Prologue
Growing up in Caldwell Beach, there were rules hammered into our heads designed to keep us safe. Don’t swim too far out into the ocean, or the undertow will pull you in. Don’t climb trees if they extend over the water, because you’ll fall with them if they break.
Like most little kids, I didn’t listen. My friends and I swam deep into the Atlantic Ocean every chance we got and hoped someday we’d reach the spot where the sun sparkled on the horizon. We’d get tired before then, of course, and the waves would carry us back to the rocky Maine shore. But even when the undertow pushed and pulled at my feet, I was never scared—a girl like me was made for the water. Sometimes I fantasized that if it did get me, it would carry me to the land of mermaids, right where I belonged.
But one rule was repeated so often, it became more of a superstitious warning: never, ever play on the cliffs. Especially the one by the lighthouse.
I obeyed that rule—when I was in kindergarten, fifteen-year-old Samwell Ellis cracked his skull open as he scaled the cliff’s edge, and our teacher told us a sea monster had taken him. Our town was small—we believed nobody died unless they were old or sick—so it made sense a monster was responsible for the boy’s death. The Ellis family then packed up and moved away, calling the town a curse, which fueled the legends and rumors that dominoed through my classroom.
It wasn’t until I was old enough to question my parents that they finally told me the truth. Monsters didn’t kill anyone; it was an accident brought on by teenage recklessness.
Even years later, that story still spiraled in my head; it was all I could think about as I gripped the flimsy rope fence, my toes only inches away from the cliff’s edge. I wiggled them until the white rubber of my Vans moved. I’d heard you could get a better grip climbing rock without shoes, but only if your skin was strong enough to withstand the jagged edges. There’s no way anyone’s skin could be that thick.
Sure, teenage recklessness had killed Samwell Ellis in this very spot, but I wasn’t a teenager—I had just turned twelve. I clung to that fact, as if it would protect me.
Cool wind licked my bare arms and legs. The ocean sloshed fifty feet below, inky and terrifying, and jaw-like rocks lined the curve of the cliff. One wrong move and I would fall. My body would become a waterlogged lump of flesh and disappear into the ocean, rot away like the whale corpses they showed us on Planet Earth in class. Maybe a shark would eat me, or maybe I’d become food for a school of fish.
The thought was almost enough to make me turn back.
“Liv, stop,” Miles said from behind me. “Seriously, we’re going to get in trouble!”
His blue-green eyes came into focus. The lighthouse faded into the churning clouds. Miles’s curls whipped around his face as the thunder growled, and light rain began to sprinkle onto my arms.
Miles is right, this is stupid.
But then Faye Hendricks’s face flared in my mind and said I was way too chicken to complete the cliff challenge. Faye had done it as some sort of initiation into being accepted by the older kids, and now everyone in our class thought she had more guts than me.
Screw that. All I had to do was climb down the cliff, reach the one rock called checkpoint, and climb back up. Piece of cake.
“Your sister’s a jerk, Miles. Take a video. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Miles whimpered as my bare knees sank into the cold, soggy grass. Icy rain pelted me until my skin was bumpy and purple, the veins on my hands, thin blue snakes. A deep breath and I climbed over the edge. Concentrated adrenaline coursed through me, but the rocks, though slick with water, kept me in place.
Breathe. You can do this; just breathe.
One step down. And another. I was going to make it. Just a few more steps.
But right before checkpoint, my foot slipped—and I fell.
My scream was so loud it grated my throat. Rocks sliced into my palms, but I couldn’t hold onto anything.
The last thing I saw was a full moon blotted by the clouds. Dark water swallowed me, and a freezing current thrashed me back and forth. I kicked and flailed, but it was useless. Water, seeping with seaweed and raw fish, filled my mouth. My throat sealed shut and blocked my gasps for air, but only for a moment before the ocean rushed into my lungs.
I was going to die. Every cell in my body fought that reality until it was impossible to deny.
But when the final breath squeaked from my airways, the fear melted away. Everything slowed, as if I were an insect fossilized in amber. A quiet, frothy calm passed over me as I floated beneath the surface, silvery light pouring through the water above. It was a deep, indigo blue, like the depths of space. My hand extended up, reaching, reaching—but I couldn’t touch anything anymore. My head became weightless, my energy drained in a way I didn’t know possible. The thrashing had stopped.
Somehow, none of that mattered anymore, because memories of those days under the sun with Miles and West ebbed through me; how I dreamed of mermaids and mythical underwater worlds. Suddenly I was closer to them than ever before.
So when the world slipped—faded behind a screen of black—I let the ocean take me.
1
Five years later
The walls of Dr. Levy’s office are dark red, but she sets the ambient lighting to blue because it calms me. I’ve always felt stupid sitting here with my eyes closed, but I’ve learned to trust her. Years of confiding in someone once a week will do that.
“Breathe, Olivia,” Dr. Levy says. “Good, you’re doing great.”
The aquarium bubbles, the air conditioner hums, and the clock ticks. I count from four, three, two, one, and then I’m staring into her gray eyes again. They’re kind and gentle, hidden beneath glasses with thin crimson frames. Behind her sits a mahogany desk with a bonsai tree and a photo of her thirteen-year-old son. The wall is covered in plaques commemorating her degrees and awards in psychology.
Our family has been short on grocery money every month for the past five years so I can sit in this office. Dr. Levy deals with rich kids—like from the Upper West Side—not kids like me. But my parents wanted the best treatment, no matter the cost.
Behind the wall of translucent blinds, Manhattan stretches forever under the afternoon sun. We’re on the twentieth floor of a skyscraper, but from up here you can see the south side of Central Park, with Gapstow Bridge and the pond attached to it. Something about the wilderness being confined to that one space comforts me, and the high buildings of the city sometimes keep my panic attacks at bay. But tomorrow, I’ll be by the ocean again. My stomach gnaws.
“The counting isn’t helping,” I say, breath ragged, and my knees bump together. The leather couch is cold under my thighs. “I’m still nervous.”
“That’s totally normal.” Dr. Levy crosses her legs beneath her pencil skirt, her blond hair clipped back in a tight bun. “You aren’t having a flashback right now, but if you experience one while you’re in Caldwell Beach, you can try any of the coping methods we’ve been working on these last few weeks. You know how to help yourself.”