Dying Breath

by Wendy Corsi Staub

Genres: Horror; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A seaside retreat has just become a killer's favorite playground.

It's summer on the Jersey Shore. Children play on the beach. Husbands are off working in the city. And the surf echoes in the night. Here, in this perfect place, a serial killer has no worries in the world — except choosing the next victim.

Cam Hastings has come to Long Beach Island with her teenage daughter and the hope that maybe she can save her failed marriage. Cam has never stopped loving her husband, Mike, nor has she been able to outrun her flaws and demons — a vanished mother, a lost sister, and the ugly visions she has of missing children.

Now, Cam is about to step over the edge. For once, she will act on one of her visions — and then face the consequences. For a killer has just struck again. And for Cam, and the people she loves most, fear has come home for good.

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

New York City
January

It always begins with the dizziness.

In her office high above East 46th Street, Camden Hastings is editing yet another inane fashion article, “Not Your Grandmother’s Belts and Brooches,” when the words begin to swim on the page.

Light-headed, she looks up warily. The desk lamp is glaring, the small room distorted and tilting at an impossible angle.

Oh, no.

She braces herself.

Here it comes.

It’s been awhile—a month, maybe more—since the last episode.

Sometimes after that much time has passed, she actually allows herself to relax a little. She’ll lower her guard, wanting to believe she’s free and clear, that she’ll never have to deal with the unsettling visions again.

But they always come back.

Cam’s fingers involuntarily release her pencil. It rolls off the desk onto the floor. Ignoring it, she rolls her chair back slightly, just enough to rest her elbows on her lap and lower her face into her hands to stop the spinning sensation.

She can hear her heart beating, hear her own rhythmic respiration…then someone else’s.

Inhale…

Exhale…

Inhale…

Cam’s head is filled with the sound of erratic, shallow breathing, in some kind of bizarre syncopation with her own.

“Please, you have to let me go.”

The thin, uneven pitch of the voice is typical of male adolescence, but she can’t see the speaker yet. Can’t see anything at all; her eyes are tightly closed against her palms and her mental screen remains dark.

“Why are you doing this? Who are you?” she hears the boy ask brokenly.

He’s so afraid, she senses, so terribly afraid, it’s all he can do to just stay conscious, keep breathing…

Inhale…

Exhale…

Cam’s own lungs seem to constrict with the effort.

But that’s crazy. You can breathe. You know he’s only in your head, like the others.

All of them—all the characters she alone can see and hear—are figments of an exceptionally vivid imagination Cam’s English teachers liked to call “a gift,” back when she was in school.

Ha. A gift?

Hardly.

But then, her teachers didn’t know about the strange visions she’s endured for as long as she can remember. If they knew, they might have understood that a vivid imagination can be—more than anything else—a curse.

They’d have suggested a shrink for her, instead of creative writing courses. Because that’s what you do when you hallucinate on a regular basis, right? You see a psychiatrist.

That’s what her sister Ava did at college.

But no one in Cam’s world ever realized that she had stumbled across the truth about beautiful, brunette Ava. About her mental illness. For all she knows, Pop never even knew about Ava’s troubles in the first place.

In any case, no one in her life has ever suspected that Cam is aware she might have more in common with her older sister than an uncanny physical resemblance. She might also have the genetic potential to go stark, raving mad, just as Ava so obviously did twenty years ago.

Why else would a person—perched twelve stories in the air—take a headfirst dive to the ground?

You don’t kill yourself just because your mother abandoned you when you were a teenager, or because your college course load is overwhelming…do you?

Okay, some people might. But Cam found her sister’s diary years ago. She’s suspected, ever since, what was going on with her. She’s come to believe the voices in Ava’s head told her to jump.

The voices in Cam’s aren’t anything like that.

For one thing, they’re invariably laced with fear. Terror, even. They never speak directly to Cam; they’re always addressing someone else, some shadowy person who intends to hurt them.

And most of the time, those voices belong to children.

Cam knows that because she can usually conjure their faces if she focuses hard enough.

Funny…even though she’s the one who dreams up these tortured characters in the first place, she can never quite anticipate what they’re going to look like, or whether she’ll even get to see them at all.

For instance, this boy today, the frightened boy with the cracking voice, sounds like he’s small, and pale.

But when he begins to take shape in Cam’s mind’s eye, he’s older than she expected. Dark-skinned, too—Hispanic, maybe, or Native American. He has a mop of curly dark hair and big brown eyes.

