“Aren’t you embarrassed?” Asked the blonde news anchor of Wake Up! Waterloo.

“I’m sorry?” Sarah asked, running her hands down the front of her smart gray suit. That question hadn’t been on the list her publicist had sent over.

“Maybe ashamed would be a better word for it.” The blonde woman smiled like the cat that got the canary.

“Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?” Sarah laughed.

“I don’t think infidelity is a laughing matter, do you?” The anchor said, cocking her head. Sarah paled. Now she knew why the anchor was so happy. This was probably her first chance to break a hot scoop. A take-down of one of the most popular authors of the day. Sarah didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, but she didn’t know what to do. She looked at the camera and back at the anchor. Was it possible the lights were brighter than they were a second ago?

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Maybe you’ve gotten me confused with your next guest? I’m here to discuss my new book, “The Wildest Hearts on the High Seas.” The anchor pointed at the screen behind them. A series of tweets popped up, “I guess you aren’t aware, but a Twitter user screenshots of private messages between you and a woman who is not your wife. The messages are explicit, to say the least. Your heterosexual readers have graciously embraced your alternative lifestyle, and supported you and your wife. What do you say now to those readers, who feel betrayed by you stepping out on your marriage?”

Sarah looked desperately at her publicist, Lane, who was standing right off-set. Lane had turned a noxious shade of green beneath her sheet of silky black hair. Sarah decided the best, and only, thing to do would be to stand up and walk right off that sound stage. But when she tried to stand up, her legs wobbled beneath her. Then the whole world went black.

####

           Sarah white-knuckled the steering wheel. The fog was rolling in heavily and even though she had been driving for two days, she hadn’t really driven in years. When she was 19, she left Canada and the tiny coastal town of Twilight Cove for New York City, and she never looked back. Not even when her parents had begged her to visit. She had sent money, even offered to fly them out to visit her. To her, it was enough. She was never going back. 

Now, as she fled home with her tail between her legs, it added to her guilt.

           “You’re breaking up,” Eve said. After over a decade together, Sarah could tell when her wife was annoyed. She could feel Eve’s impatience even from 1,000 miles away. As if it was her fault that service was so shitty up here. Eve was not a fan of the plan to save Sarah’s reputation and career.

           Lane had sat the three of them, Eve, Mads and Sarah, down to scold them for getting caught. “Sarah’s fans think she’s a lying, cheating, scumbag.” Lane said, trying to lay the situation out plainly to Eve and Mads. “None of Sarah’s fans, I promise you none of them, will accept that she is in a polyamorous lesbian throuple. It undermines the premise of 99% of her books. You know, where the heroine has to choose between the man who makes her come and the other man who makes her come. If you don’t have to choose, if the heroine can have both of the men, there’s no point in any of this is there? Monogamy is the end game. Heterosexuality is the end game. The hot dude is the end game.”

           “But it’s just fantasy, the fans know it’s not real.” Eve protested.

“Maybe they’re just mad because they think Sarah was cheating,” Mads chimed in. “If we could just explain that it’s consensual and equal and…”

           “And she’s younger than you.” Lane continued as if Eve and Mads had not interrupted, while Mads purpled. “And you’re all women. Not a swinging dick in the lot. The optics are not good.”

           “But we’re happy. Sarah’s fans would be happy for us if she could just explain the situation to them. They love her.” Mads tried again. Sarah and Eve shared a glance, an unspoken, mutual dismissal of their third. It was the kind of communication that only formed after decades of intimacy. 

“So, what should we do?” Sarah asked, feeling a twinge of guilt for ignoring Mads and for not having the optimism to give her readers the benefit of the doubt. 

           “This is what I propose – first, you all have to move out of here. There will be press staking you out, paparazzi trying to get pictures. We do not want any of that. You take a break, get out of the public eye. Like all the way out. We close down your socials, stop responding to email, mail, all of it. You go home to your family and we wait for this to blow over.”

“We absolutely cannot do that. We can’t uproot our lives for this.” Eve said. 

“What choice do we have?” Sarah asked. “My career will be ruined.” This time, it was Eve and Mads who exchanged a wordless glance. Sarah felt an abyss open in her stomach, they had been talking about this without her.   

“What about our careers?” Eve said, speaking for herself and for Mads.
“I do not give a flying fuck about your careers,” Lane said. “Let’s not forget who pays to keep the lights on around here, ladies.” Lane gestured wildly around the posh West Village loft. Sarah felt Eve stiffen beside her. It was an old wound that Lane had just poked. Eve and Sarah had both wanted to be writers when they graduated from Vassar. But Eve had taken a more scholarly path, alternating between novels that were thinly veiled lessons on gender theory and poetry. Sarah loved Eve’s writing, she really did. But Sarah loved writing romance and she wanted to be able to make a living off her writing and not wither and die in an office, or worse, academia. So she wrote romance novels. They were a hit because her male characters acted the way lesbians did instead of the way actual, real-life heterosexual men did and that resonated with straight women. In Sarah’s world, the woman always got her man and the man always treated his paramour with respect and love. It wasn’t a hard code to crack and 20 years and 33 books later, Sarah had a (seemingly) solid fanbase and several NY Times bestsellers to her name. 

Sarah’s writing success gave Eve the resources to continue her more serious work. But the money that allowed them to have a happy life had a price. Over the course of 20 years the rift between them that had started as a crack had widened into a chasm. 

Eve and Mads exchanged another look. When had they developed a language all of their own? Sarah thought. And Eve once again spoke for herself and Mads, “Just because we make less money, doesn’t mean we have less say. Frankly, that’s not even something that should need to be said.” 

           But in the end, they listened to Lane and attempted to salvage what was left of Sarah’s reputation. Eve was in San Francisco, staying with some their oldest friends and Mads went home to Wisconsin. 

Sarah was on her way to fucking Twilight Cove, Nova Scotia, population 832. 

