PROLOGUE
I always thought I’d die a heroic death. A gunshot on the battlefield, a misstep on a landmine, a
shrapnel wound. Even an accidental death in a war zone would prove to be more rewarding than
this. As my body falls, everything in my life flashes before my eyes. My eleventh birthday, my
parents looking at me with adoration, the day I enlisted in the Army and took an oath, the day I
met the love of my life. The memories hit me in snapshots, each attached to a different emotion.
Joy. Guilt. Pride. Trust. Anger. And finally fear. Fear slips in seconds before I hit the pavement
and everything goes black.
Chapter One
Sarah
Summer of 2022
Flagport is as beautiful as all the Google searches promised, true to the bold headlines that boast
of its accessibility to the shoreline, the quaint seaside town close enough to Boston but tucked
away just enough to offer privacy and that small-town feel. The headlines also touted a never-
ending list of family activities, enough sports to keep all the kids happy, a school district that falls
in the top ten in the state of Massachusetts, and not one, but two shopping strips. There was no
shortage of photos showcasing the annual town events that attracted outsiders by the thousands.
Evidently the place is a hot spot for tourists in the summer, a more accessible Martha’s Vineyard
if you were comparing it to other New England coastal towns.
The town was even home to a Hollywood starlet at one point. The name is lost on me, but I’m
not one to keep tabs on celebs. Several authors and musicians added to the brag list for Flagport,
some recognizable names and others have only achieved fame within the borders of the town. At
least that’s what I gleaned from the local papers.
My sixteen-year-old daughter looks out the car window, involving her entire body as she releases
a sigh. She takes a sip from her personalized pale-pink water bottle covered in stickers that have
sloths with conversation bubbles over their heads. Live your life upside down. Don’t hurry, be
happy. I’m not lazy, I’m energy efficient. A California sticker with a sunset on the backdrop. Her
name, Laney, is written in curly letters vertically down the side, the personalization she had to
have just like her friends.
She takes her gaze off the blue sign that marks the edge of town as she says, “Birthplace of the
U.S. Navy. So, this is why you wanted to move here?”
“Kind of,” I say, not lying entirely.
I never told her we were moving here for that reason, but she’s allowed to make an assessment,
considering I never gave her a diehard legit reason. My daughter has spent her entire life as a
military brat, jumping from base to base every two to four years and she’s handled the swapping
of friends and schools like a champion networker. She’s adapted to life changes better than I ever
have and I was the one who made the decision to join the Army nearly two decades ago. So,
when it came time for me to announce our move to Massachusetts, I thought she’d be able to
pack up with gusto, excited about another adventure together. But this time was different. Maybe
it was because it was after I retired and she assumed we would stay in California, where I would
work my freelance website design job, at least until she graduated high school. I thought we
would too, but something inside me told me to come here to get the answer to my one burning
question.
“It’s going to be great here...think of it like an adventure.” I turn the wheel down a wide street
with equally wide driveways. It’s three o’clock on a Thursday in June, one day after school ended
for the summer, and the street is bustling with activity. “Remember how we used to turn every
move into a fun trip?” Those were some of the most stressful days of my life, but looking back,
they were some of the best times.
“I’m not a little kid anymore.” She pulls her right leg up onto the seat and drops her chin in her
palm as she continues looking out the window. A group of boys who seem to be about her age
take up half the street playing a fierce game of basketball. Half of them wear shirts, the other half
are topless, their teenage boy bodies scrawny. Although, I’m guessing, to my hormonal teenage
daughter, these boys look like bodybuilders, their torsos carved where I only see bone, their chins
showing the beginning stages of stubble where I only see acne-covered baby faces.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that honey.” I rest a palm on her thigh, testing her mood.
She shrugs, tucking her bare foot underneath her even further, hugging her knee into her chest as
if it’s a lifeline. As if this town couldn’t be any more idyllic, there is a lemonade stand taking place
at the next intersection, with a line of parents and kids. “Geez, that blows your Army base
lemonade stands outta the water,” I say, nostalgia catching my memories like a hook.
“I bet those kids get to keep the money they make too.” Laney looks over at me for the first time
in a thousand miles, and squints her eyes into a mean face, as if she is still traumatized from
having to donate her lemonade stand earnings to the local charities. That is what our life has
always been about. Service. I’ve pushed my own dedication to service onto Laney, which, I’m
afraid, will now make her run far away from being in a job that involves helping others.
I’ve grown used to disappointing my daughter, but I’m about to disappoint her even more. We
drive down two more wide streets lined with noteworthy homes, some made of brick with
elaborate columns and others freshly painted in blues and grays, all accented with classy decor
that reminds everyone who passes by that they are in a beach town. Driveways framed with
crumbled seashells, wreaths made of white and navy-blue rope, kayaks and paddle boards
clinging to the sides of the homes, hung on elaborate racks. Nearly half the homes have boats
bulging from the driveways, covered and well kept, ready to be dropped into the nearby ocean. I
wonder if the other half of the neighbors have boats that were already placed in the water, slid
down launches on Memorial Day weekend, two weeks prior. Two of the houses we pass have
sealed brown bags on their porches with the infamous Whole Foods label on the side, the dark
green print as recognizable here as it was in California. When I get to the end of the road, I turn
left on Sagamore Street, our long-awaited destination. The road immediately narrows, and the
big houses are replaced with townhomes. Two doors mark the front of each building, defining the
separate entrances. A thin slice of driveway is carved out alongside each edge of the building. I
pull into the driveway, stopping just before I hit a shed that greets the end of the pavement. Mold
marks the front of the structure in splotches. “Where are we?”