He’s huddled in a confined space—she can see carpet, and metal, and a small recessed light, as if…

Yes, it’s a car trunk. It’s open. Broad daylight. Dappled, fluid shade spills in, as if trees are gently stirring overhead.

Then a human shadow looms over the boy; someone is standing there, looking down at him.

Cam’s heart races, her throat gags on the boy’s panic.

Calm down, she tells herself—and him. Even though he’s not real. Even though he exists only in her head.

Is he wearing some sort of uniform? Boy Scouts, maybe? Khaki shirt, badges, and pins. A kerchief is tied around his neck. On his sleeve, a couple of sewn-on numbers, but Cam can’t make them out.

Which doesn’t make sense because she’s the one who made him up—so she should know which numbers he’s wearing, shouldn’t she? She should know his name, and his age, and, dammit, she should be able to make him stop sounding so helpless.

But no. He’s crying now. Crying and cowering in the car trunk, his elbows bent on either side of his face, his hands clutching the back of his head.

Cam can’t bear to see him like that, can’t bear to listen to the unnatural, keening sound.

Stop, she commands her overimaginative, gifted brain, lifting her head and shaking it back and forth. Stop doing this to me.

Mercifully, the boy’s voice gradually grows fainter. The image begins to fade.

Cam breathes deeply to calm herself.

There. That’s better.

She sits up in her chair.

Sips some tepid tea from the mug on her desk.

Slowly, her breathing returns to normal.

That was a bad one.

They usually are. Bad like a nightmare that grips you when you’re having it…

And ends when you wake up.

But lately, the hallucinations stay with her. She doesn’t forget them the way you would a nightmare. They seem more real than ever before. Why?

Who knows? It’s hard enough for Cam to believe she’s capable of creating such emotional drama out of thin air—let alone comprehend how and why she does it.

Lord knows she’s got enough to worry about without her mind being cluttered by imaginary people in trouble.

Her promotion from Assistant to Associate Editor is on hold until the next fiscal year begins. Mike’s been laid off for almost a month. They’re running out of money.

That’s real stress.

That’s what she should be worrying about.

Not daydreaming, or hallucinating, or whatever one would call the unsettling visions that pop up in her head.

Maybe I should go see someone about them, she thinks—same as always, whenever she comes out of one of these episodes.

Then—no. No way, she tells herself—same, too, as always.

She can’t go see a shrink. They can’t afford it, and anyway, what would Mike do if he realized he was married to a crazy person?

Probably the same thing Pop did, all those years ago:

Make himself scarce.

I can’t lose Mike. I need him. I love him.

She can barely remember her parents’ married era. Not that Ike and Brenda Neary had ever divorced, though they often spoke the word.

Spoke? Ha. Screamed it.

Back then, they still lived in Camden, a New Jersey suburb of Philadelphia and Mom’s hometown, for which she named her second daughter. Obsessed with glamorous old Hollywood and lingering girlhood dreams of becoming an actress, Brenda had named her firstborn after her favorite movie star, Ava Gardner.

The irony: the real Ava Gardner lived a long, gilded life. A different brand of irony: once thriving Camden, New Jersey, has steadily deteriorated into poverty, urban blight, and staggering crime rates, notoriously dubbed the “most dangerous city in America.”

Cam dimly recalls her mother’s face, her voice, her tears. Not much more than that, though. On the rare occasions her father was around, there were arguments and accusations—usually ending with her mother hysterical and Pop slamming the door behind him as he left.

Then came the day that her mother was the one who left—for good. Cam was three years old; Ava a college freshman at NYU. When Ava arrived at their small Camden apartment, summoned in the crisis, she gently told her little sister that they’d never see their mother again.

Pop protested.

But as it turned out, Ava was right.

“Don’t worry, baby girl,” Pop reassured Cam that night, holding her close as she sobbed. “I’ll take care of you. Lean on me. You can trust me.”

“But you always have to leave.”

“Not anymore. I never will. Never again. I promise. Not unless I take you with me.”

And that was what he did.

And she leaned on him. Trusted him.

Yet in all those years the two of them spent together on the road, or down the shore, or in between gigs—somehow, she never found the nerve to tell Pop about the visions.

Nor can she bring herself to tell her husband.

Or, God forbid, her friends or coworkers.

