Grace Brown is gone. Her body is sucked into the seething ocean on the midnight tide, leaving no trace of her, except a red cardigan, shifting in the froth.
Grace was an enigma in Delany, beginning the day she shot from her mother's womb, weeks early. She landed on the grimy bathroom floor while her mother slept off her latest drug fix, and she survived against the odds. Grace was a thin girl with tawny eyes, mousey hair, and grubby, dirt-stained skin. A man with insatiable greed and a dirty syringe orphaned her at three, landing her on the doorstep of Mona Brown and her depraved brother, Jimmy.
Despite her tenuous position in life, Grace is adored by most who cross her path. She exudes a 'Pied Piper' charm that seduces even those who feel sorry for the girl in threadbare clothes and the same red cardigan. Oblivious to her magnetism, Grace sweeps through life with a self-reliance and independence way beyond her years.
Grace turns sixteen on her last night in Delany. The air is thick and hot, spreading lethargy like a disease. Everyone swarms to the beach to catch the breeze and tip stolen vodka down dry throats. Clothes are peeled from sweaty skin and discarded on the sand. The other kids from school languish, half-dressed, dizzy with vodka, their heads thrown back to face the sprinkle of stars in the sky. A boom box nestles in the sand, and the pound of heavy metal is carried on the night air.
Close to midnight, Grace starts a game of truth or dare. One boy steals a hubcap from a nearby car, and two girls smash a street light by throwing rocks. The bulb explodes, showering sparks. The girls' squeals echo off the cliffs. When it's Grace's turn, they dare her to swim to Fulcrum Island, a small rocky outcrop a few miles north. While Delany's tropical waters are a benign swimming pool in the winter months, summer brings a lethal mix of jellyfish, tidal rips, and crocodiles, making them perilous and uninhabitable. Grace pushes to her feet and staggers forward, vodka coursing through her veins. She squints north to find her mark. Luke, her longest friend, grabs her shoulder.
'Don't be mad; it's too risky.'
Grace pushes past him, tottering toward the lapping waves like a toddler taking her first steps.
A boy chants her name, egging her on, and a chorus soon join him.
'Grace, Grace, Grace.'
She stumbles backwards and lands on the soft sand. Luke parks beside her.
'You don't have to do it; it's your birthday. Just have another drink,' he urges.
'No,' she slurs.
She leans a hand on his shoulder to push herself up and peels off her clothes, revealing her black bra and panties. Her smooth skin is dotted with scars, and he looks away. She knots her red cardigan around her waist for luck and stumbles toward the sea. Luke scrambles after her. His head spins with too much to drink, and he weaves a crooked path. She's too fast and hits the waves with a splash before he's halfway there.
Her name echoes off the cliffs, becoming one with the briny breeze, as the group on the beach continue their chant. Luke wobbles to a halt. He pants and cranes to see. The others form shadows behind him and peer into the dark, watching her disappear. She swims past the breakers and begins a slow, loping stroke, the moon lighting the way. When she disappears, the chanting slows and then stops. Luke keeps his eyes on the water while the others flop on the sand and wait. A designated lookout stands on the edge of the group and scans the flickering sea for the first sign of her return.
The vodka passes from hand to hand, toes dig into the cooling sand, and animated chatter drifts into the night. At fifteen minutes into her swim, people are more subdued. At twenty-five minutes, adrenaline surges with every splash of the ocean. Luke takes a sprinter's pose. His nerves twitch, and his eyes dart back and forth. Someone jokes about crocodiles, and Caitlyn leaps to her feet. She wrings her hands and screams something about murder and calling the cops. They placate her with another swig of vodka, and she slides back to the sand and buries her face in her hands. They wait another fifteen minutes. Fear pricks their insides, and they start cursing their stupidity. Their befuddled brains begin to come up with vague rescue plans. Accusations fly across the sand, and two boys stagger to their feet, facing off. Then the cry goes up, and all eyes jerk to the water. They peer into the dark and hold their breath, straining for the rhythmic splash and flash of skin.
'There! That's her.'
Grace rises on the breakers, moonlight iridescent on her slick skin. Her arms rise and fall in rhythm. Luke meets her in thigh-deep water and throws an arm around her waist to help her to the sand. She collapses, chest heaving, and opens her fingers. A shiny black rock tumbles out.
'She did it.'
Someone throws a towel around her shoulders and thrusts the vodka into her hand. Luke guides it to her lips, and she takes a long swallow. They paw and pat her until she shrugs them off. Luke lifts her so she stands on shaky legs, and she unties her cardigan, pulls on her clothes, and stumbles awkwardly towards her beach-side shack. Luke grabs her arm and pulls her into a fierce hug. His lips claim hers for a brief moment before he releases her into the night. She grins and slaps his back to hide the growing hotness in her face. It's her first kiss. The first one she's wanted anyway. She ties the cardigan around her hips and staggers down the beach, and raises her arms in victory as she disappears into the dark. For many, it's their last image of Grace Brown.
Grace stops inside the kitchen door with heart fluttering and her ears pricked up. The house groans, iron roof sighing in the cooling air. Her heart thuds as she tiptoes to her room. Her bedroom door is ajar, and she pushes it open. The smell of beer and cigarettes comes too late, and the hand snakes around her wrist before she has time to react.
'Where yer been? I've been waiting fer ya.'
She squirms, trying to free her wrist, and kicks out with her legs. She connects with something hard and her uncle curses, loosening his grip. She kicks out again, and this time he lets go, and she speeds through the door, hearing him stumble behind her.
She flies down the hall and almost makes the back door before Jimmy shoves her from behind. She trips and slams into the hard wood floor, head ricocheting and knees skimming the unpolished wood. He falls over her, scrambling to get a hold on her, but she wriggles free and is on her feet racing for the door. Her heart flutters like a caged bird as she turns the knob and is running through the night. Fuelled by adrenaline, she's through the back gate and on the sand before she hears his stumbling steps behind her. She's had enough; she can't take it anymore. She speeds on, her legs pumping across the sand and into the waves. He wades after her, even though he can't swim, fuelled by vile anger and the beer racing through his veins. She stops a few metres in and turns to face him. He's chest-deep in water; the fire is still in his eyes. He curses her, telling her she's dead.
'If you want me, come get me,' she taunts, confident of her escape.
He lunges, and she pushes off from the seabed, floating back over the drop-off, where the ocean deepens. She watches his eyes widen as the sand drops away, and his feet fight for purchase. His arms flail and manage to snag the edge of her cardigan, still tied to her waist. He pulls her under with his weight; he is fighting to get to the top. She struggles against him as they both sink into the inky dark, the ocean filling her mouth.
The first fingers of light stretch across a calm and glassy sea. There's no sign of last night's struggle or of the ocean's last meal. The only remnant of either of them is a red cardigan shifting in the salty froth.
Eighteen-year-old Luke Ramsey rubs his day-old beard and irons the creases from his crinkled map. It's spread beneath his broad hands on the worn, laminate table of a roadhouse diner. His thick finger touches the words in her scratchy scribble; the smiley face is over Ayers Rock. He knows it was her dream and is here to make it come true. He will lay her spirit to rest in the desert. A waitress arrives with two steaming mugs, sliding them both across the table.
'Milk and sugar?'
His head jerks up, and he meets familiar tawny eyes.
'Grace?'
'No,' she says, pointing to her name tag. 'Selina.'
He frowns and scrutinises the face, watching her turn away.
'Hey,' he calls. 'You know I prefer vodka with mine.'
She spirals around and winks before heading to the kitchen. She returns moments later with a tray in her hand. A new red cardigan swings on her hips as she sashays to the next table.