The line crackled and died. “Eve?” Silence. Sarah embraced it. She was going home. She would have lots of time to think about who leaked those messages, if she was going to lose Eve and Mads and just how ruined her career was. 

Fun. This is going to be fun.

####

           Sarah’s parents looked older and grayer than she remembered. They sat around the dinner table, in her childhood home, a home that was built in 1890, and everything felt gray and muted. The Beyond Gateway she had bought so she could video conference them stood dusty on a wooden sideboard that had been in place for over a century. It looked jarringly out of place next to the whitewashed stone walls and exposed hardwood beams – like a slick black egg, an alien entity. They had left it there to please her and she had only called them on it twice.   

           “Would you like more peas, dear?” Her mom asked. Sarah shook her head no, barely able to look up from the table. The food in front of her was the first nourishing meal she had been able to eat in days, but it still tasted like ashes in her mouth. She wanted to tell her parents she was so grateful for them taking her in, for their kindness, but the words didn’t come.

           “The food is great, mom.”

           “You have to tell her, Sue.” Her dad said, also not looking up from the table.

           “Tell me what?” Sarah asked.

           “She just got here, Don. Let her at least eat one good meal.”

           “It just doesn’t feel right, not telling her.” Silence fell. Sarah felt the pit in her stomach expanding into a black hole. If it got any larger, she would fall in and it would swallow her up and she wouldn’t have to worry about anything, anymore.

           “You little friend from high school,” her dad started. “The one who never moved away.”

“Claire. Claire Wyckoff.” Most young people had to move away from Twilight Cove if they wanted to have any kind of career, or find a mate they weren’t related to. At 40, Sarah had entered the age where friends started to die. It started off slow, but things were starting to pick up steam. An acquaintance died from pancreatic cancer, 6 weeks from diagnosis to death. The GoFundMe that started as a treatment payoff plan converted to paying off the funeral. Her first, beloved editor died in a freak car accident. No drunk driver to villainize, it had just been ‘one of those things.’ Things took a turn towards the macabre when a sorority sister was killed by her husband. Her favorite party friend had fallen down the stairs after a particularly wild night and hit his head. And that was that.

A litany of death that Sarah kept listed in her head. When she looked in the mirror and saw the slackening skin around her jawline and the thick hairs that now sprouted from her chin, she reminded herself that aging was better than the alternative.

“Is she okay?”

Her parents shared a look. “Maybe you could pay her a visit? She’s not doing so well. She had a daughter…” Her mom let the thought trail off.

“Her daughter, Samantha, her body was found buried in the sand on Palmer Beach a few months ago. The poor, wee thing was only eight. No sign of sexual assault at least. Thank God for small blessings.”  

“Praise be.” Her mom mumbled, crossing herself.

“Jesus. Do they know what happened?”

“Sheriff Jones is still trying to figure it out.” Her dad said.

“She lives in her parents’ house still,” her mom said, “you remember where it is?”

“I’ll go tomorrow.” Sarah felt guilty, but thinking about Claire’s tragedy would be a welcome respite from thinking about her own. 

####

           The next morning Sarah set out for Claire’s. She ignored most of the notifications on her phone except the ones from Eve, Mads and Lane. After deleting all her social media and email apps, most of the texts were from concerned friends or nosy acquaintances. She didn’t blame them. She knew if the tables were turned, she would want the hot gossip too.

She grabbed an expensive bottle of wine that she had sent her parents for Christmas one year. They had never opened it. It sat silently and politely in a cupboard along with about 10 years’ worth of expensive, unopened wines. She had searched the details of the death the night before. There were some details in news articles. Samantha Wyckoff’s body had been found by Steve Carson. Steve was a retiree whose hobby was searching the beach with a metal detector. He relished in finding lost objects, like tourist’s wedding rings or antique coins. Sarah imagined he mostly found garbage. But two months ago he found a little girl who looked like she had been beaten to death with rocks. 

On Facebook, she found a public post in the Twilight Cove group that actually showed pictures of the girl’s arms and legs and shared more details. Bruises had bloomed all over her body, her face was scratched up beyond recognition, her baby teeth shattered. No leads on who did this, but it seemed unlikely the girl had done it to herself. People in the comments posted their theories. Some included a wild animal attack and then the wind had covered the girl in sand. Maybe there was a drifter that no one had noticed? A tourist who had come during the off-season, committed the crime and then high-tailed it home. Anything except the possibility that a Twilight Cove denizen had committed a murder.

The Gabber Gazette reported that the entire town of Twilight Cove was devastated and called for the neighboring townships to check in on their loved ones. Another reason to add a stone to the backpack of shame and guilt Sarah was carrying around. She hadn’t called to check in on any loved ones. She hadn’t even heard of the murder.

The Wyckoff home was about a half-hour drive up the rocky shoreline from her parents’ house. She used to make the drive all the time back in high school. Claire’s parents were always working, making Claire’s house the natural meeting place for their group of friends. Claire and Sarah had been close, but they also had very little choice of companions. They hadn’t stayed in touch much after graduation, but there had been no falling out, just a natural drifting apart.

Sarah was surprised to find both of Claire’s parents at home. They opened the door and gave her somber hugs. 

“Your mom called last night to tell us you would be stopping by. Claire’s in her room. You remember where it is?”

“I do.” Sarah went up the stairs, second room to the right. She knocked.

“Come in.” Claire looked similar to the teen girl that lived in Sarah’s memory but worn, with dark bags under her eyes. Sarah reckoned she would have aged similarly if she hadn’t moved to NYC and learned about the importance of sunscreen and Botox. Claire’s room had been updated to reflect that she was an adult, but Sarah clocked that the lumpy full bed was the same. It had been years since they had spoken more than an occasional “Happy Birthday” message on Facebook. But the familiarity of the room brought back the heightened feelings of intimacy of adolescence. Unmoored by her romantic partnerships and living under her parents roof, she felt like she was 18 again, the age when friendship meant everything. Claire was her friend and Claire needed her. She sat down next to Claire and put an arm around her, pulled her in close.