Cam wonders sometimes if she might have eventually confided in her big sister. But she never had the chance.

Ava’s “tragic accident,” as everyone chose to call it—her “falling” to her death at NYU’s Bobst Library—happened less than a year after Mom left.

As for Cam, she has no choice but to deal, silently and alone, with her hallucinations whenever they strike, reassuring herself that she has no reason to fear something that exists only in her imagination.

November

The day’s weighty stack of mail in her hand, Cam sinks her bulky form onto the maroon brocade couch.

Ahhh…

That’s better.

Much better than the hard plastic seat someone offered her on the downtown number six train a little while ago. Not that it wasn’t preferable to standing, as she’s been forced to do lately more times than one might expect.

As Cam told her husband just the other day, it’s amazing how invisible an eight-months-pregnant woman can be, on board the subway in New York City.

Mike—the sort of guy who gives up his seat not just for pregnant women but for any random passenger who might need it—was predictably outraged.

“You need to start taking a cab home from work,” he decided—as if they could possibly afford the rush-hour meter fare between the magazine’s offices on East 46th and their apartment on the unfashionable fringes of Chinatown.

“Okay, I’ll take a cab, don’t worry.”

“No, you won’t. You’re just humoring me. I can tell.”

“Well then,” she said, “how about if I promise to take a cab on nights when I’m so wiped out that I really don’t feel up to the subway?”

That would be every night—if she meant it.

Of course, she didn’t.

Mike has been treating her like an eggshell throughout her pregnancy, but Cam can handle the physical symptoms. Just as she can handle the fact that she and Mike are pretty much broke, same as always, even now that he’s working again.

So she’ll have to suck it up and brave the subway until the baby comes. An extra mouth to feed will be enough strain on their budget.

The pregnancy wasn’t unplanned. It just happened sooner than they expected.

Cam had read—and edited, and, yes, even written—her share of articles on conception. She knew going in that a woman shouldn’t count on getting pregnant right away. Figuring it was probably going to take a few months, at least, she told Mike they should start trying the minute he got a job.

So they did.

Just weeks later, there she was: knocked up, due around Christmas.

So much for the best-laid plans: scraping up enough money for skiing in Utah this winter, and taking Mike’s parents up on their offer for two plane tickets to visit them at their winter home in Florida over the holidays.

Speaking of Mike’s parents…

Here’s an envelope that bears the familiar loopy blue ballpoint handwriting of Cam’s mother-in-law, with a Vero Beach postmark and return address.

Cam is struck by a familiar, and perhaps ridiculous, pang of wistfulness.

It’s been years since she went through her mail thinking there just might be something from her own mother.

Mom, wherever she is, intentionally erased herself from the shattered family she left behind. Still, Cam used to fantasize that one day she’d simply show up again, as abruptly as she’d vanished.

Ava’s death made the papers in New Jersey and New York. Surely if Mom had seen it, she’d have come back. At the time, Cam felt as though she, and Pop, too, were holding their breaths for that—constantly looking around at the wake, the funeral, for Mom’s face in the crowd.

Of course, it wasn’t there.

Mom probably never knew, still doesn’t know, that she lost one of her children.

She couldn’t have known, because if she had, she’d have come back to comfort Cam and Pop. Or so Cam managed to convince herself for awhile, anyway, back when she still clung to faith in her mother.

That faith has long since vanished, though.

Mom is as gone as Ava is; Cam and Pop both learned to accept that years ago. They stoically moved forward together, refusing to become victims of their tragic past.

Cam no longer expects her mother to pop up in her life again, to send, say, a “Thinking of You” card filled with newsy handwriting, the way Mike’s mother does when they’re away for the winter.

No, but she’ll always be wistful—and maybe a little envious—when her mother-in-law pops up in the mailbox. Her cheerful correspondence will always trigger the familiar aftertaste of loss and futile yearning.

Marjorie Hastings didn’t send a card today, and this envelope is addressed just to her son. The only thing in it—Cam can see when she holds it up to the lamplight—is a small rectangle about the size of a check folded in half.

That’s what it is, she’s certain. A check.

Mike’s mom, God bless her, has been sending them a little bit here and there to help out. Probably siphoning it out of her grocery money.

Mike’s father doesn’t believe in handouts to get grown children on their feet financially, though he can well afford it. Mike’s mom never worked; Mike’s father doesn’t believe in that, either. The woman, according to Mike Hastings Sr., should stay at home with the children while the man supports her.

