A tiny girl tugged his sleeve and pointed at his wallet, claiming the woman he buried seven years ago was her living mother.

She stood looking down at him.

It was Claire.

She was older than in the photograph—thirty-six now—her face slightly thinner, her long brown hair pulled back into a loose, practical clip. She wore a simple cream-colored knit sweater and dark trousers. But there was no mistaking her. The dark, expressive eyes, the delicate structure of her cheekbones, and the quiet grace that had captured Adrian’s heart a decade ago were all there, alive, breathing, and real.

She stared down at Adrian, her pale face draining of what little color it held. Her hand on the railing trembled violently.

"Adrian..." Claire whispered, her voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of shock, sorrow, and raw panic.

"You're alive," Adrian said. He took one step up the first wooden stair, his voice rising, thick with seven years of unexpressed rage and agony. "You're alive! I buried you, Claire! I spent seven years believing I failed to protect you! I spent seven years in a grave of my own making!"

Claire took a quick step back from the edge of the landing, her hands coming up to cover her mouth as tears spilled over her cheeks.

"You don't understand, Adrian..." Claire sobbed softly, shaking her head. "I had to... I had to make them believe I was dead. If I hadn't gone into the ocean that night, they would have killed you. They would have killed both of us."