Dark Redemption - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,18

phone in front of my face, waiting for her to return. "Where are you?" Mom asks, turning back.

"I just pulled up to the house,” I say and point the phone at the big white traditional home with siding and two columns in front of the curved driveway.

"I guess they're taking good care of it," she says, "from what I can see."

"Yeah, it's perfect. They had it repainted. The housekeeper is doing a good job."

"I still don't know why you all can't come up here—” Mom starts to say again, but I cut her off, and tell her that I have to go.

Getting out of my rented car, I park right by the front door and knock.

No one is inside.

I use the code that Marguerite had texted me, and then walk into the newly painted interior. The living room is grand, with a big piano in the corner.

No one in our family plays, but it was bought by my grandfather many years ago as a statement piece. Now we have to hang on to it for probably in perpetuity.

The walls have been painted a combination of slate gray and white, giving it a very modern look. There's a waterfall style kitchen island made out of marble, and a sink right in the middle.

I head to the sub-zero refrigerator, open it up and see that it has been freshly stocked with fruits, vegetables, and some pre-made meals in the freezer.

I grab a vegetarian lasagna, nuke it in the microwave, and eat it straight out of the container.

That’s another thing that Mom wouldn’t approve of. For her it's all about presentation. You have to eat from the right plates using the right utensils, no matter what.

The food is fresh and delicious, and I scarf it down, and then make myself another. Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, I walk out onto the porch and inhale the scent of salt water coming off the ocean.

That's one of my favorite things about this house: it’s proximity to the ocean. Out in the distance, I see a girl of about eleven walking up the path through the dunes to her house. She’s so far away that I can barely make out her face.

I stretch my hands out and take the world in. The sun is still high in the sky. The day is sticky hot with the kind of humidity that opens up your pores and makes you want to strip off your clothes.

Marguerite and Lincoln won’t be here until tomorrow. I have the place to myself.

I head inside, take my suitcase to the guest room upstairs, and grab my favorite swim trunks. It’s blue with little anchors and a draw string in the front. It’s the only one I travel with, so that I can take advantage of swimming in hotel pools.

I have always loved to swim. There's something relaxing about being in the water, natural or otherwise. In the Hamptons, I have the option of both, and I head straight into the ocean.

I don't bother with a towel and leave my phone and keys inside. It feels unusually freeing to be this unattached, unreachable.

A seagull flies overhead, making a loud crowing sound. Somewhere in the distance I see a fin, possibly a dolphin.

I remember that small sharks have also been spotted in the area. I'm not afraid. I know they won't bother me. They don't see people as prey, despite what Jaws and many other movies would have you believe. The biggest danger with swimming in the ocean will always be drowning.

The waves are small today with just a little bit of white spray at the tops. The water is warm after being heated up by the sun all morning. The top layer is about the same temperature as lukewarm bathwater, but the lower layer by the sand feels like a cold spring.

I take a few steps in, and then dive.

I come up for air, and then dive in again and again. I open my eyes, and they burn as I peer through the blurry depths to look at the sparkle of tiny fish.

I swim a long way out.

There are no lifeguards here, but I’ve always been a strong swimmer. This isn't really a public beach. I swim all the way where I thought I saw the shark fin, come up for air, and look around.

Doing freestyle back to shore, I put one arm over the other and kick as hard as I can. Swimming out here is nothing like swimming in a