“Well, what if the woman loves her job?” Cam brazenly asked her father-in-law once, before she knew better than to get him started. Then what? Does she have to give it up when the children come along?

The reply: “Of course.”

And when she asked why, the answer was equally maddening: “Because that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

She can’t stand his attitude—in theory, anyway—but deep down, she can’t help but think maybe he’s right. Maybe that is the way it’s supposed to be. It’s definitely the way Cam wishes it had been for her, growing up…and the way it’s going to be for her own child, if she and Mike can make it happen.

Don’t worry, Dad, she silently tells her father-in-law now, flipping the legal envelope forward to rest against her bulging belly as she checks the rest of the mail. I don’t love my job. Lately, I don’t even like it all that much.

With luck, Mike’s promising new position in computer technology will pan out while she’s on maternity leave. Then she won’t have to go back to her job as associate editor at a women’s magazine. She can give their child the traditional family life she never had herself, with a father who works a steady nine-to-five job, a mother who’s there to dry tears and make meals and keep house…Hell, a mother who’s just there, period, would be a vast improvement over her own childhood.

Maybe, as a stay-at-home mom, she’ll even finally be able to get back to her writing.

That’s what she always wanted to be in the first place: a writer.

But you can’t support yourself in the big city chasing artistic dreams. It’s hard enough, she learned early on, to make it on an editorial salary. Most of Cam’s coworkers have had their rich fathers’ money to fall back on.

Not her. Pop is an aging rocker, living off little more than his fading glory days as a bar band drummer in the Jersey Shore towns.

That’s fine with Cam, though. She wouldn’t trade him for a blue-blooded businessman with the biggest trust fund in the world.

Nor would she trade Mike for a well-heeled Wall Street wiz with an uptown co-op: her colleagues’ perception of essential ingredients in happily ever after.

No, Cam will take Mike Hastings any day—and this rented one-bedroom apartment. It’s not upscale by any means, but it’s cozy, and lived in, and, most important, it’s home.

She looks around, drinking in the reassuring sight of the television, the stereo, the cordless phone. There’s the official wedding portrait of her and Mike, snapped more than two years ago but finally framed and hung just last month.

Ha. The world’s worst procrastinators strike again.

Beneath the portrait is a full bookcase with rows of vertical well-worn bindings and haphazardly, horizontally stacked newer ones as well: What to Expect When You’re Expecting, The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy, The Expectant Father.

The spine on the last one isn’t even cracked. Mike might be thrilled about impending paternity, but unlike Cam, he isn’t much of a reader.

In the far corner of the living room, closest to their bedroom doorway: the white-draped wicker bassinet awaiting the arrival next month of its newborn occupant.

Cam feels better just looking at that.

Yes, this eight-hundred-square-foot haven she shares with Mike—and, soon, with their firstborn child—is Cam’s whole world.

Too bad that world also consists of so many past-due bills; there are quite a few in today’s mail. Con Ed, Verizon, Baby Gap, student loans…

Relieved when she reaches the bottom of the stack at last, Cam separates the envelopes from the junk mail. She idly flips through the supermarket circulars, perusing this week’s bargains.

She and Pop always got by on fast food, sandwiches, and free pub fare provided to the band and the drummer’s daughter, affectionately referred to as a pint-sized roadie. It wasn’t until college that Cam learned to like “real food,” and she craved it once she left the dorms behind.

So she determinedly taught herself how to cook, thanks to the red-and-white-checked Betty Crocker Cookbook someone gave her at her bridal shower. These days, she finds puttering in the kitchen therapeutic. She even welcomes the challenge of planning ahead, creating menus based on sale items…

As she turns a page of this week’s D’Agostino’s flier, something flutters to her lap.

Scooping it up, she sees that it’s one of those small blue and white fliers that arrive with the weekly circulars.

A young boy with dark hair and eyes smiles up at her beneath the headline HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

The answer, to Cam’s utter shock, is yes.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

Yes, she’s seen him. Absolutely.

According to the flier, his name is Paul Delgado, and he disappeared on a Boy Scout hike out in the Sierra Nevadas, just six weeks earlier.

Six weeks?

But…

This is the same boy who had cowered, bound and gagged, in an abductor’s car trunk in one of Cam’s visions almost a year ago.