“I hate that this happened to you.”

Claire choked back a sob. “Me too. My baby girl.” Claire buried her face in Sarah’s shoulder and cried. They sat like that until Claire pulled away.

“I bought booze.” Sarah held up the wine. “Not the two buck chuck you used to love but hopefully acceptable.”

Claire laughed until she dissolved back into tears. Sarah unscrewed the wine and took a swig directly from the bottle, then held it out to Claire who did the same.

“Do you want to talk about it? Or should we talk about anything and everything else?”

“Oh gosh. I don’t even know anymore. People are uncomfortable no matter what I do. I’m scared if I don’t talk about it, people will think I’m callous. If I talk about it too much, I’m a hysterical grieving mother.”

Sarah nodded. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” They decided to stick to high school gossip. They passed the wine back and forth and talked about who had left town and who was left to work at the gas station forever. Who had slept with who and who had wanted to sleep with who and who actually did. Claire told her about Samantha’s deadbeat dad.

After a few hours Claire grabbed Sarah’s arm. “I need to tell you something. I have to tell someone and you’re going to leave anyway.”

“You can tell me.”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t.”

Claire’s grip around her arm tightened. It hurt, but Sarah was scared to interrupt her. “I don’t want to tell anyone; I don’t want them to lock me up in some mental hospital. You know what happens to people they put in those.”

Sarah didn’t really know, but she nodded. It didn’t seem like this was the time to bring that up.

“I see cows. Like sickly, white cows. Almost transparent. Lined up along the beach where they found Samantha. And they just…they just stare at me. They look at me like they are waiting for something.” Claire shuddered. “They won’t go away, and I don’t know what they want from me. Don’t tell me you don’t think I’m crazy. I would think I’m crazy.”

“I think you are grieving.”

“Why are you here? Why are you back? Am I hallucinating you? Maybe you’re a vision” Claire ran her hands over Sarah’s face and gave a sharp bark of a laugh.

“I’m back because I fucked up my life. I’m hiding here until it blows over.”

“I heard about your books. There was even a tourist that came around once asking about you. Wanting to see where you live and stuff.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No. Can you imagine your poor parents if tourists started showing up to see your childhood home?”

Sarah giggled. Then Claire did too. After the bottle of wine was gone and Claire had cried and laughed, Sarah got back in her car and drove to Palmer Beach, she didn’t feel ready to go back to the oppressive silence of her parents’ house. 

####

Sarah parked her car and stepped onto the quiet beach, the air heavy with the scent of salt and damp sand. Near the dunes there was a small memorial where the girl’s body had been found—a white cross surrounded by teddy bears and flowers. Sarah spent a few hours hunting down beach glass and the prettiest shells she could find, ones she imagined would catch an 8-year-old girl’s eye. She spied a pearl-white shell, satisfyingly intact, in the shallows. It looked like a perfect shell for a mermaid’s bra. She needed to have it. 

Kicking off her shoes, Sarah waded ankle-deep into the water, enjoying the electric jolts the ice-cold water sent up through her spine. She made a grab for the shell but it always seemed to be out of reach, she could see the sparkling shell, but she couldn’t touch it. She waded in further, the bottoms of her jeans becoming heavy. The sun hung oddly high in the sky and Sarah shaded her eyes with her left hand while plunging the other one into the water, grasping for the shell. 

She stretched toward the shell, her breath catching as her fingers brushed its edge. But then she froze. A woman’s face emerged from the inky depths, rising just beyond where the water turned murky. At first, it seemed like a woman, her pale face framed by dark strands of hair that floated unnaturally around her. But as the figure drew closer, Sarah’s stomach twisted in primal dread. The eyes—impossibly black, without pupils—stared directly into hers, unblinking. The mouth curved into a thin-lipped smile, revealing a row of needle-sharp teeth. The figure’s skin shimmered faintly, like fish scales catching fractured light, as if the creature were both there and not.

What are you looking for here? 

Sarah fell backward into the waves, and as quickly as the woman had been there, she was gone. She couldn’t see the wink of the pearly shell. She scrambled to the shore, resisting the heavy pull of the water. She needed to get back to her car.  

She was so focused she almost bumped right into Steve Carson and his metal detector.

“Hello, Steve. It’s me, Sarah Higgins.”

“Sarah,” the older man gasped, “Sarah Higgins, it’s been ages.”

“A decade at least.”

“You been swimming or something?” 

“Had a little accident, fell into the water.” Sarah forced a chuckle. 

Steve gave her a look, and decided to save her further humiliation. “Your parents are fine, fine folk. Saw them at Johnson’s grocery store a few days ago. Guess you’re back to be with Claire? Shame, damn shame what happened to her little girl. I found her, you know. Terrible, terrible. I can’t sleep most nights. I see it when I close my eyes.”

“I’m really sorry that happened.”
“They don’t know who did it.”    

“Do you think they will figure it out?”

“Eh.” Steve waved his hand, “That Sheriff of ours has never had to solve his way out of a paper bag. A murder? He’s not the man for the job.”

“Is there someone who is?”

“I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe a smart young lady such as yourself. I always knew you would make something of yourself. Maybe that’s why you’re back.”

Sarah laughed, “Yes, I’m back to solve the case. Maybe pivot my brand to true crime.”

“My granddaughter, she loves that true crime. On the podcasts. You know about those, Sarah?” 

“I do, it’s nice to listen to them while you do the dishes.” Sarah smiled politely.

“Dishes? That’s what the missus is for.” They chuckled and Sarah once again thanked god she was a lesbian.Her eyes caught on the contents of Steve’s metal detector bag. He’d clearly been busy. The open pouch revealed a mix of junk— twisted fragments of rusted fencing from erosion barriers, even a corroded fillet knife with half its blade missing.

“You find much out here?” Sarah asked, gesturing toward the bag.

Steve let out a weary sigh. “Bits and pieces. Trash mostly. People don’t take care of these beaches like they should. But sometimes… sometimes you find something interesting.”

