After all, you cannot change who you are.
But neither can I.
I will no longer attempt to mold myself into a shape you find acceptable. I will no longer chase after anything you have to offer. I will no longer be made to feel like a disappointment.
The truth is?
You two are the disappointment.
You have let me down, not the other way around. You have failed, at every turn, to live up to any expectations I possessed for what a mother and father should be. For how they should raise a child. For how they should build a family.
From this moment on, I am not your daughter.
Not your child.
Not your offspring.
From this moment on…
We are not family.
But then… we never really were.
Were we?
I wish you success in your future endeavors at VALENT.
We all know, that’s what you truly care about, anyway.
Best,
Josephine
I stamp it with international postage pilfered from my father’s office, address it, drive it straight to the post-office, and drop it in the slot before I have a chance to change my mind.
It is the only farewell my parents will ever receive from me. The only goodbye they will ever hear — not from my lips, but from the tip of my pen.
A letter feels like a fitting end. After all, it was a letter that started this. A letter that broke us. I can only hope, when they receive it, they feel half as much pain as I did when I read the one they forced Archer to write me last summer.
More likely, they’ll simply file it away in a folder of other corporate grievances, to be dealt with by an underling at a later date — assuming they even bother to read it at all. There’s a high probability they’ll toss it straight into the bin without digesting a single word or sentiment. But that doesn’t matter.
That’s not why I wrote it.
Taking a deep breath, I tighten my hands around the steering wheel and pull away from the post office. My nerves mount as I make the winding drive from downtown Manchester across the town line into Gloucester. Now that I’ve cut ties with my parents… cut ties with my past…
There’s only one more thing to do before I leave this life behind. One more person I need to see before I walk away for good.
The only person who really matters.
My hand reaches up to clasp my necklace as I turn toward the harbor.
I stand in the night, knocking on his door like a crazy person.
“Archer! Archer, are you home? It’s me,” I yell through the wood. “It’s Jo. I need… I need to talk to you. Please, if you’re there…”
My heart is in my throat.
My hands are shaking.
My knees are quaking.
I’m here.
I’m ready.
Ready to take the plunge.
Ready to tell him how I feel.
I love you.
Let’s make this work.
I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t even know where I’m sleeping come tomorrow… but it doesn’t matter. So long as we’re together.
“Archer?”
There is no answer.
Not after five minutes.
Not after ten or twenty or thirty.
No matter how loud I pound, he does not come. No matter how many minutes I stand there waiting, my skin growing clammy with cold, he does not appear.
When my hand is beginning to ache and my courage is beginning to falter, I force myself to stop. To admit what I’ve known for quite a while, now.
Archer isn’t here. Or, if he is…
He doesn’t want to see me.
My smarting fists drop to my sides.
My leaden legs carry me off his porch, down the steps, onto the sidewalk.
Back to my car.
Back to Cormorant House, to pack what few belongings I will take with me when I leave this town behind for the second time in a matter of hours.
I know in my gut, if I don’t track him down before I leave… it will truly be over. Our second chance will evaporate on the wind, a fleeting promise gone before fulfillment.
Maybe it’s bad timing.
Maybe it’s bad luck.
Or maybe…
We’re just not meant to be.
THIRTY-FOUR
archer
When I snap back into consciousness, I’m lying on a medical gurney with strangers crowded around me. The patches on their uniform sleeves say EMERGENCY MEDICAL TECHNICIAN. Their faces flash blue-red-blue-red in the night. They’re wheeling me across the parking lot, to a waiting ambulance parked at the edge of the harbor.
“Whoa there!” The female EMT pushes firmly against my shoulders when I attempt to sit up. “Sir, calm down!”
“What happened?” My voice is croaky; my throat burns with pain, my injured vocal cords protesting at each syllable.
“You’re okay. You briefly lost consciousness. You’re going to be just fine, but we need you to stay still—”
It comes back in a flash.
Lopez.
Hands around my neck.
Squeezing the life out of me.
Sending me into the dark.
What happened after he knocked me out?
Was the raid successful?
Did they arrest everyone?
I crane my neck to either side, trying to get a look at the action unfolding all around me. I hear a cacophony of voices and sirens, but I can’t make out any details from this angle.
“Sir, I really must ask you to lay back down. We haven’t finished evaluating you—”
“I’m fine.” I push out of her hold and sit up. She backs off with her hands up, muttering something about not getting paid nearly enough to deal with impossible patients who won’t let her do her goddamn job. My visual field dances a bit but clears after a few hard blinks. Besides the passing dizziness and bruised throat, I feel totally normal.
Well, almost normal.
When I swing my legs over the side of the stretcher and stand, I sway a bit on my feet.
My eyes scan the parking lot, seeking any point of familiarity in the chaos. Uniformed agents swarm the docks like a hive of agitated bees. A fleet of unmarked black SUVs fill the lot usually reserved for rusty bait-trucks and flat-bottomed dinghies. I spot Agent Stanhope hauling a highly combative Gordo toward a waiting van. There are handcuffs on his wrists. He’s cursing like a sailor, struggling like a rabid dog on a leash. Stanhope looks like she’s enjoying herself — her step is practically jaunty as she forces him into the backseat of an armored DEA cruiser and slams the door shut behind him.
Pomroy looks somewhat less enthused as he and two other agents attempt to get Stutter into the back of a second vehicle.
I make my way in their direction, winding a path around several officers chattering into radios, bypassing crime scene analysts carrying sealed evidence bags in the direction of the trawler. I’ve never seen so many law enforcement personnel in one place. Coast Guard, DEA, Gloucester PD, State Police. Even a few firefighters are on the scene, milling about with the EMT crew.
“Archer.” Pomroy’s hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes. “You okay? I thought you were headed to the hospital.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You were out cold when SWAT pulled you out of there. Maybe you should get checked over—”