behind him, sending Jessica flying out of her seat.

Great, he thought, turning slightly in his chair and typing a quick message into his phone.

Prick.

You can thank me later, Diego replied quickly.  

Don’t worry, I plan to.

Three dots appeared on the screen, lingering for a moment before disappearing. After a few minutes without a reply, Alex assumed the conversation was over—for now.

At the sound of his name, he turned to find both women staring at him.

I was just telling her how we met, Jessica said as if they were in some whirlwind relationship.

He plastered a smile on his face and reached out to shake her friend’s hand. It’s nice to meet you.

The woman blushed—her delicate fingers lingering around his a little too long before finally pulling away.

I think it’s so romantic. You know her father was a cop?

That explained it.

Alex is a detective, Jessica corrected, taking a step towards him. She lifted her hand, wrapping it around his arm and tightening her grip.

Internally, Alex groaned.

In a matter of minutes, he’d somehow become an unwilling participant in whatever pissing match these two were having over him. Not that it mattered since he wasn’t interested in either of them anyway.

When his phone rang and Diego’s name scrolled across the screen, Alex was relieved.

I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this, he said, peeling himself away from Jessica’s side.

Official detective business, she mouthed to her friend—who nodded as he slipped away.

Once he was out of earshot, Alex answered. Are you calling to apologize? He asked triumphantly.

Diego’s voice came in, short and firm. Alex recognized that voice—it was his cop voice. The one he used when something terrible happened.

Alex— he said, his voice cracking through the phone. There’s been an accident.

Alex silently thanked whatever poor bastard had done something stupid enough that he would need to be called in—despite knowing there’d be a victim, and for that, he felt selfish. But as he looked over his shoulder at the two women, still vying for his attention, Alex promised he’d make up the hail Mary’s for it later.

Send me the location, he grunted into the phone, but there was a pause. What is it Diego? Spit it out.

A deep breath. One so heavy it sucked the air from Alex’s lungs, followed by hollow words. "I’m so sorry. . ."

Alex stared at his phone, confused. What the hell are you talking about? Sorry for what?

There was a tightness in his chest, like something heavy was sitting on it, making it hard for him to breathe. He tried to swallow it, to clear his lungs by clearing his throat, but it was useless. Alex knew exactly what would cause his best friend of twenty years to be so elusive.

Still, the impact of it, the sudden blow that loosened the tightness in his chest, was a massive one, and it caused him to crack, right down to his core.

Tears swelled in his eyes. Just say it! He shouted.

His sudden outburst caused the entire restaurant to go still, but he didn’t care. From their table, both Jessica and her friend gaped at him.

Finally, Diego said softly, They’re gone.

The dark, moonless night made the strobing lights of blue and red seem more haunting as he approached. They blocked the road, forcing Alex to drive alongside the narrow shoulder.

It was because of those lights, he could see menacing streaks of black on the asphalt. Evidence of where tires attempted to stop but couldn’t—not in time at least. They curled down the road a few feet before disappearing. 

That’s where their car came to rest, on its side—both windows blown out. The entire front end was smashed in.

Alex didn’t see the other vehicle right away. Instead, his attention was drawn to the yellow sheet covering the passenger side window, where the outline of a body could be seen through the shattered glass. 

The driver was sprawled onto the hood, their feet dangling over the mangled steering wheel, and Alex’s heart twisted in on itself. It was hard to tell them apart from here, although he could wager a guess. His mother hated driving, so that left his father behind the wheel—slumped over the wheel.

Alex had been to hundreds of crime scenes—had stood amongst carnage and calamity but not like this, never like this. Never had he seen it through the eyes of the families whose loved ones were covered under the same yellow blanket. 

They were victims too. 

Now, as he stood there, his breathing shallow and his body rigid—unsure of what to do, unsure if there was anything he could do, Alex found himself a victim too.

He’d never given it much thought, other than the usual empathy he felt whenever a call came in. In law enforcement, things don’t get easier—you just learn how to become more numb.

You know that at the end of every call, there’s a life involved—a family who lost a loved one, someone whose life was severely impacted. But by the time Alex gets involved, they’re considered cases, not people.

You can’t fit someone into a file. Who they are, what they like, and the people they might have influenced. Those are the variables that make a person who they are. And yet, those are the exact details that are stripped away once they become a victim. 

It’s how men like Alex stop themselves from making it personal. They have to, otherwise they’d never solve anything. 

Staring at the husk of twisted metal and broken glass wrapped around his parent’s lifeless bodies—broken inside, it was nothing but personal. 

He didn’t realize he’d walked up to the scene—wasn’t in control of his body until he was face to face with Diego.

You can’t go up there, Diego insisted, pressing his large hands against Alex’s chest as if that would stop him. 

Like hell I can’t, Alex argued. Diego was right in front of him, and yet Alex couldn’t see him at all. All he could focus on were those bright yellow sheets.

