Page 8

8

CALIFORNIA, 2011

“Hannah!” I call out, my throat hoarse. “Hannah!”

“We’ve checked the boathouse and the yacht club,” says Joe, the current owner of Danny’s, the bar where I used to work. “There’s nothing.”

Every time someone tells me they haven’t found her, another little piece of my heart breaks. It’s been almost two hours and night has transcended day, the reflection of the moon in the water of Glorietta Bay a sickening reminder. As small a town as Coronado is, what chance have we got of finding her if she’s wandered off by herself, let alone if she’s been led away by someone else? Someone I can’t help but fear has a sinister motive.

“Over here!” calls a voice from somewhere beyond the Naked Warrior memorial.

I race toward the unnerving cry, willing myself to believe it can only be something positive. But Brad’s there before I am, and his face says it all.

“It was tucked under the bench,” says Justin, the chef from the Night at least, I thought we were…”

Hank puts a reassuring hand on Brad’s back.

“What about you?” he asks me.

I wince at his abrupt tone—or maybe that’s how he always talks, except now it suddenly sounds accusatory.

“You’ve got the city council hearing for the seals at La Jolla coming up—there must be quite a few disgruntled locals who think they’ve got as much right of way to the beach as the seals have.” He looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Have you come across anyone who’s been more vocal than most? Who’s perhaps taken offense at what you’re trying to do?”

I rack my brain, thinking of all the run-ins I’ve had since starting the petition to close the beach. But as much as I try to pretend that the old man who called me “an interfering bitch” might be riled enough to warrant kidnapping my daughter, I can’t turn a blind eye to the woman who coincidentally turned up on my doorstep today, asking questions about what happened twenty-five years ago. I always knew I couldn’t run from it—forever—that it would catch up with me in the end—but I never imagined that my daughter would be the pawn, punished for something I’ve done. How naive of me.

“Nic?” prompts Brad. “Can you think of anyone?”

My mouth opens and I go to speak, but there’s too much to unpack here and now, and it won’t go anywhere toward finding Hannah. So, I numbly shake my head instead.

“Right, we’re going to work backward over toward the Del,” Hank shouts out to the growing team of volunteers. “Make sure to check any tucked-away places—anywhere a child might think is exciting to hide.” He’s still acting as if this is nothing more than a case of Hannah having run off—at least to the locals—for fear that the more sinister reality will elicit a panicked community.

“What about your boat?” says Justin. “Could Hannah have gone there?”

In any other circumstance, it’s highly probable. She loves going out on the water, especially if it means she gets to spend special time with her dad. The pair of them often head out at the weekends, taking sandwiches and a flask to while away an afternoon on the waves. Brad invariably fills her head with tales of his Navy SEAL exploits and she’ll come bursting through the door, desperately needing to know if Daddy really used to be as brave as he said he was, now that he has a desk job.

“He’s even braver now,” I’d said to her last week when they came in from watching the military jets fly over North Island, just off Coronado.

“But he doesn’t do all that dangerous stuff anymore,” she’d said, looking at me all confused.

“No, but he gets to be your dad,” I’d said, smiling. “And that’s way harder than anything a Navy SEAL has to go through.”

She’d rolled her eyes and I’d laughed as if I was joking, but watching him now, as his panicked eyes dart from side to side and a tangible fear crawls into every crevice of his vexed expression, I realize that I meant it.

“Nic, go and check the boat,” says Brad, his brain clearly working at a million miles an hour.

“But…” I start, knowing that it’s a waste of time.

“She might have gone there if she was scared,” he says, as if trying to convince himself that the story everyone else is working to might actually be true.

“She was taken, ” I hiss under my breath. “She’s not going to be conveniently dropped back to our boat.”

He fixes me with an unmoving stare, as if questioning why I wouldn’t want to explore every avenue. “If she’s been left somewhere by someone who has grown tired of this sick game, then the boat might be the place she’d go if she can’t make her way home.”

His rambling thoughts strike a chord I don’t want to hear. “Is that what you think this is?” I snap, though my frustration isn’t aimed at him. “That someone’s playing a game with us?”

“I hope that’s all it is,” he chokes, as he runs a frantic hand through his hair. “Because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.”

I force both his alternative, and the resounding voice that this is all my fault, to the back of my mind as I race down the jetty, willing life into Brad’s theory. He could be right; this could all be a bad judgment call instigated by a disgruntled resident who has bitten off more than they can chew. Maybe they wanted to teach me a lesson, to make me realize that I should be focusing more on my daughter’s well-being than that of the seals. And as I near the boat, I don’t doubt that they might be right, and vow that from this point onward that’s exactly what I’ll do. But as I rip the tarp cover off and catch sight of Hannah’s pink windbreaker, I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance.