Voices of the Sea Read Free

hairline.
    A cold realization gripped Lora.
    It couldn’t be. She couldn’t have seen it.
    Shaking her head, Lora took a step toward the body. “Don’t,” the man said, pulling her back. “We need to call the police.”
    Lora’s knees wavered and the man gripped her cold arm to keep her upright. Sounds of the ocean faded until Lora only heard her own quickened breathing. She hadn’t been mistaken. The Siren mark, a small wave-like crest linking a Siren to the sea, concealed behind the dead woman’s ear. The ice plant shrouded the woman’s face too well for Lora to see it clearly.
    Her grandmother had told her the tales of Siren killers, tales of men with an ancient grudge who wanted them silenced forever. Through her fright, she tried to place the memories together, hoping to make sense of them, for they were jumbled and unclear. All Lora could remember was that the threat came from men who appeared normal, but were killers underneath. She’d always trusted they were merely stories, untrue mythology. Nothing more.
    Panic gripped her, and she tore her hand from her male companion, inching toward the dead body, which now seemed a safer haven than the man. Her green eyes widened. Could it be him? Did he arrive on the beach earlier to kill her Siren sister?
    Taking a deep breath, she tried to think rationally. If he had killed the woman, he would be covered in blood. He wouldn’t appear so frightened. The sight of the lifeless body lying on the ground wouldn’t sicken him.
    Sensing her turmoil, the man stepped back and held up his hands, giving her added space, but she didn’t take her eyes off him. He wasn’t tall, only standing an inch or so higher than Lora’s slender frame, with red hair, a pointed nose and a face covered in freckles. The same wind which had carried her song and revealed the Siren mark on the dead woman now rustled his sweatpants and white shirt. Workout clothes, she realized with relief. He had jogged on the beach this morning; he did not kill an innocent member of her beloved clan.
    Lora extended her hand, hoping she hadn’t angered him with her reaction. He accepted it. Overcome with muddled stories from her ancestors, she allowed the man to pull her away from her dead sister, back toward the sandy path.
    The Earth seemed to have lost its color. The ocean, the cypress, even her unnamed companion were gray and colorless. Clouds now ruled the sky, covering the beautiful primrose sunrise and erasing the possibility of a promising morning.
    The man clutched his phone against his ear, body trembling, but still clung to her hand. Police sirens cried in the distance, growing nearer, and they both faced the ocean, afraid to peek back at the dead woman in her ice plant coffin.
    The tide receded from the violence.
    Tucking the phone into his pocket, the man sighed. “I’m James,” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly would reveal them to the unknown killer. Lora could not take her eyes from the ocean. She concentrated only on its quiet lament. “I have a wife. Two little boys.”
    “Do they have red hair too?” she asked, picturing two tiny clones of their father. The thought provided a temporary reprieve from the image of the dead girl.
    James’ breath remained shallow as he spoke, “Only one. The other is blond like his mother.” As James described his child’s blond hair, the picture of blond, red-streaked hair against pale green ice plant consumed her again, and Lora began to cry silent tears. James showed her a family picture he kept in his wallet, probably to distract her.
    Movement from the road caught her eye and Lora saw two police cars approaching. They parked, and several men emerged from the vehicles, hurrying toward her and James, hands on their holsters.
    One gentleman reached them first, but he did not wear a police uniform; his brown suit had frayed pockets and she could see his shoes were old and scuffed. He did not extend his hand, but instead surveyed them with an