Page 113 of Saltwater

As she got closer to the cliffs, Renata paused. Earlier in the evening, she had selected a red dress from her closet, the choice driven by the way the red of Sarah’s dress accentuated her tan, the flush of her cheeks. But now Renata looked down, embarrassed by the decision. She imagined Sarah waking up and seeing that they matched; she imagined the coincidence making her uncomfortable. Like Renata was trying tobe her.

Renata looked back at the villa and noticed a light on in Richard and Sarah’s room. Yes. They must have fought. They must have come home from their dinner on the Punta Massullo and argued. From the way Sarah’s body looked, Renata worried they had done more than argue.

Sarah would forgive her the cheap imitation of the dress. She walked quickly.

Up close, Sarah was conscious, her eyes open—dazed but blinking. And as soon as she managed to focus, she opened her mouth, tried to speak. But no sound came out, only a hiss of air. Renata dropped to her knees.

“Where are you hurt?” she asked.

Sarah tried to push off the ground with her hands but couldn’t.

“They’ll be back,” Sarah finally said, her voice hoarse.

Renata looked over Sarah’s body; she tried to locate a fracture, a cut, the source of the injury. There were smears of blood on her arms and along her cheek, and when Sarah turned her head to try to see behind her, Renata saw it, the way the back of her head was matted with blood. She needed a hospital. Soon.

“Okay.” Renata wrapped an arm under Sarah’s to help her up. “Can you stand?”

Sarah seemed unsteady, but nodded. She was stronger now, now that help had arrived.

“Renata—”

Sarah said her name in a way that made Renata look behind her. But still, they were alone. No noise came from the villa.

“Who did this to you?” Renata asked. “Did Richard?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. Then: “No. Not him. All of them.”

Renata had watched them leave the villa that night. Naomi Lingate was already drunk, and Marcus Lingate was, as usual, ignoring the tensions that simmered between his brother and sister-in-law. Richard limped around the kitchen and through the loggia. But Renata hadn’t heard any ill words, any threats issued.

What had happened to the family in the intervening hours?

“Can you walk?” Renata asked.

Sarah took two tentative steps on her own. She managed.

“Not far. But yes.”

Renata pointed to the stone wall at the edge of the garden, where the fig trees grew in low, full tufts against the ground, their leaves a thick camouflage.

“All right,” she said, “go back along the wall until you reach the door to my house. Start walking now. I’ll be right behind you.”

Sarah did as she was told, and although her steps were halting at first, she seemed to gain confidence with every bit of progress she made. Until, finally, she was nearly hidden from view.

Renata looked down at the blood Sarah had spread across the rocks and noticed something on the flagstones, something gold and glintingin the light. She bent and picked it up—they were Sarah’s wedding rings, the diamond and the band. She instinctively reached to put them in a pocket, but since the dress had none, she slipped them onto her ring finger.

There would be, she knew, repercussions for this. She might lose her job. The Lingates might accuse her of lying about what she had seen. Her help might only make things between Richard and Sarah worse. But she didn’t have a choice. The woman was injured, nearly dead. She had been left alone in the garden while the family hid in the house, while her husband was in their bedroom, awake.

No, she had done the right thing. She had done the only thing.

Renata checked that the rings were tight on her finger. They were. And then, before she could follow Sarah, she heard the sound of soft, padding footsteps on the lawn. There wasn’t time to turn before she felt the hands on her. But they weren’t the large hands of Richard or Marcus; they were small, with sharp nails and surprising strength. Hands that were pushing her, closer and closer to the low stone wall, to the cliff that fell away below.

“Naomi,” she said. “Naomi, stop!”

But when Renata managed to catch a glimpse of Naomi’s face in the moonlight, she could tell—Naomi wasn’t there. Her eyes were glassy pools, her mouth parted. She didn’t even recognize her. All she saw was the red dress, the blond hair. It was as if Naomi was sleepwalking, acting out a deep, seamless nightmare.

Up at the villa behind them, Renata also saw a shadow, the outline of someone standing, alone, in the window. Instinctively, she knew it wasn’t Richard. Richard, whose body was slight, wiry. No, it was Marcus. And before she could call out for his help, before she could say anything, Naomi forced her over the edge of the low stone wall and onto the cliffs below.

It was the last thing she remembered: the feeling of Naomi’s hands against her back. And then the rocky ledge against her knees. The ledge that made her whole body buckle. After that, there was only the sea air, pulling her farther and farther down, until there was nothing.

---