Page 4
Pacific Horizon Research Institute
Four months later
D r. Graham Stirling stared at Kendra’s note, his eyes scanning the familiar lines for what felt like the hundredth time. JX-170 and NX-642 teamed up again. Even now, months after her death, his mind struggled to fully grasp the brutal reality of the attack that had taken her life.
She had been so young, too damn young. Research assistants had come and gone over the years, but Kendra was different. Her love for the ocean and its creatures was contagious, an enthusiasm that could light up even the dullest of days in the lab. Yes, she had the quintessential California surfer look: sun-kissed skin, blonde hair that always seemed to catch the light, and a smile as sharp as it was charming. But that wasn’t what had drawn him to her.
Their relationship had been built on intelligence that turned into a friendship, and not attraction. She was 26, full of life and energy, and he, two decades her senior, had found no temptation in her youthful beauty. What had captivated him was her ability to connect with the sea, and the very heart of the work they did. Her joy, that infectious spark, had been irresistible in the best possible way. Now, the silence she left behind felt like a gaping wound he couldn’t mend.
The findings from Kendra’s death investigation lay spread out before him, a collaborative effort from an array of agencies: local law enforcement, marine safety officials, the medical examiner’s office, the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, forensic experts, the Coast Guard, and finally, the International Shark Attack File (ISAF). Their separate conclusions had been distilled into one meticulous, 213-page document. He’d poured over every word countless times, each reading an attempt to extract meaning from the senseless.
It always circled back to two identifiers etched into his mind: JX-170 and NX-642. The reports didn’t explicitly state it, though they confirmed two distinct shark bite patterns on what little was recovered of Kendra’s remains. Yet, deep in his soul, Graham knew the truth. Those sharks hadn’t just found her, they had killed her.
Graham had never believed in coincidences, and yet here he was, staring at what could only be described as the most extraordinary fluke in marine biology history. Beside him sat another thick report, this one over a decade old. Eleven years prior, a great white shark had systematically stalked and killed a man, narrowly missing his wife and young daughter. Now, that same daughter was set to join his yearly research program, a program designed for graduating seniors focusing on elasmobranch studies, the specialized field of sharks, rays, and skates with his own narrowed research of shark partnerships at the forefront.
Ryan Carter wasn’t yet seventeen and wouldn’t officially graduate for another year, meaning she was completing a four-year degree in just three. It took many students six years. Her IQ was almost off the charts, and she outpaced even Graham, who’s own had been considered exceptional in his field. He begrudgingly acknowledged that her brilliance was evident. Still, he anticipated challenges. Ryan was, after all, a Carter. Her grandfather, who was known for his work on stingrays, was another figure Graham held in reluctant esteem. They weren’t what you’d call friends, but their paths had crossed in professional circles, and twice they’d spoken at the same conferences. Dr. Sawyer reached out and asked if Ryan could join his team, which Graham had reluctantly agreed to.
And then there was Ryan’s stepfather, a man who had rankled Graham’s nerves for years. The man had beaten him out for an award Graham felt was rightfully his, publishing a groundbreaking paper on male shark relationships just as Graham was finalizing his own research on the subject. It still stung. But here was Ryan, stepping into his program, and Graham wasn’t sure if it was brilliance or a marine biology family legacy that would stir the waters most.
He wasn’t even certain why he’d agreed to let her join. She had the grades and determination, but maybe it was the potential to glean some insight her stepfather, Dr. Cordova, might have missed. Maybe it was the chance to push his own research further with a mind as sharp as hers. Or maybe, deep down, he just couldn’t resist the intrigue of having Ryan Carter in the mix. Whatever the reason, one thing was certain, this was going to be a year like no other.
The desk drawer had been taunting him all day. With a resigned sigh, Graham opened it and pulled out the bottle of whiskey nestled inside. He’d never considered himself much of a drinker, but since Kendra’s death, the amber liquid had become his crutch, his way of enduring the endless hours in the lab and the even longer nights where Kendra being eaten alive filled his dreams. He poured a generous measure into a snifter, downed it in one burning gulp, and poured another, repeating the ritual with mechanical precision.
