Dark Vengeance, Kristi Belcamino [i read books txt] 📗

other began to nod. “Yeah,” he said. “That was definitely her.”

The other guy held the phone closer and then nodded, as well. “Totally. Gorgeous.”

“And slayed those waves.”

I looked at Makeda. “She was pretty good,” Makeda said. “Fierce. We nicknamed her smighty because she is small but mighty.”

“I heard she packed up and left after a few sets,” I said. “Any idea where she was going or even what direction?”

One guy scratched his head. “The island is pretty small. I don’t think there’s really any place to stay the night except pitching a tent on the beach or back in the jungle, where there’s a little makeshift campground. If she stayed on the island, that’s where she’d be. It’s pretty desolate.”

“We took the last ferry out for the night and she wasn’t onboard. But there was a ferry earlier in the day she could’ve taken.”

“Thanks,” I said and turned to find Dylan. I’d have to wait until morning to go check out the island.

Dylan wasn’t up by the road. I scanned the shore. I didn’t see his dark figure anywhere. I let out a loud whistle. Everyone looked. But he didn’t come. Makeda gave me an alarmed look, and, without a word, we both rushed up to the road where he’d been a few minutes before. There was no sign of him.

Fuck.

I began to shout his name in between whistling. Nothing.

“Maybe he headed back to the hut,” I said. After all, it was his home. We both ran down the dirt road to the hut at the end. The door was open, but I was pretty sure I’d left it that way.

A quick scan of the interior revealed it was empty. Dylan was not there.

Then, as I was about to back out of the hut, something caught my eye.

The Joan Didion paperback. I would’ve swore I’d left it on the futon bed on the floor a few minutes ago.

Now it was splayed on the small table. It was face down, but opened to a particular page. What the hell? My head swiveled. She’d been here. Rose. She’d come and taken Dylan.

32

Makeda came running in the door of the hut, panting.

“Is he here?”

“Rose took him.”

She looked at me wide-eyed.

“That book,” I said to Makeda. She nodded.

“You left it on the bed. I remember.”

“It was Rose.”

We both took off outside and headed back down the road toward the town. There was no sign of Rose or Dylan.

We asked back at the bonfire. Nobody had seen anything.

Makeda gave me a sorrowful look.

I exhaled. “At least she’s okay.”

“You know it was her, for sure, that took him?” Makeda said.

I thought about it for a second and nodded. “Yeah. That explains him sniffing and wagging his tail and leaving my side. He knew she was here. He smelled her. It had to be her.”

Makeda gave me this smile that made me feel like she was appeasing me and clearly thought that my theory was bullshit. But there was that book.

I headed back to the hut.

Once inside, I closed the door and stood over the book. With trembling fingers, I picked it up, turning it over, keeping the pages the way she had set it down. And began to read.

As I did, a tear slid down my face.

Rose had been here. And she’d wanted me to read this passage.

She knew Nico was dead. This was her message, maybe even apology, to me.

The passage was about the death of Joan Didion’s husband.

Rose had underlined two sentences: “I could not count the times during the average day when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse did not end with his death. What ended was the possibility of response.”

I flipped through the book. There were several dog-eared pages and more underlined passages: “The death of a parent, she wrote, ‘despite our preparation, indeed, despite our age, dislodges things deep in us, sets off reactions that surprise us and that may cut free memories and feelings that we had thought gone to ground long ago.’”

And then another: “Things happened in life that mothers could not prevent or fix.”

I hadn’t realized I was crying until one fat tear dripped onto the page.

Rose’s message was clear.

She knew Nico was dead.

33

“Dante?” I said, holding the phone up to my ear.

I had no idea what time it was in San Diego. I had waited until the first light of the sun had hit the ocean and dialed him. I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning.

“Gia?” he said. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I said.

“Where are you? I can come wherever you are.”

A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t deserve this man’s friendship and loyalty. I never had.

“You’ve pulled me out of the darkness before,” he said.

It was true. I had gone to Baja, Mexico to save him from himself. That was a long time ago.

“I’m lost,” I said and rubbed one eye hard with my fist.

“Oh, Gia.” He knew I didn’t mean geographically.

“I can’t find my way.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then he cleared his throat.

“Have you thought about going home?”

I stared off into space thinking about that word: Home.

I didn’t know what it was anymore.

“Nico’s dead, Dante,” I said, a sob catching in my throat. “He’s dead. Nico’s dead.”

I swiped at my tears and runny nose. In the distance, I saw the surfers zipping up their wetsuits and heading for the water.

“I know, Gia.” His voice was soft and sorrowful.

“I can’t go home. Nobody’s there anymore,” I said, now openly weeping. “Nico is dead. Rose is—God knows where she is. I tried so hard to find her, but she doesn’t want to be found, Dante. She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t need me.”

Dante sighed. “Gia, she’s striking out on her own. It’s her way of dealing with her grief. It’s her way of dealing with her losses. She’s like you. She lost so much so young.”

“I want to help her.”

“You can’t,” he said. “You can’t help her unless she wants your help. She