Page 12 of The Otherworld

I’m out of my mind.

Banking hard to the east, I watch my compass do a one-eighty, leveling out between sixty and seventy. Altitude: 800 feet.

Just get back to the port, you idiot.

I’m flying below the minimums until the islands come into view again—dark, rugged lumps rise out of the fog like the backs of sea monsters. When the shore of Whidbey comes into view, I start my descent, keeping a close eye on my altimeter. Moments later, my floats skid across the water, sending up a spray of white.

I ease the throttle down and let the tide sail me into port, remembering what Adam taught me: never approach the dock faster than you want to hit it. I make a U-turn and slide up close to the dock, then shut down and hop out to grab the ropes.

My hands tremble as I tie down the plane and walk back to the parking lot, where my lonely Mustang is waiting. For a breathless moment, I sit in the driver’s seat, listening to my pounding heart.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel and feel the burn of tears in my eyes.

“I can’t do this, Adam,” I whisper to the silence. “I need you.”

* * *

I stay out all day. Just driving around, nowhere in particular. Eventually, I pull into the Deception Pass state park and sit in the parking lot. I try calling Adam’s cell phone again.

No answer.

I know it’s selfish of me to stay out on the worst day of my parents’ lives. But I can’t stand to look at them, to see the grief in their eyes.

I fall asleep at some point and wake up to a late afternoon shadow. That’s when I realize what a coward I’m being. If it were the other way around, Adam would be home right now, comforting Mom. Never leaving her side.

I wish it were the other way around.

That thought is enough to motivate me to drive back home. It’s six o’clock by the time I pull into the driveway. The house looks quiet. Dad’s truck is gone.

I walk through the front door and slide off my shoes. There’s no one in the kitchen, nothing on the stove.

“Mom?”

That’s when I hear it.

A sob.

A sniff.

She’s crying.

That sound is a jab in the ribs, enough to knock the air out of my lungs in this house where it’s already so hard to breathe. I steel myself and walk down the hallway, nudging open my bedroom door.

Mom is sitting on Adam’s bed, her shoulders shaking as she silently cries into her hands. I hate the sight of it so much I want to smash everything in the room—

No. Control yourself, Jack.

What would Adam do?

I walk straight over to Mom, sit on the bed, and wrap my arms around her. She crumples into me, sobs rushing out of her, tears melting into my shirt.

I feel like I’m in a dream. Like this is all some sick, twisted nightmare, and my alarm’s going to ring in a second—beep, beep, beep—and I’ll smack my hand over on the nightstand and shut it off and open my eyes, and there will be Adam sitting on his bed in the morning light, pulling on a T-shirt, saying, Get your ass out of bed, Superman.

“Shh, Mom, it’s okay…” I whisper, pulling back to look her in the face. “You can’t lose hope. Not yet.”

She shakes her head, swiping her tears away. “Jack—”

“Don’t say it, Mom. Don’t. He’s coming back. I don’t care what the coast guard says.”

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