His eyes darkened slightly, his voice dropping. “I’ve been out here a lot since it happened. Trying to find… I don’t know. Clues, I guess. Anything that might help.” 

Sarah’s chest tightened. She wanted to ask more.

“This might be a crazy question, but have you seen any animals around here? Ones that usually aren’t on the beach?”

“Oh, are you one of those who thinks it was a wild animal attack?”

Sarah shrugged, “Maybe. It would be the least upsetting option.” She couldn’t bring herself to straight up ask if he had seen transparent cows. 

“I want to show you something.” She led Steve a few feet away, where she had picked up a perfect pink scallop shell. “Do you see those indents there? That looks like it might be a…” Sarah faltered, “Some kind of animal track? Or footprint?”

Steve squatted and the effort made him expel a deep groan. “It looks like a hoofprint.” He laughed, “But that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

Steve frowned, “You know horse riding is forbidden on this beach.”

“Maybe someone has been riding at night? Illegally? We could tell the Sheriff. Maybe it would help. You know he wouldn’t think to comb the beach as thoroughly as you do.” Sarah helped pull Steve back to his feet. “Maybe you could tell him, Steve. I think it would have more weight coming from you.”

“Yeah, maybe get the old goat off his ass. Pardon my language.”

“Do you think it could be a goat? One that escaped an enclosure? Or maybe even…” She hesitated, but not asking seemed like a betrayal of Claire. If Claire was brave enough to confide in her about the cows, Sarah had to be brave enough to ask. “Or a cow.”

“A cow?” Steve laughed. “A cow? On the beach? Wanting to get a suntan?” Steve slapped his knee. 

“You know I’m a city girl now, Steve.” She said with a wink. “Promise me you’ll tell Sheriff Jones about the hoofprint?”

“I promise.”         

Sarah felt certain she could count on Steve’s sense of self-importance to report the print. She added the glass and shells to Samantha’s altar before she went home, but not before taking one last look out at the water. The creature—if it had ever truly been there— had vanished in an instant, leaving only the rhythmic crashing of the water behind

####

Sarah had a hot virtual date. It was scheduled for 10:00 PM when she could count on her parents being asleep. She pulled a chair in front of the Beyond Gateway Egg and wiped the dust off the wireless device. Eve and Mads flickered into sight on the Egg’s surface.

“Are you two together?” Sarah asked. The shock of seeing them together felt like plunging into an ice-cold lake. They shared a guilty look. “We aren’t public figures.” Eve offered. “We figured no one would care.” 

“I was lonely, it was my fault,” said Mads.  

“No, no, I’m glad you are together.” She said, but she didn’t mean it. Her partners couldn’t make a sacrifice for her? She didn’t think she asked much of them, most of the time. She knew, “lay low for a few months to save my career and livelihood,” was a lot to ask. But she thought they would do it, for her. She was wrong. A hot lump rose in her throat and she swallowed hard to keep it from exploding into a sob. “Lane must be worried that someone might take a picture of you together.”

“We’ve considered that possibility and we are being as careful as possible.” Eve said.

“I might dye my hair. I’m thinking pink.” Said Mads.

“That’ll definitely throw them off.” Mads didn’t pick up on the sarcasm in Sarah’s voice, but Eve did. “You don’t need to be snarky about it. After all, this is really all your fault.” Eve said and then looked like she immediately regretted it. Eve and Mads shared another secret look, that Sarah was on the outside of. Sarah looked down. 

“I’m sorry,” Eve said, at the same time as Mads said, “We haven’t spoken in forever, let’s not waste our time fighting.” They had strategized for their call to her, together. Sarah plastered a fake smile on her face. “You’re right, we haven’t spoken in forever, let’s not talk about it again.” 

Eve and Mads filled her in on the latest happenings at work and with their friends. They carefully avoided bringing up the scandal again, which poisoned the conversation with an air of inauthenticity. And when Eve frowned and asked, “But how are you doing honey? Like, really?” Sarah avoided giving her an authentic answer. She didn’t tell them about the murders or her rekindled friendship with Claire. It didn’t feel like something she could share over a screen. And neither of her paramours asked her what she was doing to fill her days.  

After a few hours of chat, the women held up a vibrator and giggled at Sarah. Mads took her top off. Sarah smiled and sat back with her hands behind her head to watch. She pretended to get into it because she wanted her partners to feel sexy, supported and connected to her; or at the very least, to keep them from drifting further away than they already had. It felt like they were on the other side of the world. 

After they were done, they said their goodbyes and I love yous but Sarah felt the loneliness creeping in, so hard and so fast it almost took her breath away. She should have told them about Claire and Samantha. 

Sarah let out a shaky breath and ran her hands over her face, trying to rub away the sting of tears threatening to fall. They felt so far away. Even though the call was working, even when their voices reached her, she’d felt like an outsider. The distance wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, and it was growing.

Her room felt unbearably quiet now, the kind of silence that seemed to have weight, pressing against her from all sides. She glanced at her clock: 12:47 AM. She leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling, the ache in her chest expanding until it felt like it would swallow her whole. She thought about Claire, about Samantha, about the woman in the water she hadn’t been able to share. Her partners wouldn’t have understood, anyway. They were busy building something new together, leaving her behind in the ruins of what they used to have.

The emptiness on the screen mirrored the emptiness inside her, and the vastness of the ocean crashing into the nearby cove.

####

The next morning, Sarah sat down at her laptop to write. Between the agony of Claire’s grief and the worry that her partners were happy without her, she needed to throw herself into a fantasy world. A good banger should help this scandal blow over and her fans forgive her. She disconnected her laptop from the Wifi, which had been fickle and practically useless all morning, anyway. She was going to give her fans the most romantic, most heterosexual, most monogamous suck and fuck fest of their lives. She was in the zone when there was a knock at her bedroom door.

           “Sarah,” her mom’s meek voice was tinged with concern, “Sheriff Jones is here to see you. Can you come down?”