He’s real.

The comprehension is so stunning, so devastating, that Cam finds herself gasping for air. Panic wells within her, propelling her upward, and she sways to her feet.

She staggers to the kitchen, instinctively seeking to tamp back the frantic barrage of emotions erupting within.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

She frantically looks around, for who knows what—and spots…something.

A bottle of vodka.

It’s stashed on top of the fridge, covered in a layer of dust, leftover from a Halloween party.

Cam finds herself blindly reaching for it on pure whim.

It will numb her—that’s all she knows.

With a violently shaking hand, she dumps some into a glass and raises it to her lips, already looking around for her pack of cigarettes.

Where did I put—

Glimpsing a prescription bottle of prenatal vitamins, she suddenly remembers.

The baby.

For God’s sake…

She lowers the glass in disgust. Or is it dismay?

You’re pregnant.

Of course there are no more cigarettes in the apartment; she quit smoking eight months ago.

Liquor is out of the question as well.

Still trembling, Cam dumps the vodka into the sink.

“Help me,” she whispers into thin air, clinging to the counter.

What is she supposed to do now? Now that she knows she doesn’t have hallucinations after all. Nor daydreams.

She has premonitions.

Because that boy…Paul…he’s real.

He actually exists somewhere in this world.

And if he does…

Then all the others—the anonymous children who have populated the bizarre visions in her head all these years—must exist as well.

Fourteen years later

Hearing a door slam somewhere downstairs, Cam is startled from her prenap stupor.

“Mom?” a voice calls up from the foot of the stairs in the foyer. “Are you here?”

She opens her eyes. Tess is home. Can it possibly be three fifteen already?

She turns her head to look at the bedside clock, and sees that it is, indeed, three-fifteen.

“Be right down,” she calls to her daughter, and sits up groggily.

So much for catching a much-needed afternoon nap. Somehow, the better part of a Tuesday morning and afternoon seems to have escaped her.

Then again, she accomplished quite a bit today. After getting Tess off to school this morning, Cam belatedly switched over her own drawers and closet from winter to summer. Then she made the usual suburban rounds: pharmacy, bank, dry cleaner, post office, supermarket. Back home, she threw together a pot of homemade chicken soup—an odd craving for an unseasonably hot and humid late-May afternoon. She left it simmering, wearily climbed the stairs, lay down…and here she is.

Cam stretches. Sleep will have to wait till bedtime. She swings her legs over the edge of the mattress, half-expecting her feet to encounter a pair of Mike’s shoes cluttering the floor beside the bed.

Then she remembers.

Old habits die hard.

The first thing Mike always did every night after work was sit on the bed, take off his shoes, and leave them where they lay. It drove her crazy from the start, but he couldn’t seem to remember to pick them up, and she stubbornly refused to be that kind of wife. Instead, she grew accustomed to stepping over and sometimes on his shoes.

Not anymore.

These days, Mike’s shoes occupy another bedside about twenty miles away from Upper Montclair, New Jersey. His new place is, ironically, a stone’s throw from their old newlywed apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, where they spent the happiest time of their lives.

These days, real estate in that neighborhood is booming and the narrow old streets are crawling with hipsters. Who could have foreseen that?

Who could have foreseen any of this?

Not even me, Cam thinks grimly.

How bitterly ironic that Camden Hastings—who once upon a time could foresee the bitter fates of strangers—was ultimately blindsided by her own.

Mike moved out in mid-March.

For all she knows, some other woman is sharing his new bed in his new place in his new life.

If not now, then probably soon.

Mike won’t be alone for long. And when he finds someone new, he’ll go for someone who’s the opposite of Cam.

That’s no premonition. She hasn’t had one in years. Just a gut feeling.

Mike will find some woman who is everything Cam isn’t, at least not anymore. Some woman who’s skinny, financially independent, optimistic, emotionally stable. A woman who is all the things Cam never even was in the first place: blonde, petite and perky, elegant, efficient, self-disciplined…

Cam can’t bring herself to ask her husband—soon to be ex-husband, that is—if he’s started seeing anyone in the two months since they separated.

Nor has she asked their daughter what, if anything, she knows about her dad’s new solo lifestyle. It’s not fair to expect Tess to spy on him during their scheduled visitations.

Anyway, Cam should probably get used to the fact that after all these years of a shared life, certain aspects of Mike’s are no longer any of her business.

