Page 24 of Saltwater

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Helen is waiting forme at the edge of the beach club, where the concrete slab falls away into the dark blue of the Mediterranean. Thedepth so immediate I almost balk.

I am terrified of open water.

“It’s always colder at first,” she says as she slips in. She inhales, the sound, a silly little whistle through the gap in her teeth.

“I don’t mind the cold,” I lie.

She’s moving her arms in wide circles now. And I think:I can do that.

“Oh fuck.” I inch in.

It’s absolutely freezing. I don’t know how it’s possible that the island of Capri can be so hot and this water so cold. I like the silky highs that come from North Africa. But the water bites my stomach and breasts. And it’s salty, so salty that it stings the corners of my eyes, my nose. At least the salt makes it easier to float.

We paddle around the roped-off swimmers’ bay. Across from us, ashort, round, leathery man, a walrus of a human, slaps his arms against the water as he cuts a leisurely crawl. I expect his face to be whiskered when he pops up, but it’s not.

When we reach the farthest boundary rope, Helen grabs onto a shard of rock, but she can’t quite get ahold of it, so we bounce up and down next to it as the boats make their way under the famed arch of the Faraglioni. And for a minute, it’s nature’s amusement park ride.

Then she looks at the shore, where Freddy is lying, a towel over his face, an already drained cocktail beside him.

“Should we get out of here?” she says, eyeing at the rope that keeps us in.

I don’t want to. But she does, so I agree.

She dips under the rope, and I follow her as she skirts close to the Faraglioni, where day-trippers circle the rocks in small boats, and into the Marina Piccola, where yachts—dozens of them—pepper the bay. A captain yells at us, and Helen yells something back in Italian that I’m pretty sure isFuck off.We’re vulnerable out here.

“You can swim, right?” she says, paddling next to me.

I can. Sort of. But I want to look competent, like the partner she needs me to be, so I say: “Of course.”

“Okay, then.” She puts her face in the water and pulls away from me in a few strokes. I struggle after her, my head above water but falling farther and farther behind. I’m not a strong swimmer, but I am a survivor. I’m still out in the deep when Helen reaches the shallows. In fact, her suit is almost dry by the time I meet her on the rocks.

“How far was that?” I say, out of breath.

She smiles, that big gap. The pink tongue behind it.

“Don’t worry, we don’t have to swim back,” she says. “They say that when Lucifer was cast out of heaven for trying to steal a piece of paradise, he fell here. Into the Bay of Naples. His fallen angels were cast out with him. At least, that’s the legend. And the paradise he tried to steal”—she gestures around her—“was this. The island of Capri. But all their wickedness stayed here.”

I don’t want to talk about myths. Not right now. Even though I know how easily beauty can transform into terror.

“Helen—”

She cuts me off, and I worry she’s about to tell me she’s changed her mind. Or worse, that she’s told them the truth about the necklace, the letter we wrote.

“Did you know we’re right below the house?” she says. “My mother’s body was found near here.” She looks at her hands against the rocks.

It’s hot on this side of the Faraglioni, the sun full on. There’s no real beach where we are, no real place to go ashore, no real safety, only pieces of the island that have fallen and gathered to create a little sliver of tenuous, isolated sand.

I consider changing the subject, keeping us on task. There’s money at stake. But I can’t help it. Her mother’s death lurks everywhere here. It’s the backdrop to every dinner, every view, every cocktail hour. She’s famous for dying, Sarah Lingate. And they’re all famous for not killing her. Maybe.

Everyonewants to know.

“What do you think happened?” I ask.

Helen rolls her face toward me and holds up a hand to block the sun. All around us are the craggy cliffs and cacti, the deep blue sea, a landscape with ancient appeal.

“I think they killed her,” she says. Then she looks back out over the stretch of sparkling water. “But not the way everyone thinks. Maybe she did it to herself. Maybe it was an accident. In any case, I’m sure it’s one of them—all of them—that pushed her. Never physically. They wouldn’t do that. They’re too soft. But just every day, a little closer and closer and closer, until—” She brushes her hands together to wipe off the sand, but she’s miscalculated the force and it sounds like a clap.

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