Panic only makes the end come quicker. People thrash. They gasp for air and get water instead, then cough it out and gulp in even more. Corinthe had seen it happen before, to a man who had swum out too far. Despite the crowd on the beach, Corinthe was the only one to notice him flail. She’d done nothing except shield her eyes from the sun and watch quietly. She remembered the relief she felt when the man finally disappeared under the surface.
It wasn’t that he deserved to die.
It was that his death had been fated.
Tonight she stood just out of the water’s reach, relishing the feel of the gritty sand under her feet. The current at Point Reyes was fierce, and in the past year, five people had already lost their lives on this stretch of beach. Huge signs warned of strong undercurrents, and people heeded them as best they could. But accidents happened. One would happen tonight.
Party noises floated down from the bluff—laughing, talking, the thumping beat of music—but Corinthe tuned it all out. She would be there soon enough. Instead she focused on the crashing waves and imagined the darkness taking shape and cocooning her. She longed to stay here all night, but there was no time. She crouched low and touched the wet sand, reassured by the calming energy of the earth. The emerald ring on her finger glinted in the moonlight.
Corinthe had come directly to the beach. She needed to double-check, then triple-check, that everything was in order. Nothing could be left to chance. She trudged through sand and driftwood to the small motorboat just past the pier. The little boat was ten feet across and
fast
. When she’d found out about tonight’s party a few nights back, she’d snuck out here and taken it for a ride—a test drive. It was small and inconspicuous, but powerful and effective.
It was tied with a slack rope to a large wooden post jutting out of the sand. Corintheran her fingers along the sturdy anchor line. It was as thick as her wrist, made of rough, braided fiber. She threw aside the purple ballerina flats she was holding, then positioned herself behind the little boat and waited for a wave to crash. It was high tide, and water rushed up the sand forcefully; as it receded, she pushed the boat toward the ocean and let the current do its work. The boat was carried a few feet offshore, bobbing up and down in the water. The line was pulled taut now, and the wooden post groaned under the stress.
The music from above changed, and Corinthe overheard snippets of “Happy Birthday.” She turned and looked toward the party. Decorative lights lined the wooden railing at the edge of the cliff, and she could just make out the silhouettes of those who were singing “Happy birthday, dear Ava …”
All these people had come here for Ava Vanguard.
Corinthe certainly had.
She faced the ocean again. The sky was clear and the air was warm and still. Corinthe slipped out of her silk floral-patterned dress that cinched at the waist, letting it fall to the sand. Underneath she wore a black one-piece bathing suit that dipped low on her back. She twisted her blond hair into a bun and waded into the water, steadying the boat and stepping into it carefully. As it bobbed, she stayed low and made her way to the back, where the outboard motor was mounted. She reached for the thin string hanging from the motor and gave it a strong tug—but it broke off in her hand just as a freak gust of wind blew in and carried it away. It skittered into the foamy waves and was lost.
No
. Corinthe caught her breath. She hurdled the edge of the boat into the water, scanning the surface with her gray eyes. She thrashed at the foam, hoping to catch a glimpse of the string, then dove in and reached out in front of her, desperately grasping at nothing. It was gone. She popped up out of the water, her breaths shallow and quick. She pulled the wet hair from her face, willing her heart to slow. Fate had already gone awry; the plan had been
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