The Sky Beneath Her(48)

“My mother drowned in the Atlantic, and its waters also swallowed me whole.”

“There’s no safer person to dive with than me.”

If I had any common sense, I’d give him the manuscript and rush back toward solid ground. There were plenty of landlocked jobs I could get. I didn’t need the roar of the ocean. “No such thing as safe in the ocean.”

He shook his head. “You always were stubborn.”

My willfulness that had kept me going after Mom’s death had been transformed into a very heavy set of armor. “Yeah, back at you.”

“It’s not easy being back here for me either.”

“Why is it so hard for you?”

“You’re not the only one who lost when your mom died. I thought the world of her. I should’ve been on the dive boat that day. I wonder how different the world would be if I had been there.”

In all these years, I’d never thought about Nathan’s loss. Only mine. Nathan and Mom had gotten along so well, as if they’d always known each other. “Many times, when you and Mom talked about a dive, I kind of resented you because I felt like the third wheel.”

“That was never the intention.”

Mom had trusted Nathan almost instantly when they’d met in Greece, and he’d joined our motley duo for several months. She’d never second-guessed him, and she listened to his opinions about currents and winds. Mom had had lovers over the years, some a little bit older than Nathan, and when they started day trips to Athens, I’d thought Mom and Nathan might have started sleeping together. “Were you and Mom lovers?”

The question caught him off guard. “Jesus, no.”

“Mom confided in you.”

He drew in a breath as if drawing back a secret. “I thought of her like a big sister. She was a great friend.”

“You treated me like a kid sister.”

He shrugged. “You were a kid. What else was I to do?”

I should’ve pressed him about those times my mother had been speaking to him, only to grow silent when I arrived. I should have pressed, but I didn’t. “You never talked about your family.”

“There wasn’t much to tell. I never knew them. Both my parents drowned in a boating accident. I was raised by an uncle and the ocean.”

I’d never known that. “So, you know what we face.”

He shrugged. “I was nearly taken out by a car on land. Anything can kill you.”

Kaitlin returned to the table, a bag of leftovers in hand. “Okay, you two. Back to your own corners.”

I realized his frown mirrored the same expression tightening my face. “We’re fine. Just having a chat.”

“Yeah,” Nathan said. “We were catching up.”

“Right.” The three of us left the restaurant and stood in the parking lot by Kaitlin’s van. “Are you staying with me or headed to Southern Shores, Tula?”

“Going back to Southern Shores. It’s been a long day.”

“Right.” She grimaced at Nathan. “Don’t look so glum, pal. Life will pick up.”

“My life is fine,” he said.

Kaitlin laughed. “Okay, whatever you say.”

He shoved hands in his pockets and shook his head. “See you in the morning, Tula.”

Shit. “I’ll be ready.”





Chapter Seventeen


Tula





Thursday, June 11, 2026, 10:15 p.m.


At the Brooks house, I changed into an oversize T-shirt and sat on the double bed. I removed the partial manuscript from its folder and thumbed through the sheets. I reread the first few pages, reacquainting myself with the ship’s specifications, as told by Captain Stoddard and Chief Mate Riggs.

The writer profiled several other members of the crew. As I searched the names on my phone, I discovered most had birth and death dates. Some had died when the Oceanus sank. All the gunmen who’d been firing the ship’s .50 caliber guns at the U-boat after the torpedo hit died after a secondary explosion. A few other sailors who’d survived served on military vessels for the remainder of the war and died at sea. A few made it to a ripe old age.

I could only guess that the author of this book had interviewed survivors, because many of the details were too personal to be secondhand.

Dr. Brooks had struck up a friendship with Gertrude Werner, a woman fleeing Austria. I searched her name on my phone but couldn’t find a reference to her in Vienna or Innsbruck. But she’d said she’d changed her name several times since her escape. I did find a short biography of an Alfred Gruber. There was no mention of him, but I wondered if the name was real.

When I searched “Dr. Atticus Brooks,” I found one picture taken forty years ago, but the image was in profile and grainy. I didn’t see any older pictures of him except the ones I’d found in his private collection.

As I turned through the fragile pages, memories eased out of the shadows. I stared at a single picture of Dr. Brooks, and an old memory floated to the surface. Shortly after Mom and I had returned to the Outer Banks, we’d driven to the town of Duck and parked on the ocean side in a one-story shopping center woven around a grove of live oak trees. When we’d parked in the gravel lot, I was excited to shop. But shopping centers weren’t Mom’s vibe, so I was suspicious.