Chapter 2

El Nido, on the Palawan coast, is a small town about 180 miles south of Portland. It's technically part of Palawan, but the residents here consider themselves a unique community, which sometimes confuses census and tax collectors.

My hometown is less crowded than Palawan, with houses scattered along the coast or near the forest, like mine. It's not the type of small town where everyone knows each other's second cousins, but it's hard to avoid running into familiar faces.

The families deep in the forest that wasn't taken by the government when national parks were established are an exception. My dad called them hillbillies living off the grid, but I couldn't confirm his claims. The people living in that remote part of El Nido are a mystery because few venture there, as the ocean is our main source of life.

"Thanks, Greg," my dad says on the phone with a client. "I appreciate your understanding... I'll call you when we're done. Goodbye."

We're going to the boatyard to check the boats and get them ready for an upcoming storm. My mother is asleep in the back seat. She hasn't done much since Step died, and neither have I. It seems like my dad is the only one still functioning.

I look at the sea, where there are only a few people on the sandy beach today. The sea is calm, like a lake, but dark clouds are moving in fast, and I can smell the rain.

"This one's going to be bad," my dad says. "Think you can secure the boats on the east jetty?" He looks at the sky. "I'll let your mother rest, so each of us will need to handle a jetty."

"Okay," I reply. "Let's keep it short this time, or we'll end up arguing again." He sighs and heads to our docks through the parking lot. I get out of the car before he's even parked.

"Alora!"

The boathouse has everything I need. If I'm lucky, I might trip and fall into the water, but as I look at the dark, deep water, I change my mind.

Carrying ropes, I make my way to the boats on the east jetty. My dad, coming from the east coast, knows how to secure boats in storms from his upbringing around them. While our storms may not be as severe as hurricanes, we still take precautions to protect our stretch of beach. It's one of the reasons our docks are so popular – my dad is a skilled sailor, among other things.

As the wind picks up, my hair keeps getting in my face. After securing the sailboats, I check everything is in order. The longer I stand on the dock, the sicker I feel. The boats are slowly being engulfed by the rising waves.

The sea, which was calm an hour ago, is now getting rough, and it looks like we're in for a tough time.

"Alora! Please help them!" My hair keeps getting in my eyes as my dad points to a boat coming to his dock. He recently moved his bigger sailboats and catamarans to the same dock, so he has a lot to handle.

I follow my dad's instructions and run to the end of my dock, calling out to the approaching boat and guiding them to a strong piling for mooring. During storms, we have everyone secure their boats to these pilings, which are sturdy pillars anchored deep into the ground and safer than the docks.

"Thanks," one of the men leaps from their boat to the dock, easily clearing the gap between them. I'm wide-eyed, but he seems unbothered. "Mac! Just toss me the ropes."

The other person hands us the ropes, and we get to work immediately. I'm afraid to look up because the wind is getting stronger. But their sails are still up, flapping wildly. As the waves grow and drench us with saltwater spray, all the boats around us start groaning and creaking.

"Lower your sails!" I shout as I climb aboard the sailboat, finishing my part.

The woman steering the boat, Mac, exchanges a look with her female passenger and asks, "What?"

I gesture upward to show what I mean. She nods and then signals to her companion. "Lower your sails!"

"Dad! Look at that sail!" I cry out, alarmed, as we watch their situation.

I quickly lower and secure the sails, struggling against the strong wind. After I finish, Mac comes over, and we double-check that everything on their boat is properly secured. I start to head down, but he gets there first.

"Can you help my girl?" He closes the door, almost drowned out by the gusts of wind.

In the wheelhouse, a small, slender girl with a large plaid jacket finishes securing things and gathers their belongings. She smiles at me through her brown bangs.

"Hi, I'm Kiana," she says, handing me a bag of maps and other items. "Sorry if we surprised you guys. You seemed more prepared than we were. We usually dock a bit farther down the coast, but the storm came faster than expected."

I respond warmly, "Storms catch everyone off guard sometimes." This is partly true since we only learned about the storm yesterday and told all sailors to leave their boats early. "I'm Alora."

After moving everything onto the docks, I lead them to the boathouse to register their boat in our records. My dad has just finished his tasks and looks exhausted.

