Coral Read online

  Her words began to piece together in Coral’s mind.

  “My prince never loved me. He never will.”

  Coral wanted to shake her sister out of her current state. To assure her that whoever did not love her did not matter as much as the mermaid floating before her now.

  Coral’s love was true. And nothing could change that.

  “I love you, Sister.” Why did her words sound halfhearted on her lips? Was it that fear kept her from speaking the mermaid’s true name?

  Coral opened her mouth to do so. She wanted nothing more than to honor and acknowledge her sister in this way, even if no one else would.

  But the crown princess pressed a finger to Coral’s lips. “I know.” She didn’t say Coral’s love was not enough. She didn’t have to.

  “How do you know so much about true love?” Maybe the more Coral knew, the closer she would come to saving her. To saving them both.

  “The Sorceress of the Sea told me.”

  Coral shuddered, but the spasm had nothing to do with the chill of the night air against her clammy skin. They’d heard the tale since they were old enough to swim on their own. Jordan used it to scare Coral before she went to sleep at night. And their father mentioned it to keep his princesses from venturing too far past their bounds. The waters they resided in were tame, with rarely a predator to be seen. Close enough to the shore, but not too close. Far enough out, but not too far. Too far would be the difference between tame and treacherous.

  Deep in the darkest depths, near the Abyss where bones collect, lies the cavern of the Sorceress of the Sea. Wickedly clever, the Sorceress is tormented with more emotion than ten humans combined. It is because of this she rarely ventures from her lair. And why she invites those from the outside to become entrapped within her tentacle-like lies.

  Mermaids before you have sought her out for knowledge. They seek answers beyond what they have been given. They search for a way to escape Red Tide.

  There is no escape, of course. The Sorceress enjoys deception. She would have naïve little mermaids believe she alone holds the power to provide a cure, an end to the curse. The Sorceress claims power is found within her soul, the soul she does not possess. She would tell you human tears are healing, when in truth they are a sorcery of their own. Tears are what separate us from humans. Without them we are safely stored within ourselves.

  Without them we are safe.

  Without them we remain forever strong.

  Coral blinked at the memory of the grim tale. The crown princess had tears, or at least one. Did this make her weak?

  Or could the Sorceress—should she exist—have it right? What if human tears could heal her sister? What if the more she shed, the closer she’d come to escaping Red Tide for good?

  “Have you chosen your song yet?”

  An inward moan came to full fruition. “Why does it matter what I sing?”

  “A mermaid’s song is her life,” the crown princess said. Did she believe her own words? They sounded forced, practiced, and not at all genuine. “Sing something for me.”

  Coral’s eyes widened. “I’m not allowed. Not until I’m sixteen.”

  Her sister chuckled. Shrugged. “Father isn’t here. Please? Sing one tune before—”

  Her words sank. But she didn’t need to speak them for Coral to know where they were headed.

  Before. Red Tide. Came.

  The ocean lapped against their tails, which bobbed in contrast to one another. The future queen’s a deep-sea emerald. Coral’s as bright as the warm-water reef.

  She sighed.

  Her sister nudged her.

  Coral blew at her hair again and mentally flipped through the list of approved song choices. Nothing struck her. She didn’t want to sing. But she needed to offer her sister something. So she closed her eyes and described the world as she saw it. The words came out on their own rhythm, with a cadence that belonged to Coral alone. A poem of her own creation.

  “Red is the sun as it bathes in blue,

  Green are the waters when the sky is new,

  Yellow is the sand, far out as we can see,

  Violet are the eyes of curiosity.”

  She waited for her sister to respond. To say . . . something. But her eyes were closed. Her calm expression assured Coral she was taking in every word. So the little mermaid continued . . .

  “Red sounds a warning, a light I wish would fade.

  Green sings a hymn, a harmony of jade.

  Yellow squeals of laughter, violet hums of you.

  The colors of my world paint my heart sky-blue.”

  Though Coral’s words did not carry on the waves of melody, they were hers. Something Father could not take and Jordan could not control.

  “Lovely.” Her sister exhaled the word and Coral soaked it in. Then her sister began to sob once more.

  “What is it?” Coral asked.

  The crown princess shook her head. Before she said anything, Coral knew. She felt it in the way her sister shut down, distancing herself again. “Let Red Tide come for me quickly.” She balled up the shawl and shoved it into Coral’s arms. With a kiss to her forehead she added, “I refuse to watch it come for you too.”

  Then she dove. Vanished. For a moment there and at once gone.

  Thunder boomed above, warning a storm brewed behind a curtain of clouds.

  An invisible anchor confined Coral to her spot on the ledge. She could not move.

  “I am alone,” she whispered. “Alone . . .”

  And Diseased.

  Five

  Brooke

  After

  Hope does not return.

  Do I sit here? Wait for someone to get me? An instruction manual might’ve helped. Or a schedule. I rise and dress and make my bed. The result is sad, showing no real effort on my part. What’s the point of making a first impression when I don’t plan on staying long enough to make a second?

  A glance at the desk reveals a subtle change. How did I fail to notice Hope had opened the journal? Placed a black pen over the front page? Did she write these words? They slant and flow, waves moving across the top line.

