The Lies That Bind

9: A Beautiful Day to Die

Nineteen months earlier...

Owen McCormick was a lucky man.

Clear skies swept the far horizon, where endless blue water stretched, uninterrupted save for the break of waves and the shadowy silhouette of distant fishing vessels, bobbing restlessly out at sea. The sun had just begun to set, casting an orange glow across the water, setting the coastline aflame.

    It really was a beautiful day to die.

    Calla lifted a hand to shield her eyes against the glare of the sunset and followed the spiraling shadows of seagulls all the way to the pier, dodging crushed aluminum cans and discarded burger wrappers, half-buried in the sand. Miami Beach had been crowded with spring breakers all week, much to the delight of her companions. But Calla had not come all this way to drink boozy teas and hard seltzers.

    She'd come here to hunt.

    It was why, earlier that very morning, she'd called in an anonymous tip to the local authorities. The party's out of control, she'd explained hastily, slurring her words and pitching her voice low to avoid detection. There's a kid passed out on the sand. He's not moving. I think he's dead.

    That small white lie had cleared this particular stretch of beach of spring breakers for a very limited window of time—and Calla fully intended to cash in on the opportunity.

    Owen McCormick. She recited the details as she walked, the pier looming overhead. Fifty-nine. Born in Savannah, Georgia. Highschool dropout. Bounced around Atlanta, Greenville, and Raleigh in his early years. Managed to hitch a few rides all the way down the coast, where he's eked out a living ever since.

She scanned the seaside grill lining the boardwalk to her right. Tourists swamped a mural etched into the turquoise plaster. Among the rabble were a handful of townies she recognized. Ruthie, a bouncer who worked the bar across the street. Carl, the grill's bad-tempered chef. Aretha and Erica—waitresses who liked to take a smoke break every hour, on the hour. And...

Her eyes fell to the prone figure sprawled out on the sand beneath the pier, lying dangerously close to the coming tide, a murky brown bottled tucked in the crook of his arm.

"Hello, Owen," she murmured, continuing her leisurely stroll toward the pier and the drunkard dozing there.

Owen McCormick. Local bum. She continued mentally parsing through the details, piecing together the puzzle of an unremarkable man's unremarkable life. Spent twelve months in prison for heroin possession. Another twenty-seven months for peddling cocaine to the locals. A bead of sweat arced its way along the curve of her back as she stepped into the shadow of the pier, a balm against her overheated skin. Served another three months on a homicide charge. Released on a technicality.

"I wonder," she mused aloud, pausing to gaze down at Owen's prone form, "if anyone will even know when you're gone."

Unlikely.

She unclasped the belt she'd donned before leaving the condo she and her friends had rented for the week. Owen reeked of stale beer and seaweed. Or that could just be the actual seaweed. She considered the green globs to her left, congealed in clumps of frothy sea foam.

"Wake up," she ordered, nudging Owen's thigh with her bare foot. When he didn't budge, she heaved a sigh. "I don't have time for this," she muttered. Her friends had been passed out in booze-induced slumbers when she'd last left them, but they would wake soon, and her absence would be noted, especially by Olivia. She could always lie, of course. Claim she'd spent the last hour with some muscled stranger she'd ran into on the beach. With this many degenerates running around, no one would wonder why she'd never bothered to catch the guy's name before, during, or after the fact.