Keep the Ghost

2. The search

From blue morning to black night. We caught the edge of the front, storms bursting around us. The wind cuts across the gulf, slings saltwater up from the bay into my face. My clothes and hair are stiff with it, skin raw: I've been at the beach for twenty-one hours.

A whistle blows three times in quick succession, faint over the sound of waves on the shore. In response, the dozen flashlights within a hundred yards of me become alert, unwavering glare focusing on the source of the sound. Satisfied, they return to their task—dozens of them, bobbing in the dark, great hollow eyes hunting the ground for any sign of Kayla.

I push through the gnarled mass of oceanside bush, almost losing my footing in the process. The sand glows faintly in the moonlight, and miles of raw Texas coast stretch out around me. After hours of searching, I am returning to the pier where the police set up a checkpoint. It's two in the morning, and the whistle means we're supposed to quit.

I stop at a knotted log, half devoured by sand. No way around—I can only climb, or swim.

Too tired to do either; I take a moment to shine my light on the glistening bay. The surface is black gloss, a dark skin pulsating. Port Lavaca's causeway stretches across the water, lit by dim yellow street lights in perfect intervals. A single black car rolls across, soundless in the night.

"Let me give you a hand."

I turn to see one of our friends from school, who turned out in droves as word spread. A foot long black flashlight is clenched under his arm, and he's got one leg on the log. He pulls himself up, then offers a hand to me. We grip each other's wrists and use the tension in our arms to balance as we cross the waist-high obstruction.

"Kayla!" he yells out as we reach the other side, the next pocket of beach. The only response is a rising chorus of similar calls, as other searchers are reminded to keep crying out to her.

"I hope she's okay," I murmur.

"We all do," he says, patting me on the back.

Our two lights meet a third, a girl who graduated with Kayla—I can't remember her name. We walk wordlessly to a fourth light, and our constellation grows.

A loathsome wail tears across the beach, the sound of a woman shrieking the lost girl's name. We can't see her, but we know the source: Kayla's mother.

As we trudge back, our numbers grow. Mostly Kayla's or my friends from school, and a few police officers and firemen. People rub my shoulder, turn to me and offer broken smiles of encouragement. The assumption is that I'm taking it especially hard, because I saw her last, and because for the past year I've lived under the same roof as Kayla.

The parking lot is in view, and four police cars at ninety degree angles to each other form a makeshift base camp for the operation.

I could tell them all the truth. But what's the truth? For all I know, Kayla may really be washed up on the shore somewhere. She still hasn't called.

We cross to the pavement of the parking lot; one of the police car's headlights flare to life, blinding me. The group stops, shields their eyes.

"Sean Reilly?" someone calls from beyond the light.

"Yeah?" I call back into the glow.

The lights dim. Purple blotches invade my vision as I squint at a broad-shouldered police officer with a clipboard in his hands.

"You're Sean Reilly?" he asks.

I walk up to him; he's an inch shorter, but probably twice my weight. An LED light is clipped to the brim of his black cap, and shines down at the sheet on his board. When he looks up, pale blue light beams into my eyes.

"You are the last person who saw Kayla McPherson?" he asks, jaw square, eyes sunken. There is this exhausted rigidity to him, a tension that holds him in place, but only barely.

I nod.

"Describe the last time you saw her, please," he says.

The first thing I say to someone is always a throwaway, at least in this country. I start the sentence slow, on purpose. "Right here, in the bay, riding her jet ski," I say.

His eyes widen. "Where are you from? Wait, let me guess."

"Cork," I say, before he does. I hate it when they guess. "I'm from a city called Cork, in the Republic of Ireland. I'm an exchange student."

"Good to meet you, Sean from Cork. I'm Dan, from the police department." He extends a hand, and I reach out to take it. We shake once; he squeezes too hard, like a threat and a greeting all at once. Texans.

"Why did you two come out here so early?" he asks.

I turn back; more searchers stream in, crestfallen, lights hanging limp as they cross into the parking lot.

"She came and woke me up early, shook me out of bed. Told me she wanted to take the jet ski out and ride while the sun rose." I wipe sweat off my forehead with a heavy hand. "She needed my help to get it hitched and unhitched, and to back the trailer into the water. Kayla's always terrified she's going to sink her truck."

He glances up from his writing. "Go on," he prods. "What time did you get out here?"

"About five thirty," I say. "I haven't gone home since."

"And then what?" he asks.

"I helped her get it into the water. I didn't want to go out; I wore this," I point down at my shorts and sandals. "Too cold, in the morning. I just went for her, you know. It all happened right there." I point to the pier. Her truck is still parked in the same place.

"When she went out, was she wearing a life jacket?"

"No," I lie.

He writes this down on his pad. Then he leans in and squints at me, lowers his voice and speaks softly. "And did you check how much gas was in the jet ski before she left?"

"No," I lie. "Did you find the jet ski?"

He points to the water. A boat arrives, pulling parallel to the small wooden pier. Trailing behind is a swell of water; something is being dragged along, barely breaking the surface.

The boat stops, and two men on the pier throw hooks into the bay, as another man wades down the nearby boat ramp. A truck trails him, and soon, a winch tows Kayla's jet ski up the ramp. The little craft is almost completely submerged, and as it's lifted from the bay, water pours out.

"It sank?" I ask. I didn't even know they could sink.

"Apparently," the policeman answers. "Don't know why it sank. They found it a mile out, bobbing half underwater."

"Oh," I say quietly.

He drops the clipboard, lets it rest at his waist. There's another long moment where I'm still and he's staring at me. "What the hell happened?" he asks.

"I don't know. I want to help—I want her to be okay." My voice cracks as I say the words. It does this because what I'm saying is true.

His eyes soften. "We all want to find Kayla, son," he says. "Keep praying."

That's not completely true, though. Kayla, in particular, does not want to be found. If you asked her, she'd tell you she finally succeeded in murdering her shadow.