           “To see me? Yeah.”

           Sheriff Jones took off his hat to greet her as she walked down the stairs. He was mostly bald, but a few white hairs stood their ground on the top of his head, his potbelly poked out from his denim button-up. His face was grim.

“I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Steve Carson’s body was found on the beach this morning.”

Sarah gasped and stumbled onto the couch to collect herself. “But I just saw him yesterday.”

“I believe you were the last person to see him alive.” He handed Sarah a folder. She opened it and saw pictures of Steve’s body. He was half buried in sand, his mouth a contorted O of pain and surprise. The handle of his metal detector protruded from his chest. Sand stuck to the bloody rosette that bloomed from his heart.

“Me?”

“Now, you would usually be a suspect, being the last person to be seen with him and all. But this has to be connected to the Wyckoff murder and you weren’t here for that.” The sheriff hesitated, “And he called me after he saw you. He said something about hoof prints in the sand.” He shook his head, “I didn’t take him seriously. I rushed him off the phone.”

“So you believe it was a murder? And not an animal attack?”

“Well, I reckon we can’t rule out anything at this point.”

“Were there hoofprints at the scene?”

“None that I saw.”

“Are you sure you checked?”  

“Listen young lady, I’m doing the best I can. We’re interviewing everyone who owns livestock within 50 kilometers. Goats, horses, cows, llamas, alpacas, you name it, we’re interviewing them.”

Sarah imagined the police interviewing a llama and almost laughed out loud. The image of Steve’s body popped into her mind and smothered the laugh in her throat.

“We asked the police from the nearby townships to help, because lord knows I can’t do it alone. And…I need to ask you a favor.

####

Sarah met Sheriff Jones at the beach every night for a week, where they took turns sleeping and keeping watch on the shoreline. When Sarah slept, she dreamt of Samantha Wyckoff dancing along the shoreline. She dreamt of the hissing woman who had surprised her in the waves as she was reaching for the shell. She dreamt of Steve waving his metal detector, turning to wave at her. Sometimes she just dreamt of the cows, white and silent. And then Sheriff Jones would poke her awake with his meaty paws and she would watch the dark waves lap at the empty shoreline. She knew her parents were embarrassed by her newfound partnership with the Sheriff. 

“Ran into Cheryl down at the supermarket today,” her dad said at breakfast one morning, breaking the silence they were all accustomed to eating in. Sarah wondered if her parents spoke more during meals when she wasn’t there. She would probably never know. “She wants to know what our Sarah is doing down at the beach at all hours.” 

“Oh you know,” Sarah waved her spoon, “mostly just watching and waiting. Hoping.” Her parents didn’t look pleased.  

“We don’t know what to tell people about you, when they ask,” her mom said and looked at Sarah hopefully. As if Sarah would have a magic word or phrase they could use to appease curious acquaintances. 

“It’s hard for us,” her dad said. Leaving Sarah to wonder what “it” was. Her presence? Social niceties with acquaintances deeper than talk of the weather? While her parents had been perfectly nice and caring, Sarah had an uncomfortable feeling that she was wearing out her welcome. Her parents had never been social creatures and it would be easier for them if she wasn’t here. She didn’t know how to respond and they continued eating in silence. They hadn’t brought it up again.      

During the day, she napped or visited Claire. She kept her friend full of wine and told her wild stories of Brooklyn lesbian bondage parties and her favorite book tour mishaps. It felt good to have someone to laugh with, even if hysteria and tears clawed at the edges of their giggles. Mads and Eve texted less and less. And she hadn’t heard from Lane at all. 

It was the 7th night of fruitless beach observation and Sarah was starting to get restless. Sheriff Jones was stretched out in the beach chair his wife had given him for their nightly watches, snoring lightly. She rolled her eyes and walked down to the water. It was vast and still and empty. She was starting to wonder if she was mad, if this was all a collective fever dream. Maybe everyone in town had a gas leak all at once? Maybe they needed Erin Brockovich more than a best-selling romance novelist to solve their problems. Sarah hung her head, the hubris of thinking she could help made her cheeks burn red. 

Then, she saw it—the same pearl shell from before, winking at her from beneath the waves. Her brain screamed at her to not touch it, every synapse flashing warning signs of the woman in the waves and her thin-lipped smile. But her hand seemed to move of its own accord grasping for the shell that remained out of reach. 

Sarah stumbled into the cold water, the chill biting with every step as it devoured her. As she walked deeper, it reached her lungs and the icy grip stole her breath. At that moment, the woman appeared. No, not a woman. 

Suddenly, she felt something muscular wrap itself around her legs, binding them together. She fell underneath the waves and water stopped up her nose, forced itself into her mouth. She tried to break the surface, and she did for one, desperate moment. She breathed in greedily, her lungs burning. 

The force yanked her back under.

Sarah opened her eyes in terror, the water stinging her eyes. It was a mermaid, a siren. Its tail was wrapped tightly around Sarah’s legs, binding their bodies together as the creature’s fins tickled Sarah’s face. The mermaid’s eyes were intent, almost calculating, as if trying to decipher something as they read her face like a map. 

Why did you come back? 

Sarah heard the voice again, scraping at the corners of her consciousness. It was invasive, disorienting. She shook her head. The mermaid put her lips on Sarah’s and blew water into her mouth. Sarah felt the mermaid’s teeth pierce her gums and she breathed in reflexively, oxygen and blood forcing their way into her lungs. She tried not to choke on it. She was going to die here, she knew it. 

You’re so afraid. The voice returned, this time creaky and ancient and also…amused. Was she laughing at her? 

Sarah’s chest tightened with indignation. Fear and anger warred within her, the latter giving her the strength to act. She shoved at the mermaid as hard as she could, her palms beating against the creature’s slick, cold body. 

The response was immediate. Laughter reverberated in her skull, hollow and mocking. The mermaid’s tail unwound from her legs, releasing Sarah from its crushing grip, and for a brief, terrifying moment dark water rushed past her in a dizzying spiral.