Alex, it’s an active scene, and you even being here goes against every protocol we have set in place. I can’t let you go any further.

Drinking in the world around him, Alex steadied himself against his best friend. He knew Diego was right, and he hated him for it. 

Even as he stared at the crumpled metal that was once their car, now unrecognizable, part of him was still convinced there was something he could do.

You don’t want to see them like that, Diego said, his voice softening.

Again, he was right, and again, Alex hated him for it.

Where’s the other driver? It was more of a demand than a question as Alex scanned the hellish view, his eyes tracing over the red BMW a few yards away from where the impact occurred. It was dented and beat up, but nothing compared to the pretzel his parents were in.

Diego surveyed him cautiously, no doubt assessing his mental state. Alex knew he was trying to determine what he could tell him as an officer and what he wanted to say to him as his friend. 

Paramedics just loaded him up. He’s in rough shape, but he’ll live.

Good, Alex bristled, and Diego knew what he meant.

Assaulting him won’t bring them back.

You’re right, it won’t, but it will make me feel a hell of a lot better. Besides, it’s only assault if I leave him alive. Alex realized what he said was foolish, but he didn’t care.

Diego leveled a warning look at him.

 I want the results of his blood test as soon as the lab has them, Alex conceded. 

Diego nodded but didn’t move, not until Alex finally took a step back. I know this isn’t easy, but I need you to walk away right now and let me do my job, he said.

Alex flinched as those words clanged through him. They were the exact words he’d found himself saying countless times to others who’d been insistent on staying. Hearing them from this side, they sounded hollow—light and weightless. 

Alex turned on his heels and stalked back to his truck—midnight black and outlined against the night. His colleagues had nicknamed it The Reaper. 

The title tasted sour in his mouth now. 

The short walk seemed like an eternity, yet he kept his head up and his back straight so nobody could see how heavy he felt. He didn’t wait for them to move his parents into the black nylon bags, where they would be taken from the scene directly to the medical examiner. Alex knew witnessing that would be his undoing, and he wasn’t ready to give in.

He drove back to his apartment in silence, ignoring the calls and texts slowly trickling in. Walking into the dark and unwelcoming quiet, he didn’t turn on the light or take off his boots. Instead, he stood there, enveloped in the shadows and eerie silence that seemed so loud now, before allowing his knees to buckle.

In the moment, Alex thought he felt something. The smoothness of a hand pressed against his back as he shook and shuddered into the shadows blanketing him. But he knew better than to believe it was anything other than grief announcing its arrival. 

Amongst the despair, the whirlwind of emotions he was free falling through, he turned to it and whispered, I guess it’s just you and me now. 

Chapter Two

Maeve

I hated the way she said my name. I hated the way it pulled off her tongue and slithered into my ears, dripping down into my bones and echoing deep into my spine.

Maeve—

I don’t know why I hated it so much. Maybe it was because I never felt like her—like a Maeve. Or maybe it was because whenever I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw pieces of her staring back at me.

For the love of god, Maeve, HELLO?!

What?! I demanded.

My mother has this way of looking at me, like I’ve done something wrong—like I’m always doing something wrong. Her eyes, sea green and bright, were defined in the corners as she glared at me from across the room.

Have you been listening to a single word I’ve said? she asked, her face pinched together like she’d eaten something sour.

Yes, I lied.

Clicking her tongue, she returned to her vanity, where several lipstick tubes rolled off the table. Then, with a heavy sigh, she continued talking about things I didn’t care to listen to.

That’s how she’s always been. My mother has this insatiable thirst to stand out, to do things differently, to be a little extra.

We are the complete opposites.

Where she enjoys vibrant colors spilled onto the low-cut shirts and skintight pants she adores, I prefer comfort over beauty—wearing more casual clothes rather than high-end, uncomfortable style. 

Where she paints glitter and lipstick the color of rose petals onto her lips, I barely wear Chapstick on my own pouted smile. To some, these are minor differences that hardly run skin deep, but to me, they’re part of a much bigger picture. 

Her bright, bleached hair rested in tight curls around her face and shoulders. Her tan—the one she continuously pays for at the local salon—stained her skin a rusty color, several shades darker than it should be. 

I rested my elbows on the counter and leaned over as I watched her apply an eclectic array of soft blues and white hues across her eyelids. I stared at her while she swiped thick mascara over her long, full lashes—her mouth hung open as if in shock, eyes wide and hand steady so she wouldn’t poke herself with the wand. 

You should let me curl your hair, she suggested—my gawking at her an open invitation.

I reached up and twisted my ponytail inside my fist, where strands of charcoal hair loosened from its bind. 

We’ve talked about this, I said, trying not to sound bored. I like it this way.

I know, but you would look so beautiful if you did something other than that, she insisted—gesturing at me with her perfectly manicured hand.

