Her.
Luke tugged my hand, confused. “Daddy, why does Mommy look different?”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.
Stacey’s eyes went wide — not with love.
With panic.
She grabbed the arm of a man standing next to her and they moved fast, disappearing into the crowd like they’d rehearsed it.
“Mommy!” Luke screamed, starting forward.
I scooped him up so fast my arms shook.
“We need to go,” I said, forcing calm I didn’t feel.
He thrashed lightly, crying. “But Dad, it’s Mom! Didn’t you see her? Why didn’t she come say hi?”
I carried him back to our room like the beach sand had turned into broken glass.
That night, after Luke fell asleep, I paced the balcony until my legs ached.
I called Stacey’s mother.
She answered with a tired sigh, like I was an inconvenience.
“Hello?”
“I need you to tell me exactly what happened to Stacey,” I said, voice flat.
Silence.
Then: “We’ve been through this, Abraham.”
“No,” I said. “Tell me again.”
She repeated the story — accident, hospital, too late.
“And the body?” I pressed. “Why couldn’t I see her?”
“It was too damaged,” she said quickly. “We thought it best—”
“You thought wrong,” I snapped, and hung up.
I stood there staring at the black ocean.
Something wasn’t right.
And I wasn’t going to let it go.
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