Sarah felt herself falling, but before she could drift far, the mermaid’s arms caught her—thin, pale, and impossibly strong.

Brave – was the last thing Sarah heard, before she lost consciousness. 

####

Sarah woke up to Sheriff Jones poking her. 

“Phew, you gave me quite a fright young lady. You decide to go for a swim?” 

He may not have been the most exemplary sheriff, but even he must have known Sarah wouldn’t have gone for a swim at night, fully clothed, of her own volition. Maybe he hadn’t really wanted to find anything down at the beach. Maybe he hoped they would turn up nothing and the town would accept that the only answer was no answer at all. Either way, Sarah couldn’t tell him about the mermaid. She remembered the fear in Claire’s eyes when she admitted she had been dreaming about cows. How Steve Carson had laughed at her when she brought them up. Tell the Sheriff about a mermaid who projected dialogue directly into her brain? She could already imagine his reaction – laughter, disbelief, or worse, it would buy her a one-way ticket to the psych ward. 

“You got me,” she laughed, weakly. “There’s no gym in town, a girl’s gotta get her cardio in somehow.” 

The sheriff squinted at her, his skepticism evident, but then he shrugged. 

“Stay safe out there, Sarah” was all he said before reaching out a hand to help her to her feet. Her legs wobbled as she stood, and she let out a short, trembling breath. Her legs felt weak, her body drained. As she turned toward her car, she felt eyes on her, steady and unrelenting – uncertain if they were from the sheriff, or the creature in the water.

Sarah drove shakily to the library after parting ways with the Sheriff. He had insisted there were no other similar deaths in the area, but Sarah’s consumption of a few true crime podcasts had taught her that research outside of law enforcement officials was a necessary step to catching a killer.  

The library remained mostly unchanged from her childhood, but it looked diminished. The rugs were muted and tattered, the chairs smaller. The librarian wasn’t someone Sarah knew, but she could tell the woman recognized her by the way her eyes widened. 

“Oh, we have a whole section dedicated to you.” she said, her voice breathless with enthusiasm, as she gestured to a stand-alone shelf in the middle of the room, “Local Author: Sarah Higgins” the plaque proudly pronounced. Below it, Sarah’s entire collection of prolific heterosexual smut was on full display, complete with laminated reviews taped to the sides.

“I’m… flattered,” Sarah gave the librarian her most winning smile. This time, Sarah wasn’t the one blushing. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”

“Romance?” the librarian inquired.

“Folklore”.

####

A few hours later, Sarah was back at Claire’s, excitedly spreading out the books and printouts the librarian had given her on the coffee table. 

“I have good news for you,” Sarah said, “You aren’t crazy.” Claire folded her arms across her chest and sat down on the couch, “Explain.” 

Sarah pulled out a few books with titles like Sirens of the Deep and Cursed Coastlines: Legends of the Sea. 

Claire leaned forward, eyeing the titles. “These are different from your… usual stories,” she said. “I was expecting ‘Fifty Shades of Barnacles.”

Sarah didn’t miss a beat. “Give it time. Someone will write it.”

Sarah flipped open one of the books, her finger landing on a page with a crude black-and-white illustration of a mermaid.

“Have you ever heard of the Mermaid of the Magdalenes?” 

Claire shook her head. 

“There’s a 16th-century legend that says a young milkmaid was transformed into a mermaid after performing a collection of bad deeds.”
“Bad deeds?” 

“Yeah, like, she fell asleep in church constantly. She didn’t lock the barn door and the cows all got into the neighbor’s field and ate their grass. She looked at herself in a piece of glass and committed the sin of pride, she must have been pretty hot. Every time she fucked up, she gained a scale, and then her legs started fusing together, then she grew gills on her neck. And then,” Sarah held up a black and white illustration with a flourish and handed it to Claire. It was an image of a mermaid riding the back of a bull, leading a herd of cows out to sea. “She became a mermaid and took her herd and peaced out.” 

Claire laughed. Sarah frowned, “Hey, don’t laugh at me.” 

“No, it’s not that,” Claire said, “she reminds me of you.” 

“The sinful killer mermaid? Reminds you of me?” 

“Yeah,” Claire said, “Like when you lead the senior prank in high school and you stole everyone’s chickens and rabbits out of their hutches and let them loose on the school roof.” 

“That was a prank and we were all in on it.” 

“Yeah, but you were the one who took responsibility for it, when the principal was about to have a conniption,”
Sarah laughed, “Do you remember how red he turned? He looked like a tomato. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”  

“And Sheriff Townsend was about to ruin all our lives by sending us down to the pokey. And you stood up and said…” Claire dissolved into laughter, “Sheriff Townsend, it was I who kidnapped the bunnies and the chickens.” 

“Please don’t punish my compatriots, for they knew not what I did,” Sarah finished the story, and the pair burst into laughter. 

The memory was bittersweet, though. She had to return all the animals to the right owners, which was tougher than she had thought it would be, especially since most rabbits look pretty similar and do not respond to their names, at all. And she had ended up spending a night in the single-celled town jail. Her parents were so embarrassed when they came to pick her up, they hadn’t looked a single person in the eye. They didn’t go to her high school graduation either. They couldn’t face the principal, or the crowds. Sarah grew somber thinking about it. She had been so quick to shoulder the blame as a teenager and yet as an adult she had asked her partners to share the blame with her – to hide their authentic lives to protect her reputation. When had she turned into this person?    

“You had a way with words even then. I should have known ” Claire took the book out of Sarah’s hands and examined the illustration. “You think this mermaid is real?” 

“I think this mermaid is real. I think she’s evil. Maybe she didn’t start off as evil, but the legend says the townsfolk starved after she left with all the village cows. For decades people blamed crops withering, babies dying or bad flu seasons on her.”