  “Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale.”

  —Hans Christian Andersen

  Pretty writing for an eleven-year-old. The quote is one I’ve seen many times. Written in glittery paint or plastered onto whimsical memes.

  I scowl, snap the cover closed. “What a load of—”

  “Making yourself comfortable?”

  I whirl, knocking the journal off the desk in the process. It hits the floor with a thud, the cover resting open again, mocking me.

  “On behalf of Fathoms Ranch, I am pleased to welcome you.” The woman standing before me is short, with a kind face and piercing ocean-green eyes. Tattoos climb in sleeves up both her toned arms. She wears sweats, a tank top, despite the fact it’s winter, and a ball cap that says “Boss.”

  “My name is Miss Jacobs, but everyone here calls me Jake.”

  And I care, why?

  “And you are?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I do but I’m a sucker for proper introductions. I’m sure you understand.”

  Everything in me wants to come up with something smart or quick in return. Instead, I frown in a moment so anticlimactic, I wish I wasn’t part of it. “I’m Brooke, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Jake steps toward me, picks up the journal, and sets it on the desk, care and purpose driving her every move. “That’s perfect, actually. Because it is my job to help you know. To help you discover who you truly are. If given a chance, you’ll find this place is incomparable to any other.”

  I eye her up and down. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For now.”

  Who is this lady? Does Jake think she can trick me into believing she’s my friend? “I only agreed to come here because—”

  Because why? Because I had nowhere else to go? Because I
knew it would make the only person who ever cared for me happy?

  I can’t fill in my own blank. I drop my gaze, inviting an awkward silence.

  “I’ve been filled in on your backstory,” Jake says softly. “I’d prefer to hear you tell it, though, when the timing’s right.”

  I look up. Blink. Why is she being so nice when I’ve been nothing but rude? This is too much.

  “We’ll go over the details of your day-to-day routine once you’re settled.” She eyes the untouched food tray on my bed. “Eating is a requirement here. A pesky rule, I know, but an important one.”

  “I’m not hungry.” My words hang in the air.

  “You will be.” Jake pivots on her heel and returns the way she came. When she pauses at the door she adds, “Kitchen’s downstairs. Mary’s a whiz when it comes to finding your stomach’s weakness. Ten bucks says you don’t stand a chance against her double-fudge brownies.”

  “I don’t have ten bucks.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Jake shrugs. “Loser pays in bites. You finish a brownie and your debt’s as good as paid.”

  This doctor? . . . Nurse? . . . Therapist? . . . Whatever her occupation, she’s something else. Is she playing games to get me to confide?

  Could she be the real deal?

  Nah. No such thing. Learned that the hard way.

  “Brownies.” She points at me. Rude. “You won’t regret it.” Another fake smile spreads across her face. “Group dish starts in T-minus thirty minutes.” She holds up her phone and shows me the time. “Bring your journal. Schedule is on the bulletin board in the hall. Familiarize yourself with it. You’ll get a copy in your packet during our one-on-one this afternoon.” She pockets her phone and begins jogging in place, salutes, then she’s gone.

  Dish? One-on-one? Am I on an episode of reality TV? The carefree terms don’t fool me. I know all about group therapy and private counseling sessions.

  This is going to be a long afternoon.

  It takes me five minutes to run a brush through my hair, throw on some modest makeup, and head out the door. I’ll bet brownies are code for pills or something. This Mary person probably administers medication.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when—shoot—I realize I forgot the journal. I ignore the urge to return for it. What’s the big deal? Jake may think I’ll have some thoughts to write down, some precious gems to take away from a most enlightening encounter with my depressed and suicidal peers. She needs a reality check.

  I don’t need a notebook when I have nothing worth saying. Not anymore. To write words that matter, you need something I don’t have. Not even Jake with her tough-chick tattoos or that Hope girl with her fake friendship is going to find what’s not there.

  They can try, but one day with me and they’ll see.

  Nothing there. Nothing left. Nothing to lose.

  All the group therapy in the world—excuse me, dishes—eye roll—can’t bring a person back from nothing.

  When I’m alone in the kitchen, all I can think is that this is super weird and not at all what I expected, which makes me even more suspicious than I was before.

  Hello, Sunshine. Did you get those curtains from Target? Because they sure are looking rather Joanna Gaines–approved if you ask me.

  I take two steps into the space where Betty Crocker was clearly born and bred. Clean but cozy, with appliances on every surface and a trio of old milk-jug tins holding every spatula and wooden spoon the Pioneer Woman ever made. There are, however, no knives. Surprised? I’m not.

  “Anyone here?”

  No one answers.

  I scoot closer to the kitchen island, eye the cake stand displaying a mountain of brownies beneath a glass dome. It calls to me from its place at the center of the granite countertop. No lineup of pills in medicine cups the way you see in movies. No person in scrubs distributing doses or making notes on a clipboard, watching, waiting for you to swallow and checking under your tongue. Just the brownies and the dull scent of something sweet and fruity wafting from a wax warmer by the window.

  Weird.