He mutters, "I took a tumble," tossing his phone into the trash. "Old Man T's decks are as slippery as seaweed."

"You fell into the water..." The idea makes me feel queasy. The depth and darkness of the water are intimidating. It might only be twenty or thirty feet deep, but that's deep enough to scare me. "Are you—"

"I'm fine."

What if he hadn't been okay? Storms change the way water behaves. You can get disoriented, pulled under, or pushed farther out to sea before you can react.

"The harbor master's daughter, afraid of water," the man who got off their boat chuckles. "That's interesting."

"He's not in charge of the harbor."

"But you're his daughter," he points out with an amused grin. As my dad goes to the back office, I hand him the log and tease, "No need to confirm. You look a lot like him."

I tap the book with my finger and say, "Less talking, more writing. I don't want to be stuck in the boathouse."

As he fills in the spreadsheet row, he winks at me and leans over the counter. He's the tallest of the group, towering an inch or two above Mac and a foot above Kiana. Even hunched over a low counter, he's a massive presence. His shoulders are as wide as my arm's length, and his wrists are like the branches of an oak tree.

Mac doesn't look much different. Both of them look like they came out of one of Azura's favorite Viking shows. But Kiana looks like she might float away if it weren't for her sturdy boots. None of the three seem to be from our town, or at least, not locals.

"Did you come from the woods? Are you all set for a camping trip?" my dad asks as he comes around the corner.

I give my dad a knowing look, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's straightforward, and our guests don't seem to mind. They just smile, as if his comment were amusing.

"Just a bit farther than that," BigFoot, towering over me, stands up again. My dad doesn't seem bothered by having to look up to meet BigFoot's steady gaze. Mac and Kiana stand beside him.

"I'm Idan Nightglow. And this is my youngest child, Alora," he introduces himself, seemingly unaware of the implication that I'm not his only surviving daughter. "Cassian, you sound like you're much farther than just a bit away."

"All of us were raised in Ireland," he replies with a smile, but there's something more in the way he looks at you. It's either a warning or a challenge, inviting you to find out more. There's something unsettling about him, as if an inner voice is warning me to be cautious. "The family moved to Alaska, but we do a lot of business in Palawan."

"What kind of business?" I ask.

"A little bit of everything. We're currently acquiring some land," he says, briefly glancing at me before returning his attention to my dad. I feel paralyzed when he locks eyes with me, so I quickly shift my gaze to the log. "Thanks, Idan, for letting us dock here. Your youngest has my number, so feel free to reach out anytime you need something."

As they leave, my dad says, "Okay, that'll do."

I'm curious about their business. They all turn off the main road, which leads to the town, and instead head towards the forest. Mac and Kiana lead the way, while Cassian follows at a more relaxed pace. He looks over his shoulder and smiles, as if he knows I'm watching them from the salt-covered window.

When my dad says, "Alora," I quickly get up.

I look up at him as we walk to the car and ask, "What was that all about?"

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't seem to like them."

"I don't particularly like anyone."

He seems unfazed, so I decide to drop the subject. But there was an underlying tension between him and that Irish giant in the boathouse. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it reminds me of the way high school boys act after one of them talks to another's girlfriend, or the way football players banter with each other, a mix of teasing and an underlying desire to tear each other apart.

My mother wakes up during the drive home and asks, "What did I miss?"

"Nothing," my dad and I both say.

...

The storm outside continues to rage. The clouds are almost pitch black, blocking out any trace of daylight. Even though it's only 3 p.m., it looks like nighttime outside. I lie in bed, looking out the window. The swaying trees outside mimic the movement of the sailboat masts down at the docks.

Thunder rumbles loudly, and the rain pours down heavily. Azura used to hate bad weather. On stormy nights, she'd seek refuge in my room, and we'd stay up talking nonsense and watching her beloved fantasy films.

As I toss and turn in bed, I hear footsteps in the hallway. I stop and listen closely. There are only Azura and me on the upper floor; my parents' room is downstairs. One of them must have gone to Azura's room.

I throw off my blankets and rush out of my room. They're not supposed to enter her room! Regardless of how they suspect Azura died, the room remains a crime scene. I'm furious as I stomp down the wooden hallway. If they tamper with evidence, it will be a big problem.