“So… you think a vengeful mermaid killed my Samantha?”
“I know it’s crazy.” Sarah dropped the illustration. “What’s even crazier is that I think I’ve seen her. I think she lured me into the ocean when I was collecting shells for Samantha’s altar.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. She stood and tossed the book onto the coffee table with a decisive thud.

“Let’s go get that barnacle-covered bitch.”   

####

Sarah was nervous. She had tried to call Eve and Mads on the Egg before she headed out for the night. She wanted to tell them everything, even if they thought she was a fool for believing in old wives tales, even if they thought she was ridiculous for believing in old folklore, at least they would have been there. The worst part wasn’t that they hadn’t picked up. It was the nagging feeling that, even if they had, she wouldn’t have known how to explain herself. How to make them understand the strangeness and fear that had taken root in her life. Sarah loved them, but lately, she wondered if that love was more like watching a party through a window. Eve and Mads weren’t here. They couldn’t hold her hand or help her make sense of the chaos swirling around her. That realization stung, but there was strength in it, too. It was freeing, in a way. No one was going to save her. No one was going to make the hard choices for her. If she wanted answers—if she wanted to protect Claire and herself—she had to be strong enough to face this herself.

Sarah picked up Claire and together they headed to the beach to meet Sheriff Jones for their nightly vigil. The pair stepped out of the car, their breath frosting in the cold night air. The darkness of the beach stretched before them, the water rippling like black broken glass. Sheriff Jones stood a few steps ahead, her arms crossed tightly, her face set with determination.

“You sure you two want to be out here this late?” He asked. 

Claire nodded, her mouth tight at the corners. Together, the trio turned their gaze to the shoreline. The silence was heavy, almost expectant.

Just after midnight, the cows serenely marched from the shoals. 

Sheriff Jones took off his hat. “Lord have mercy.” 

The cows lined up along the shoreline, staring at her with their tar-pit eyes, just as they had in her dreams. Their serene forms emerged, moving with an eerie grace, water dripping from their coats. The water became a black whirlpool as a bull emerged. Ropes of brown and green kelp dangled from his curved horns.

Atop its back reclined a figure. It was her. The same woman—the same thing—she had seen before, whispering into her mind and pulling her into the depths. Her pale arm slung around the bull’s thick neck, her long green tail curled possessively around his midsection. Both the mermaid and the bull’s eyes glowed a deep, unnatural red, piercing through the darkness. 

She remembered the feel of the mermaid’s body pressed against hers, the two of them wrapped together beneath the waves. She felt an unwelcome pang of desire break through her fear.

They are hungry. 

Sarah didn’t know if the creature had spoken aloud to the trio, or if she had projected the explanation directly to only her brain, the way she had spoken to her when they met in the sea. She looked over at Claire to see if she could hear it too, but Claire was gaping open-mouthed at the mermaid and gave no indication either way. 

“What do they eat?” Sarah asked. 

You know what they eat. Don’t be stupid. Rake up, my bull. The mermaid caressed her bull’s neck. The bull responded immediately, lowering its horns to the rocky shore. With deliberate, brutal force, it began to rake at the sand, sending a spray of debris into the air. A sharp pebble struck Sarah’s cheek, and she flinched as a thin trickle of blood split from her skin.

 Soon, the air was thick with swirling sand and grit, choking her lungs and stinging her eyes. Larger rocks and shards of shell began pelting her body, leaving bruises and cuts in their wake. Sheriff Jones groaned nearby, a crimson trail dripping down the side of his bald head. Claire, arms raised to shield her face, was coughing violently.

Then, the cows emerged from the mist of sand. Their massive forms moved with eerie calm, their glassy eyes glowing faintly in the dark. One brushed past Sarah, nudging her aside with a touch that burned her skin on contact. Sarah watched, frozen in horror, as the herd closed in on Sheriff Jones’s limp body. A cow bent its head, its long tongue lapping at the blood-soaked sand. Then they began to feed. Flesh tore under their mouths, blood splattering the ground. Sarah watched in horror, and vomited. 

Rake up! The image of Samantha’s mangled body flashed into her mind. She couldn’t die like this. She couldn’t let Claire die like this. Sarah clenched her fists, panic and fury surging through her veins, and she saw her friend was trying to crawl toward the mermaid. Sarah was closer. She could still act. 

Her eyes darted frantically across the sand, searching for something—anything—that could help. That’s when she saw it: a rusted tuna can lid glinting faintly, its jagged edges curling like teeth. “Thanks, Steve,” she muttered under her breath, grateful the old man with his metal detector had missed this one piece of trash.

Grabbing the jagged lid, she staggered forward, towards the bull, its massive horns gleamed like bone-white scythes. Without thinking, she grabbed one of them, the heat of the beast’s flesh scorching her palm. Pain shot up her arm, but she didn’t let go. The mermaid screeched in rage. Sarah’s head filled with the sound and she fell to her knees, not daring to let go of the horn. 

“Back off,” Sarah growled through gritted teeth, brandishing the jagged tuna can lid inches from the bull’s eye. “One more step, and I’ll carve this into its pretty face. Let’s see how much it loves you with half an eye.”

Release him. The mermaid leaned forward on the bull’s back, her crimson gaze locking onto Sarah with a predatory intensity. Sarah glared back, her voice shaking but defiant.

“Tell your pets to stand down,” she hissed.

Release. Him. Now.

The mermaid’s gaze faltered, her lips curling into a snarl. For the first time, Sarah saw uncertainty flicker in her glowing eyes. It was small, but it was enough. Sarah’s grip on the bull’s horns didn’t falter, even as her arms trembled from the heat and strain. The mermaid loomed above her on the beast’s back, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and disdain.

“Only if you promise to leave and never return.”

So, I should die, and my herd should die, so you and yours can live? The mermaid’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it.

