“She said a name.”
“It’s long-ago nonsense.”
“She said Daphne, didn’t she?”
Tova holds up her bags of cherries. “I think I’m ready to check out. Can you take these to the register and ring them, please?”
THERE WILL BE no supper tonight.
Two pounds of peak-season Rainier cherries, along with a hasty collection of other grocery items, are abandoned on the counter in Tova’s kitchen. Next to them, her pocketbook lies askance, right where it was carelessly flung, instead of in its proper place on the hook by the door.
Upstairs in the attic, Tova plows through the piles of linen and china, barely aware of the mess now. On the last shelf by the window, bottom row, is the book: Sowell Bay High School, Class of 1989.
Thirty years ago, she had pored through this volume, searching for something. Anything. And it would be remiss to leave out that, on occasion, she or Will had revisited the yearbook in the decades between, whenever some small spring leak of nostalgia broke through their hardened dyke. She has every photo of Erik included between its covers committed to memory.
But Tova isn’t looking for Erik this time.
Her mouth feels numb and dry as she flips to the index. The print is so tiny that she needs her readers; her fumbling fingers find them in the breast pocket of her blouse and jam them onto her face. She yanks in a hard gulp of air when she sees the name, and it stays there, caught in her chest, as she runs her finger down the columns of type, devouring every last word, until finally she reaches the end of the Zs and releases the ragged breath. There is only one.
Cassmore, Daphne A.
Pages 14, 63, and 148.
An Impossible Jam
Stop giving me that look.”
In response, while still glaring at Cameron, the octopus hooks the tip of an arm through the tiny gap over the pump filter in the back of the tank. A threat.
“I know you can hear me.” Cameron rubs his forehead wearily. What is he even saying? Octopuses can’t understand English. Or any other language. Right? “You hungry, bro? Where were you earlier when I was circling the building with a bucket of mackerel? You’re too good for that?”
The creature blinks at him, all innocent and coy. His arm, just the tip, slips through the gap.
“Oh no you don’t. No escapades tonight.” The mop clatters to the floor in the curved hallway as Cameron dashes off toward the pump room around back. He should fix the stupid tank so it can’t pop open, in spite of what Tova says about the monster’s so-called need for freedom. It’s not like she’s even here. Which is weird. He wouldn’t have guessed she’d be the type to ghost, but as the night goes on, it’s becoming increasingly clear she’s not going to show.
Maybe that’s why the damn kraken looks so incensed.
“Stay,” he commands, looping a scrap of twine he found on the counter through the slit in the lid, then around the support post next to the tank, and tying a firm knot. The octopus drifts toward the gap, gaze glued to Cameron’s handiwork. Then he fixes his withering eye on Cameron for a long, hard moment before jetting down into his den, leaving a flush of bubbles in his wake.
“Good night to you, too,” Cameron mutters. The tiniest bit of guilt nags him, but it’s for the best. The thought of dealing with a roaming octopus without Tova here to help him is honestly terrifying. Which must be why he jumps out of his skin when something dings.
It’s his phone, his new one. He’s not quite used to the sounds it makes yet. He couldn’t bring himself to spring for the super-high-end one, but this one is decent. At least the battery lasts more than, like, ten minutes.
Could it be Avery again? His pulse thrums just thinking about it. They’ve been trading flirty texts all day. But when he checks, the text isn’t from Avery. It’s from Elizabeth, and it just says: Call me.
The baby. When was it due? Seems like yesterday he arrived in Sowell Bay, but it’s been two months. Propping his phone on the supply cart, he pops in his earbuds and calls her back.
“Hey,” comes Elizabeth’s immediate answer.
“Lizard-breath? Are you okay?” Cameron realizes his heart is still racing. A lot of shit can go wrong, having a baby. But she laughs softly at his tone of voice, which probably means she isn’t bleeding out in a hospital bed.
“I’m fine, Camel-tron. Well, mostly. My doctor put me on bed rest.”
“Bed rest?”
“Yeah, I was having contractions. And they want the alien to cook for a few more weeks.”