Here we go again.

 It’s as if I’m not beautiful without blush and lipstick. As if I desperately needed some heavy foundation to cover up my already flawless skin.

In reality, it’s not about makeup at all—it’s about envy. 

It’s about control.

If she can paint me into something else and cover up my natural beauty the way she hides hers, we will finally be the same. Men will drift their eyes to her instead of lingering only on me, and she will no longer see me as competition in a game I don’t even want to be a part of.

When I was little, random strangers constantly praised her for what a beautiful child I was. As I got older, blossoming from adolescence into womanhood, those innocent compliments became bold comments—mostly made by men.

It’s why my mother puts so much effort into her appearance. Maybe it’s jealousy, perhaps it’s competition. Either way, it’s not speculation. 

I’ve seen the way her crisp green eyes cut sideways glances at me every time a man’s gaze lingers too long on my porcelain skin. Or the way her face drops—just minimally at the mention of my own eyes, a shade so blue, they might as well be teal. I’m a walking contrast, sticking out when I desperately want to blend in.

You know, it wouldn’t kill you to come out with me tonight, she insisted as she slipped into a pair of six-inch heels. They’re gold and gaudy, and they hurt my feet just by looking at them. 

Thanks, but no thanks, I said—peeling myself away from the table. I have plans anyway.

We go through this every week, and every week, I find myself re-explaining to her why I don’t want to hang out at the local bar alongside her. 

With your cat? She asked, raising an eyebrow.

I flinched because she wasn’t wrong. Still, I didn’t want to openly admit that I’d much rather trade in a night filled with cheap booze and shitty music to hang out with Charles Lickens.

Instead, I rolled my eyes and laughed. A poor attempt at convincing her—at convincing myself that my life was not as pathetic as it outwardly seemed.

For a moment, things were quiet, with the uncomfortable weight of our relationship stripped bare between us. It was brief—mere seconds even, but it was long enough to irritate an already infected wound—one that’s been festering for years.

I’d waited well into adulthood for that moment when things would change. When our relationship would inevitably shift from that of a parent and their child to one of a mother and her daughter. The kind that carries a bond. I thought it would happen instantly. I stupidly believed that when I became an adult, I would understand her more.

Now I understand her less.

Twilight cut across the sky as I walked along the sidewalk, winding through the neighborhood on the south side of the shore. 

It was warm but still barely June, and the night air still held on to a leftover chill from the wet spring season.

By now, vacationers and summer residents have already started returning to Saltridge, and at the end of the month, our quiet little town would be roaring with life again. 

I decided not to head straight home but instead, headed for the beach.

The moon hung heavy and full, casting a shimmering glow onto the water as the tide swept in. The view was stunning. The reflection cast off the waves looked like it’s own galaxy, spilled across the sea.

I’ve lived here my entire life, yet I’ve always been an outsider—a stranger in my own home, in my own skin, someone who openly doesn’t belong, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. Yet here, where the edge of the world is stitched together on a fine seam—constantly on the brink of unraveling—I feel most at peace.

There was a spot just out of reach of the hungry water, where the sand was left dry and untouched. Sitting down, I dug my toes deep into the sift, inhaling a breath of salty air. The slight sting of it tickled the back of my throat, but I didn’t mind because it left behind a familiar aftertaste—one I could never seem to hold onto for very long.

For a while, I watched as the waves rolled onto the shore, crashing and pulling away slowly, dragging pieces of the world back as they retreated. It was a beautiful and well-rehearsed dance, and I wondered how long it would take before the earth had no more of itself to give. How often would the water kiss the sand before stealing every grain, leaving nothing but disappointment and emptiness upon its return?

I’ve always been fascinated by the ocean—its vastness, its hunger. And although I’ve never been in it, I can’t stay away from it either. 

The open sea is a dangerous creature, unpredictable and heartless. It will swallow you whole and dissolve your bones into foam. It is a lawless, wretched thing, yet equally seductive, alluring, and elusive. I cannot think of a better thing for a monster to be.

Sitting here, I craved it. Every part of my body vibrated as I stared into the dark horizon, my skin becoming covered in gooseflesh. It happens every time I come here, and I can’t tell if it’s from excitement, or fear.

I’ve tried countless times to walk into the water but can never seem to reach it because I falter every time. All the confidence I’ve mustered, all the courage and self-assurance I’ve managed to build up, somehow spills out of me and onto the shore, where I remain rooted in apprehension.

And yet, every night, it calls to me. 

Every night, I lie in bed, listening to it sing. There’s this part of me, a dark and wicked thing coiled beneath my skin that rattles itself awake when I listen to it cry. As if the ocean’s songs were meant for it—beckoning it home.

Maybe it’s not the dark and menacing water that scares me, but this ache inside my bones, the one that wants to drive me far out into