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That she couldn’t find Larimar?

Couldn’t rescue her?

That Larimar wouldn’t follow?

That she already died?

That Nill was wrong?

I can’t bear to not know. The seconds it takes for Maren to appear again are pure agony.

And then, Maren does, her face breaking through the surface and grabbing for the rope.

“Pull us up!” she yells.

“Us?” I can’t help but shout, hope at the brink.

The men start pulling the ropes back, hauling Maren out of the water. Her red dress is little more than a few strands of clothing wrapped around her chest and torso, barely covering her bottom as her tail starts to transform into legs before my eyes, legs that wrap around the rope.

My gaze then goes to the waves below, to the shark fin swimming beside the ship. It disappears, tail smacking the water as if Nill is diving down. I’m holding my breath, saying as many internal prayers as my soul can muster, not expecting an answer this time but asking for one just the same.

Then, I see a hand reach out from the surf.

Grab the rope.

And then, the rest of Larimar appears.

I feel I might have a heart attack on the spot.

She looks as beautiful as I remember but much thinner, and not agreeably so—dark half-moons sit under her eyes, gaunt hollows on her face. Her breasts are smaller too. My gut churns, wondering what happened to her.

Was it me?

Was this all because of me?

Then, she looks up and meets my eyes.

Looks directly at me.

And she doesn’t look surprised to see me at all.

Her gaze is blank, but there’s a fluttering in her jaw, as if she’s grinding her teeth together.

I realize that, for all the scenarios I imagined, I didn’t account for this one.

The one in which Larimar is alive.

The one in which she hates me.

Because how could she not?

She might have stayed my obsession.

But I was her desecrater.

She was my angel.

And I was nothing more than the Devil.