“We’re home!” I lift the edges of my words, pushing excitement into them for Laney’s sake. The
girl has spent her life living in base housing, so this townhome shouldn’t come as a surprise to her.
But we just drove by street after street of oversized, pristine homes, so I imagine the one we land
on will melt away any hope she had of living in luxury. It’s kind of like eating the cheap Palmer’s
chocolate after you’ve just indulged in a bag of creamy Dove chocolates. I push my door open,
dodging Laney’s inevitable eye rolls, and step out onto the cement, the slab only big enough to
hold my foot before it greets the yellowing patch of lawn in front of the town‐ home. The
pavement beneath my feet crumbles, causing me to stumble forward slightly as I make my way to
the door, catching myself on the silver Honda Civic that drove me, Laney, and some of our
belongings across the country. The other belongings, mostly Laney’s clothes and necessities, will
be arriving sometime over the next few days in boxes. I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying so I
made sure to detox our last apartment, throwing out the unnecessary items. I know how to leave
on a whim, and I’m well-versed in keeping things simple, only packing the necessities.
Our trip started in Southern California, where we had been living not far from the Army base I
was stationed at when I retired just a few months ago. Fort Wylie, the place where I started my
career and the place where I ended it. The place that is home to the source of all my past trauma.
I’m certain that being in Flagport will help me answer the questions that have been swirling in
my mind for decades. As long as I find the person I’m looking for.
By the time I get to the top step, Laney has only just started to open her car door. I’m guessing
she was waiting for me to say, “just kidding,” as I got back into the car and maneuvered it out of
the driveway, hopeful that we had purchased one of the other massive and aesthetically pleasing
homes instead. The other homes are right around the corner, only a stone’s throw away. I’m not
sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. We’ve only been in this town for five minutes and I’m
already counting the ways my teenage daughter might be ashamed of the house we are living in.
She’s never been exposed to luxury like the kind this town has to offer, but I can see it already
registering in her head. The comparisons are being made, lining up like bullets she’ll want to
dodge. Why do the hot basketball boys down the street get to live in a mansion while I’m stuck in
this shack adjoining another shack?
The kids here will undoubtedly be different than the military brats she grew up with. At least
from what my judgmental mind is telling me about this neighborhood, there are no siblings
sharing rooms like the neighbors on either side of us in our last base housing situation. I doubt
there are kids letting themselves in the front door after school to an empty house, like the
offspring of the enlisted military members on base. These kids are most likely greeted by nannies
and babysitters who get paid a pretty penny to make after- school snacks and transport the
children to the back-to-back school activities I saw listed on the town’s Parks and Recreation
schedule.
I turn and smile at Laney as she emerges from the car with sloth-like movements, her eyes trained
on the ground, her shoulders slouched forward in a C, making her white cropped shirt touch the
top edge of her wide-legged distressed jeans, taking away the midriff revealing affect that it has
when she stands erect. My gaze catches the home diagonal from ours. It sits on the corner of the
last street we drove down, its front door facing our road, as if it’s taunting us. I imagine the
owners got it for a deal, having to face the lesser of homes in Flagport. The view is everything in
a town like this.
“Do you want to do the honors?” I ask Laney as I reach into the black mailbox that is hanging
beside the door by a thread. I feel around the inside, my fingertips dancing along pebbles and a
chunk of plastic that looks like it’s the missing puzzle piece from the corner of the box. When my
hand lands on the metal key, I pull it out, dangling it in front of Laney as a peace offering. Six
years ago, she would’ve been thrilled at the chance to be the first to unlock the door to our future
home. Today, she crosses her arms across her chest as if she’s cold, even though the temperature
is a balmy seventy degrees. Maybe she is cold, considering it was eighty when we left the West
Coast.
“That’s okay.” She gathers her hair into a fist and pulls it to the front, dropping it until it lands in
one thick strand on her right shoulder. The streaks of blonde that infiltrate her mousy brown
strands have grown out in the rooty way that is now acceptable.
“Okay, here goes.” I push the key into the gold knob and jiggle. Nothing happens. I move in
closer, bracing myself as I wrap my palm around the knob holding it steady as I jiggle some more,
pushing and twisting at the same time. The knob turns and the door swings open, the squeal of
the hinges greets us.
The splintered step creaks beneath my foot as I step up and into the house, or half-house as my
ex used to call townhomes. Laney follows closely behind me. A staircase leads to another level, as
promised in the images I saw online before I filled out the rental application and punched in my
credit card number for a deposit. It’s so easy to get things done these days. We veer left, moving
through the house in darkness, made worse by the closed blinds and dark bruised wood. I know
we’re in the kitchen when I feel a change of texture beneath my sneakered feet, the creaky wood
switching to an uneven linoleum.
A glow illuminates the room. I turn back to Laney who twists the knob on the wall with pale pink
manicured fingers. “This place is so dark.” She slides across the kitchen floor in flip-flops.
“Yeah, it could use a coat or two of light paint.” I run my hand along the deep red walls. Even I
know dark wall colors are the wrong choice.
Laney’s face is frozen in disgust. She doesn’t want to be here. I don’t really want to be here either,
but sometimes the only way to find an answer you’ve been searching for is to go right to the
source. ...
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