The warmth spread through his chest, dulling the edges of his thoughts. He set the glass down with a soft clink and turned his attention to the Carter report. Flipping it open, he stared at the familiar pages, deciding to read through it yet again. Kate Carter, Ryan’s mother, had refused to let her daughter be interviewed after the attack. Graham had understood the decision. She was only five at the time, after all, but he couldn’t help wondering if Ryan’s precocious intelligence had picked up on details others might have overlooked. It was a thought he dismissed as quickly as it came. He was an idiot for giving the idea any credit.
His hand drifted back to the glass, and he took another long sip, the bitterness mirroring his mood. No, he didn’t look forward to having Ryan Carter in his program. She would be a spoiled prima donna, coddled by her family’s name and their reputation. She’d be a disruption, a problem he didn’t want and certainly didn’t need. Yet, despite himself, a part of him remained curious. Whether she lived up to his low expectations or surprised him, Graham knew one thing for sure: her presence would make this year anything but ordinary.
While his head spun, Graham flipped through the Carter report, skimming pages he had all but memorized. The words blurred together: Sam Carter, killer shark, and the infamous breach. A shark breaching onto a human had never been recorded or witnessed before Sam’s attack. It was a singular event, one that defied every precedent in marine biology. And yet, Graham wasn’t sure if he believed it. There was an account of the shark breaching again when Kate Carter was lifted out of the water. He also found that hard to believe. The systematic destruction of their yacht was another anomaly. He respected the intelligence of sharks, and understood there was a vast ocean of knowledge science had yet to uncover.
His thoughts drifted to the groundbreaking advancements in animal communication. The speaking buttons now being used with dogs and cats were a phenomenon, offering tangible proof of mammalian intelligence and reshaping what was understood about non-human cognition. Whale communication was another frontier slowly being deciphered; researchers were on the cusp of unlocking the complex coding behind their songs.
But sharks. They were different. They lacked the vocalizations of mammals or cetaceans, yet their ancient lineage spoke volumes. Sharks had existed for over 400 million years, predating the dinosaurs and surviving mass extinctions that wiped out nearly all other life. Their evolutionary resilience and adaptability made them one of the most successful species on Earth.
Graham leaned back in his chair, the weight of the report heavy in his mind. The more he studied, the more he questioned. If science was unraveling the intelligence of whales, dogs, and even household cats, who was to say sharks didn’t harbor their own complex, uncharted intellect? He’d been on the cusp of proving it for ten years, and it somehow escaped him. He flipped the page. Perhaps the breach on Sam Carter wasn’t an anomaly after all. Maybe it was a glimpse into something humanity wasn’t yet ready to understand.
Graham poured another snifter, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass as his hand wavered. He decided he’d sleep it off in the small bedroom tucked away in the institute’s back wing. A space that had become a refuge during these endless, haunted nights. The pages of the report blurred before him, and his elbow bumped the bottle, sending it teetering dangerously before he steadied it with a clumsy grab.
Even the alcohol couldn’t dull the vivid horror of the images in his mind. Kendra, being eaten alive, her screams swallowed by the churning sea. She would have known. Of course, she would have known what was happening. Did she see the second shark coming? Was she still alive as they tore her apart, or had she mercifully bled out or drowned before the final terror? The questions gnawed at him like predators in the dark, relentless and unanswerable.
Dr. Graham Stirling knew he would carry these thoughts for the rest of his life. The weight of them would never lighten, and the answers, if there were any, would likely remain forever out of reach.
His head drooped forward, the glass slipping from his hand and landing with a dull thunk on the desk. He passed out moments later, a lightweight in a world of heavyweights, his exhaustion and grief wrapping around him like the crushing depths of the sea.