Daughter of Deep Silence

I am nothing except this: a girl reborn of the deep ocean silence, meant for nothing but vengeance.

That's the thing about silences and futures; someone always comes along to fill them in. If you let them.

Rage is a powerful emotion, strong enough not just to burn away pain but also to sear back the whispering tendrils of fear.

If anything, revenge is the absence of emotion. It's pure, calculated thought stripped bare of entangling emotions. It's cold, deliberate action.

Trauma always has a way of accelerating relationships, creating intimacy where none existed before.

Ever since that first day on the beach, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you." A burst of warmth breaks free low in my abdomen. "And then later," he continues, "when you were in the pool, drifting just out of reach." His fingers dance along my hip toward my back, setting me on fire from the outside in. I press my palms flat against the door behind me, needing to feel something but afraid to reach for him. His head drops lower and for a moment I think he's about to finally kiss me. But instead he shifts, bringing his lips slowly to my ear. "Do you know how many times I've imagined what would have happened if I'd just gone in after you?

It's funny, most people think that revenge is a passionate affair, driven by rage and pain. But it can't be. Feelings such as those make you weak. They overwrite thought and cause reckless impulses that lead to poor decisions.

With our seat belts still fastened, there's no way for us to move closer, at least not without clearly stating our intentions to do so. And this is all too young and new for that.

So, to very unsubtly change the subject, what kind of books do you like to read? And so help me if you say Greek mythology, I'll turn this car around myself." It takes him a minute to get my joke, and then he starts laughing and I join in. And there's something about it all - the expanse of the summer sky arcing overhead and my hand still on Grey's warm thigh - that makes me wonder if I could just pause life here and wrap a bubble around this moment, if it would be enough to keep me happy.

How did she die?" Grey finally asks. "Painfully." I hurl the word, dagger sharp, because I'm angry. And hurt. ... Grey's face crumbles. "Oh God." He presses a hand over his eyes as he doubles over, falling to his knees in the surf. For a moment I stand over him, watching the way that he's broken. Knowing that I'm broken in the same way. My stomach roils at what I say next - at my capacity for cruelty. At my need to hurt him. But it's the only way I know to save myself. Truth and revenge, my only lifelines. I let myself slip until I'm kneeling next to him. I place my arms around him. Comforting him. "There's nothing you could have done." I say the words softly, knowing the aching brutality of them. Because there was something he could have done to save her. He could have told the truth.

Could I really let her die? I ask myself. The most alarming realization is the sudden and sure answer: yes. I could absolutely let her die.

At best Grey and his father lied because they were scared. And at worst they lied because they were somehow involved. Either way they lied and I intend to find out why. You can hate me if you want. You can blame me for all of this, for keeping the truth from you. You can help me, or you can leave. But the one thing you can't do is stop me.

The rule of thumb is that a body can only go three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food. Libby and I were adrift for seven days.

No one's made me feel this way in years." His whisper is rough, calloused. "I want you, Libby." ... "Then have me," I whisper. His lips land on mine, and it's like coming to the surface after drowning. All desperate need that eclipses everything else. He presses me against the door and we're a tangle of heart-hammering desire and panting need.

Here, in the bustling stalls of the market, he's anonymous. And it's obvious how much he prefers it this way.

As I pass by him, I feel a crackle of tension between us. A slow heat begins its way into my cheeks, mirroring the flush in Grey's, and I realize that I hadn't been the only one acutely aware of his nakedness in the shower.

You could open the door, Frances whispers. Find your way through the steam, not even bothering to remove your clothes before stepping in with him. His hands could slide along where your thin shirt molds against your hips. His fingers could find the hem, slowly gather it, inching higher.

It makes it seem as though there's no door between us at all. The sound of water gathering, cascading, trailing along the planes, ridges, and hollows of his naked body feels more intimate than if he were standing in front of me wearing nothing at all.

I'd been hoping to get close enough to Grey to gain access to his room, but I hadn't expected it to come so easily. All those convoluted plans and all I really had to do was stammer and blush.

That's one of the benefits of being an orphan: instant sympathy.

I think about the sound the waves made against the walls of the lifeboat. A hushing sort of whisper that I'd eventually found comforting. It had become, for me, the reckoning of death.

I glance back at Shepherd. His eyes betray his mixture of revulsion and curiosity. It's obvious he knows he shouldn't want to hear this, that the horror is too great, yet he can't stop himself from listening.

The bodies. Oh God, the bodies. And the blood and the screams and the smell of it all, like overripe peaches stuffed with pennies.

Libby is none of those things. At least not the Libby I've become. She's crafted and honed for this one purpose, forged by misery and rage, until every raw edge was seared away.

I once read about this interrogation tactic in which you break the person's will in steps so small they don't even realize it's happening. Here's how it works: Imagine a suspect sitting in a police station, refusing to talk. Ask them something about the crime, they're going to stay silent. But, instead, ask them if they'd like a glass of water and they're likely to answer. Because not answering a simple question like that seems unreasonable -- it's a question unconnected to the reason they're at the police station, so what's the harm? Except now they've broken their vow not to speak. So getting them to break it again isn't as difficult. It's no longer about whether the suspect is going to talk or not, it's about what information the suspect will be willing to share. Suddenly, the playing field has shifted. It's like this: Ask someone to run a marathon, and they're likely to say no. But ask them to take one step and they usually will. Because taking that one step is no big deal. Then ask them to take another step and same thing. And once they've taken a dozen steps they're invested. You can get them through an entire marathon that way.