Just as aspects of her own life are no longer any of his business.

Right. But one aspect of your life most certainly is Mike’s business, and you need to tell him about it. Soon.

 

With the official start of summer a month away, Long Beach Island—a skinny, twenty-one-mile-long barrier island off the coast of central New Jersey—is still relatively uncrowded. The busiest town, Beach Haven, has been a bustling resort for well over a century. On this warm, still Tuesday afternoon, though, all is quiet here.

The sun, dazzling when it rose this morning, is high overhead but its light seems filtered now, more white than golden. Off to the west, above the Victorian rooftops of the historic district, the sky—so blue just an hour ago—is tainted the color of an angry bruise. A pleasant sea breeze has given way to brine-scented air hovering ominously close, as if Mother Nature is holding her breath in anticipation of a coming storm.

The forecast doesn’t call for rain.

But that’s the glorious thing about the weather here on the coast. Nobody ever seems able to accurately predict what’s going to happen.

So different here than out West, where every day brings more of the same: calm, dry, sunshine. Or the Deep South, where late-afternoon summer thunderstorms are as predictable as the sun going down.

Yes, it’s far more interesting to know that on any given day, the weather might remain calm from dawn to dusk—or a powerful, exhilarating storm might blow in to wreak havoc on this peaceful little town. This so-called haven.

The afternoon may be waning and the weather threatening to turn, but the beach remains dotted with chatting senior citizens in lounge chairs, young mothers chasing after toddlers, and the occasional power walker plugged into an iPod.

Nobody seems to be paying any attention to the solitary figure standing at the edge of the surf, testing the waters, so to speak.

 

Cam walks slowly down the stairs, past the framed family pictures that line the angled wall.

There’s Tess as a bald, chubby baby, as a tow-headed preschooler, as a gap-toothed first-grader. There’s that lone, stiffly posed professionally taken family portrait of the three of them, and a couple of framed snapshots, and, of course, their formal wedding photograph.

Cam averts her eyes as she passes that oversized frame, thinking she probably should just take it down.

Their wedding day was joyful, and every time she sees the picture, she’s flooded with memories—now bittersweet.

She remembers exchanging handwritten vows in the little white seaside chapel on the Jersey Shore; the best man’s simultaneously funny and moving toast at the reception; her first married dance with Mike to—appropriately—Etta James’s “At Last.”

Though it took them awhile to hang their large wedding portrait in their first apartment, that was one of the first tasks Mike accomplished when they moved up here to the suburbs. He did so with uncharacteristic efficiency—almost pointedly, Cam remembers thinking at the time. As if he were determined to prove that they were going to create a fresh start here in suburbia—together.

By then, though, the tension between them was already pervasive.

Still, it took almost another decade for either of them to do anything about it.

Now that the marriage is all but over, the picture hangs here still: white lace and broken promises.

I really should take it down, Cam tells herself, not for the first time, as she passes on by. And she will, as soon as she has a chance.

But there are some things she can’t keep putting off.

You have to tell him, Cam admonishes herself again, reaching the first floor and heading toward the kitchen where she can hear Tess rummaging through the cupboards for a snack.

Of course I’ll tell him. I’ll call him and say we have to talk…

Just—not yet.

 

This early in the season, the Atlantic surf is icy enough to shoot twin darts of pain from ankle to thigh.

But physical pain is nothing compared to what I’ve been through.

Physical pain, like the tide, eventually ebbs.

Even now, the waterline inches farther from shore with every lapping wave. A flat, soaked, darkened strip at its foaming edge is strewn with glistening relics deposited by the sea: pebbles and shells—mostly shards, with an occasional intact treasure among them.

Gleaming in a relatively empty patch of wave-packed sand is an eye-catching sliver of something wet and black that just washed ashore.

Hmm. Can it be…?

If it is, then it’s a sign.

One doesn’t come across sharks’ teeth very often on these populated northeastern beaches.

Be casual. Don’t just snatch it up. Someone will notice.

But this stretch of beach is fairly deserted, and nobody’s looking this way, anyway.

Good. Go ahead. Reach down…

Ah, promising.

The tiny black object is about the size of a little girl’s pinky fingernail, but triangular in shape, tapering down to a sharp, skinny point.

It’s clumped with grains of wet sand that need to be carefully brushed away before a positive identification can be made…

Yes.

Definitely a shark’s