It's been five years since the sudden disappearance of Cora Cadigan's mother. Five years since the case was closed before it even began.
In the final summer before the end of high school, Cora knows it's her last opportunity to find the answers she...
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"Corrie."
As soon as I see his face, it takes everything in me not to cry.
Dad hasn't looked this healthy in years. The colour is back in his cheeks. He's shaven too, which makes him look thirty-five for once.
"Dad," I breathe, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
The hospital had rung me earlier this afternoon, informing me that he was being transferred to the nearest rehab facility soon.
"I'm glad you came," he smiles, his arms holding up his weight as he pulls himself to sit.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, taking a seat next to his bed.
"Better. A lot better. The surgery made me feel lousy for quite a few days, but I'm starting to get my strength back now."
"Does it hurt?"
"Nah," he scoffs, leaning over to ruffle my hair. "I'm a tough dude, Corrie."
"Sure," I snort, rolling my eyes.
He laughs outright, hearty and whole. He really is back. Back to being himself.
"You seem happy," I observe.
"I'm not going to take this second change lightly," he frowns, concentrating. "I'm not going to come out of this the same man I was before surgery. I don't want to be a bad father. I want to do better. I want to— to let your mum go."
I shudder, leaning back in my chair. I don't want to tell him what I've been up to this summer. That I won't— can't— let mum go.
I'd thought about whether to tell him that Kevin Winter is my biological father, but I don't think it's right. Not now, when he is getting better. I don't want him to feel bitter and sad about the past.
"I saw her actually. Zeila. In a dream," his eyes trail off, towards the open window allowing the late summer breeze inside.
"She was standing at the beach. Our beach. The strip of the ocean past our house. She was waving at me. You were there, too. Only you were younger. You started chasing her, and she was laughing. Her real laugh. The one I remember even now. The one I used to hear when— when I was so far past sober I thought I could visualise her."