  I make a move to retreat when someone brushes past me. Her nearness makes me flinch, but the light touch isn’t enough to warrant going into panic mode.

  “Sorry, hon, had to feed the dogs.” A tiny woman shorter than I am scurries into the kitchen, washes her hands, then dries them on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. In one move she swoops her waist-length blond hair into a knot atop her head. Next she ties a half apron over her faded ripped jeans. She’s barefoot. The absolute definition of a hot mess. But there’s still something so . . . together about her. As if the mess is on purpose and she’d rather keep it that way, thank-you-very-much.

  A tattoo below the inside of her wrist says one word that seems to encompass her entire persona.

  breathe.

  Though the word isn’t capitalized and bears a period at the end, it seems profound—once again, a mess on purpose. I open my mouth to ask her about it.

  But then she beams at me and I freeze. I’m inclined to resume my backward pace but remember Jake’s insistence that I try a brownie. I’m not sure what will happen if I don’t. And better a brownie than another gross tuna salad sandwich.

  So I opt for a lighter, easier topic. One that won’t involve getting to know this woman who will control my food intake for the next however many days.

  She mentioned dogs, right? I’ve never had a dog. Still, the question is easy. Small-talkish and surfacey. “What kinds of dogs do you have here?”

  Hot Mess brushes a stray hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist and sets to removing bowls and pans from the cupboards, then proceeds to gather ingredients from the walk-in pantry.

  “Goldendoodles, of course,” she calls over her shoulder, arms full of baking supplies. “Is there any other kind?” She laughs at her own joke as she takes a carton of eggs from the fridge. Before she closes the door she asks, “Do you want milk with your brownie?” assuming I was planning on having one.

  I stare at her far too long for this to be considered an awkward silence. But she just smiles, as if this quiet between us is the most natural thing in the world.

  “Do you have almond milk?” The ten bucks Jake bet says they don’t. Because that would be a special request.

  “Coming right up.” She reaches so deep into the massive fridge, the image is somewhat laughable. Stretching on her toes to rearrange containers and bottles, jugs and cartons, she looks more like a little kid than the person in charge of the menu.

  “Mary?” The name Jake mentioned surfaces. “Your brownies are double-fudge.”

  “Yes, they are!” After pulling out a carton of vanilla almond milk—not the off-brand either—she grabs me a glass and fills it halfway. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe.” She pulls the cake stand to the edge of the counter, removes the dome, and sets the biggest brownie on a napkin.

  “Oh.” A glance toward the clock with coffee cups for numbers and spoons in place of hands tells me I’m going to be late. Not that I care about Jake’s schedule, but I also don’t want to be the last person to arrive. New introverted girl plus awkward grand entrance do not mix. “Can I take this to-go?”

  “Of course!” Mary sets the glass and brownie directly in front of me. “And when you fall head over heels for the chocolaty goodness, which you totally will, FYI, you can come back and get another during downtime.”

  I wait for her to say more. To tell me it’s time for my medication. For there to be some kind of hook to her happily-ever-brownie story. But she resumes her hustle and bustle, then asks a little speaker at one corner of the counter to play the ultimate boy band playlist. The speaker responds with the phoniest love song ever. The singer is a guy, apologizing for breaking some girl’s heart.

  Classy.

  I say nothing as I maneuver around the extra-long dining table and through the rest of the lower floor. Voices carry from a room down the hall. I shove a bite of brownie in my mouth, wishing it didn’t taste so
bland, and shuffle toward the noise. A giant sliding barn door waits to be moved. I steal a breath, swallow my bite, and slide the barrier aside.

  Ten other girls ranging from Hope’s age to mine chatter within. Three near the overstuffed bookcase, two on the cushioned window bench, and the remainder spaced across two sectional couches. Lamps on several surfaces emit warm light while a glass pitcher of cucumber water calls my name.

  Where’s the circle of cold metal chairs? What happened to anxious and stoic expressions? Don’t these girls know this “dish” will be jotted and recorded, and whatever they say can and will be used against them in the court of their assigned therapist? How long did it take for Jake to brainwash them into thinking therapy helps and heals?

  And how long before she tries to do the same to me?

  Newsflash, Miss Jacobs. I’ve been around the psychoanalysis block before. There’s no such thing as “better.”

  There is before.

  And there is after.

  The.

  End.

  Six

  Merrick

  He couldn’t deny it. Nikki looked good.

  Merrick allowed his gaze to run over her toned legs and arms. Bronze, smooth, you name it. The heiress of the Owens estate had it all. She showed enough skin to make his pulse pound but hid the rest, leaving him to wonder . . .

  Ugh. Stop, Merrick. She is not an object. Plus, we have zilch in common aside from our extremely wealthy fathers. Get a grip, man.

  Still, how could he deny their physical chemistry? Their relationship was easy. Zero work involved.

  “You look . . .” Hot? Pretty? Gorgeous? “Nice.” He cleared his throat as he slid into the back seat beside her.

  Nikki scooted across the leather bench. Her skirt rode up her thighs.

  He cleared his throat again. That was two already. He ought to slow down if he was ever going to make it through the date.

  The one he didn’t want to go on.