Daughter of Deep Silence by Carrie Ryan Page B

begins to light up his face. It freezes the moment recognition hits. Awkwardness slams down around him.
    As he begins to fumble out an apology I let my breath hitch, allow a bit of panic to seep into my eyes. I press a hand to my chest, talking over him. “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away. “It’s just . . .” I wave generally toward the crowd of people inside and shake my head as if it’s all too much.
    Instantly he’s concerned and begins to ask if I’m okay but I don’t give him the chance to finish. I’m already halfway across the patio, trying to keep from breaking out into a run. When I reach the boardwalk I crash my toes against the bottom step, tripping forward and catching myself on the railing. I pull myself up and rush down the old wooden planks past the dunes to the beach.
    And then it is there in front of me: the wash of ocean. It’s the closest I’ve been to it since being rescued. Even now I feel some sort of tug, as though it had laid claim on my life four years ago and intends to collect.
    “
Not now
,” I whisper under my breath.
Not yet
, I add silently.
    I force myself forward, pushing the fear under a layer of cold determination—focusing on the plan rather than the way the pulse of waves matches the beat of my heart.
    The tears come freely when my feet hit the sand and I’m almost at the water’s edge before I let myself crumple to my knees. In front of me, the ocean stretches out seamless against the sky and the taste of salt claws at my throat. I press my face into my hands, as though to block out the world.
    Knowing this is how he’ll find me and that he won’t be able to resist offering comfort. Grey never could pass up a damsel in distress.
    I hear his footsteps first, the gait uneven as he jogs through the soft sand after me. Even though I hear him call, “Libby,” I don’t turn. He slows as he comes near, but he doesn’t stop until he’s by my side.
    This time when he says, “
Libby
,” like a whisper, I tilt my head up toward him. He towers over me, his eyes scanning quickly across my face: the tear tracks, the openly exposed misery. The loneliness. Instantly he crouches, not caring that the damp sand soaks the cuffs of his perfectly ironed pants.
    But he hesitates as he reaches for my shoulder. He starts to say something, ask if I’m okay, but whatever it was is swallowed when I fall against his chest, my arms trapped between us.
    In this I give Frances rein, allowing her misery to seep through so that the tears and anguish are authentic. Over and over again I tell him I’m sorry, the words muffled against his shoulder and he just responds with “It’s okay,” as he keeps his arms awkward and loose around me.
    It was one of the things that had drawn me so fiercely to Grey on the cruise ship: his compassion. Nothing triggers it so as much as a girl in tears. There’s a part of me that hates that I’ve used this against him. That this is how I’ve laid my trap.
    But there’s another part of me that only cares that, after all these years, I’m finally in his arms again.

TEN
    I keep myself pressed against Grey a few moments longer before letting out a flustered laugh and pushing myself free of his arms. Keeping my head ducked, I bite my lip and squinch my eyes closed, as though I’m too embarrassed to face him.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be to come back. All the memories of my dad and everyone talking about . . .” I trail off, letting the
Persephone
go unspoken.
    “No, it’s okay.” His fingers flutter against my upper arm. Now that the tears have passed he’s unsure of how to handle me. There’s no protocol for this sort of situation—no guidebook for what to say when a girl you once met four years ago and left to die out on the ocean abruptly comes back into your life.
    It was Frances he’d been close to on the cruise, not Libby. To him Libby had been more of a third wheel. It’s