“Yes.” The word came out colder than Sarah expected, but she didn’t regret it. Sarah knew it was an inherently unfair deal. Someone had to live and someone had to die. It was the way of things. Sending the mermaid away wouldn’t solve the problem; it would only shift it somewhere else. She’d find another shoreline, another community to hunt. But those wouldn’t be people Sarah knew. She wouldn’t have to see their faces, wouldn’t have to carry the guilt of their deaths. Claire would be safe. Her parents would be safe. That was all that mattered.

This is a poor bargain. It hissed in her mind.

Sarah’s grip on the tuna can lid tightened. A new idea sparked in her mind, desperate and bold.

“What if… I told your story?” she blurted.

The mermaid paused, tilting her head like a curious bird. My story?

“Yes.” Sarah’s voice steadied, her eyes locking with the mermaid’s. “You don’t kill anyone. I’ll write your story, tell the world who you really are. Your legend, your truth—it won’t be forgotten. It’ll live on forever.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crash of the waves and the bull’s heavy breathing. The mermaid’s gaze sharpened, her smile thinning as if weighing Sarah’s words. Finally, the creature hissed softly, her amusement returning.

A tempting offer, but I’m not just a story to be written. If you want my story, you’ll come with me.

Sarah’s stomach twisted. “What?”

           I’m bored, the mermaid purred, leaning down to Sarah. I’ve been watching you, you are exciting. Come with me and I will leave this place and never return. I will let your friend live. Only then will your words carry the truth of me. That’s my price. You come with me, and I’ll leave your precious little town untouched.

Sarah’s heart pounded, her mind reeling at the implications. The mermaid’s world, her life beneath the waves—it would consume her. She thought of Claire, of her parents, of Eve and Mads. They’d be safe. They’d live. But at what cost? The mermaid extended a pale, webbed hand, her crimson eyes glittering with triumph.

What will it be, storyteller?

Sarah’s hands loosened slightly on the horns, the jagged tuna can lid still gripped tightly in her palm. She looked up at the mermaid, who was watching her intently, her smile growing wider. With a pale hand extended, the mermaid pulled Sarah up onto the bull’s back. Her thighs burned where they touched the bull. She could hear Claire screaming for her. The mermaid stroked the bull’s neck and he turned towards the water. She didn’t think she could feel a deeper fear, but her whole body turned the ice as the bull walked into the waves. As the water bit at her thighs, the mermaid put her webbed hand on Sarah’s neck, 

Sleep. The world turned black. And then it burst into glorious color.

#### 

Months after her disappearance and supposed death, Sarah stood outside the little church at Twilight Cove, adjusting the oversized doublet jacket she wore, a relic offered by the mermaid in a rare moment of generosity as the two had come to regard each other. In her hands, she clutched a copy of her newest manuscript, written on soggy parchment. Behind her, hidden in the shadows of the cliffs, the mermaid hissed softly—a sound of approval, perhaps, or her version of encouragement. Her pale form blended into the jagged rocks, the gleam of her red eyes the only sign she was there.

The book in her hand was the product of long nights spent in the mermaid’s underwater lair, illuminated only by bioluminescent light and fueled by scraps of knowledge she gleaned from the creature’s cryptic tales. It was a novel about the life of a 16th-century cowherdess—a woman villainized during a time of scarcity and desperation, whose transformation into a mermaid had been less a curse than an escape. 

Sarah knew, deep in her bones, that it would be a hit.

Her transition from writing best-selling smut to niche folklore had been inevitable, she realized. Romance had always been about connection, about the human need for closeness. But folklore? That was about survival, about identity. About learning how to live with oneself, even in solitude. The mermaid had taught her that.

As Sarah stepped into the church, she was struck by the sight of the offerings left outside. Flowers, handwritten notes, seashells, and rainbow flags adorned the steps—a testament to the breadth of her fans. They had shown up to mourn her, a mix of readers, locals, and curious onlookers. Some held her old books, their pages dog-eared and worn. She spotted the librarian first – carrying printouts of articles speculating on her “death.”

Inside, the church was packed. Her parents stood to the side, looking like they had aged a century in the months since her disappearance. Their faces were pale, their expressions strained as they avoided making eye contact with anyone. Claire and her parents sat near the front, Claire’s hand gripping her mother’s tightly. The sight of her made Sarah’s throat tighten.

Eve and Mads sat in the second row, clinging to each other as tears streamed down their faces. They looked happy, in a way—happy together, even in their grief. Lane was beside them, typing furiously on her phone, likely live-tweeting the funeral for some market-friendly press since the disaster months ago. Sarah almost laughed.

The priest was at the pulpit, his voice droning on about loss and remembrance, but Sarah didn’t hear him. Instead, she strode up the aisle, her heels clicking against the polished wooden floor. Heads turned, gasps echoing through the space as people realized who she was. The priest froze mid-sentence as Sarah reached the pulpit and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly guiding him aside. She turned to face the congregation, her lips curling into a wry smile.

“Hey,” she said, her voice carrying through the stunned silence. “What are we all so sad about?”

The room erupted. Gasps, cries. Eve and Mads leapt to their feet, their faces a mixture of disbelief and relief. Claire’s jaw dropped, and Sarah’s parents sat in relief, if unsure whether Sarah was real.

Sarah raised a hand, silencing the chaos. “I know, I know. It’s been a while. But I’m here now. And I’ve got something to share.” She held up her book.

“This,” she said, her voice steady, “is what I’ve been working on. It’s about survival. About the stories we tell to make sense of the things we can’t understand. And about how sometimes, when the world turns its back on you, you find your strength not in others, but in yourself.”

Her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on Eve and Mads, then on Claire. She let the weight of her words settle. “I know I’ve been gone. But I learned something important. We’re stronger than we think. Even in the deepest, darkest waters, we survive.”

The room was silent, every pair of eyes on her. Sarah smiled, feeling the strength of the mermaid’s lessons coursing through her. 

“So,” she said, holding the book high, “who wants to hear the rest of the story?”

Outside the church, the tide whispered against the shore, the only trace of the mermaid was a solitary cowbell floating gently on the water’s surface, its hollow clang echoing softly.