Her first mistake was going to Tampa. She should have known that nothing good ever happened in Florida.
Her second mistake was marrying
him
. That was the worst mistake of all.
Dressed in a white charmeuse wedding gown and clutching a bouquet of gardenias to her breast, Grace Marshall had walked down the aisle to the altar. Like a lamb to the slaughter. A silly lamb. A moron. An idiot. A goddamn fool.
Six years before sealing her fate at the altar, Grace had been 18 years old. She'd left her hometown of Andover Connecticut to attend the University of South Florida. That was where she'd met Jack Forester, her very own 'Florida Man.'
He'd treated her well at first, but as soon as his wedding ring was on her finger and she was living under his roof, he'd changed. It had begun with questions.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"How come you're home 10 minutes later than you were supposed to be?"
"Who was that guy you were talking to?"
"You were flirting with the bastard, weren't you?"
"Why are you wearing such a short skirt? Are you a hooker? Oh, you're not? Then why do you keep dressing like one?"
"Why did you go there alone when I specifically told you not to?"
"Why are you still friends with that bitch even after I told you to cut ties with her? She's a bad influence."
"Why haven't you quit your job yet? I keep telling you that you don't need to parade yourself around an office with all those leering men. Not when you've got me to provide for us."
"Why are you always talking on the phone with your dad? What's there for you two to talk about constantly? You know he's never liked me."
Soon, he'd stopped throwing questions and begun throwing fists. Life became easier to bear if she simply let him have everything the way he wanted it.
That life of walking on eggshells had lasted three years, until she'd found the courage to leave. The knowledge that something better was out there became too much to resist. The rest of the world called her like a siren. She needed more out of her existence than waiting for the next time her husband would raise his hand to her. She needed more than sitting around for the next black eye or bloodied lip. She needed
more
.
So she'd packed a bag and run. And she'd been running ever since.
Always looking over her shoulder. Never going anywhere he'd expect her to go. Places he knew made her happiest. Places he'd find her if she ever went. She didn't dare step a toe in Andover, or anywhere near Connecticut.
"Leave me and I'll find you," he'd once told her, those pale blue eyes drilling into her face. "I'll find you and so help me, I'll choke the life out of you with my bare hands."
She'd never forgotten those words, because she knew he'd meant them. Jack Forester did not make empty threats. Jack Forester did not play.
He would never be finished with her until one or both of them were dead. So she never stopped running. She worked temporary jobs and lived in short-lease apartments. Wondering, each hour of each day, if she'd turn a corner and see him.
She'd gone from Tampa to Chicago and stayed there a month, then to Milwaukee for six weeks, then D.C. for a couple months, then Raleigh, then Dallas, then Denver, then Albuquerque. Bouncing around with no pattern.
Right now, she was in California. She'd lived in Albuquerque for three months but she'd begun to feel watched so she'd run again. She'd cut her long hair off, dyed it black, exchanged her car for a different make, model and color—and fled her apartment in the dead of night.
She'd taken circuitous routes for miles; heading northwest. She'd arrived at Paloma Beach. She'd been here 2 weeks and she didn't feel like she'd been followed. Here among summer tourists, she felt safe. Her new studio apartment was in a downtown tenement.
It was always safer in crowded tenements. Where someone would hear if she screamed...
That thought made her stomach clench. Her lunch leapt to the back of her throat.
Deliberately, Grace took a deep breath of sea breeze, swallowing her nausea and forcing herself to relax. There was no need to be afraid. Jack Forester hadn't found her trail again. He hadn't tracked her here. He wasn't watching her. She was safe, even if just for now.
She spent the whole day at that tranquil beach, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat and aviators. As the day drew to its close, she watched the sunset over the bay, thinking that she hadn't swum. It had been a long time since she'd swum, and she'd gotten so much sun today that she wanted a dip before it got too dark and evening tide came in.
Tipping back her hat brim, Grace cast a look along the beach, scanning each vacationer's face in the light of the sunset. There were no faces she recognized. Secure in her anonymity, she took off her hat and sunglasses, stood up, and stretched. She left her things on her towel, stepping onto still-warm sands and then out to the shore where land became water. As a wave came washing onto shore, foaming around the bay, she dipped a toe in.
She smiled; the water was wonderfully cool.
She waded in, her smile growing wider as her overwarm body was enveloped in cool water. She stayed close to shore at first, but the temptation soon came to swim just a little farther out. She gave into temptation, cleaving the water with skilful strokes. Swimming felt amazing after lying in the sun all day. She was utterly serene. Nobody was watching.
But within the next thirty seconds, she began to pray fervently that somebody
was
watching and would come to her rescue.
The riptide came out of nowhere, and came instantaneously.
Much later, she would kick herself for not having noticed the signs when she'd begun to swim out. But she swam straight into a break in the waves and didn't realize she was in life-threatening danger until a longshore current jetted her farther out from the beach. She instantly lost control of her movements. The water moved her, grabbing her like a ragdoll and dragging her with it, out to the sea.
A wave crashed over her head. Saltwater rushed into her mouth. Panic shot into her chest—sheer, unadulterated panic.