"What are you—" I come to a sudden halt when I see an unfamiliar shadow. I follow it until I see a large man standing in the middle of Azura's room. I don't know who he is. He stands still with his back to me. "You," I stammer as I back up against the wall behind me.

Fear takes hold of me.

"...Me..." His soft voice sounds like a broken violin. He's angry, and his anger is directed at me.

Run.

He remains motionless, looking out the window. His hands are clenched into fists. A towering silhouette filled with rage. My heart beats wildly as I await some action or words from him.

Run, Alora.

Nothing. I reach into my pocket for my phone, but my fingers grasp empty air. I left it in my room.

He moves. The room fills with low, raspy noises, like heavy breathing mixed with a scratchy throat. It's a growl. My hair stands on end at the back of my neck. Why and how does he sound like that?

"You!" He suddenly charges at me. I scream and shield my face with both hands, but he never strikes me. When I look up again, he's gone.

"Alora! What's wrong?" my father shouts as he rushes up the stairs and rounds the corner.

"There was a man in her room! He—disappeared."

"Call the police, Mallory!" My dad grabs my arm and rushes me down the stairs.

Detective Dristan arrived first and immediately entered the house. His head turned towards the room as he came in, and he rushed upstairs in an instant.

"There's no one there," he reported as he came down the stairs, followed by two officers entering the house. "Check the exterior."

Sitting at the dining room table, I recounted everything I could remember. But in the darkness, I could barely make out the man's outline, let alone his face.

"How tall do you think he was?" Detective Dristan sighed, clicked his pen, and turned his gaze towards me.

"About five-eleven... maybe taller?" I replied, keeping my eyes on the table, avoiding the intense look my father gave me. "I think... it was dark, and... and he had a stocky build, maybe."

"Jesus Christ, Alora, was there anyone there at all?" My dad yelled and slammed the table with his hand, making me jump. Even my mother seemed surprised by his outburst.

"Idan—"

"No, stop defending her! You're sure someone broke into our house and killed your sister, Alora. You might have imagined this man!"

"I didn't!" I protested. Detective Dristan needed to believe me! "I'm sure he was there. He's been here before!"

"What do you mean, before?" Detective Dristan silenced my dad with a single look.

I stared at my hands before admitting, "Before Azura came along, someone else had been in her room. Whoever it was, they left the place in a mess."

"I've never heard of this before," my dad said.

"I didn't want Azura to get in trouble, so I kept quiet! I thought she might be involved with drugs because she was hiding something."

He slammed his hand on the table again, and I jumped to my feet. My father loomed over me, and all I could do was tremble. I turned away, staring at my hands once more.

"Do you know who she was spending time with?" Detective Dristan leaned forward, intrigued, but I couldn't help him. I felt like screaming!

"No, I just thought she was protecting someone or keeping a secret. I don't know who it was."

My mother sobbed, "Azura wasn't involved with drugs. Please, Alora, tell the truth."

"I am!" I pushed my chair away and rushed to my sister's room. I searched every inch, looking for any sign that the man had been there, but I found nothing. I needed any piece of evidence!

Detective Dristan followed me into the room. "Your parents... they seem concerned about you."

"I'm not insane," I snapped at him. "My sister wouldn't have taken her own life."

"Perhaps not, but that doesn't necessarily mean she was murdered."

So she fashioned a noose on her railing as a decoration and accidentally tripped over it? When I spotted something on the hallway floor, I nearly shouted in response. A necklace. It was made of leather and had acquired a good patina. Strung on it was a tooth, but not the kind from a shark or any known animal. It appeared to be some kind of sharp and unusual animal tooth.

"Here!" I exclaimed, showing Detective Dristan the necklace. "I've never seen this before! I must have knocked it off him!"

He examined it for a few moments with a discerning eye before placing it into a Ziploc bag labeled "Evidence." I waited for his response, but he simply headed downstairs.

"Will this help?" I inquired, relieved that there was finally some proof of what I had always suspected. It couldn't be ignored; it was strong evidence.

He stashed the bag in his jacket pocket. "I'll have it analyzed at the lab. But I doubt they'll find anything."

"What do you mean?" I pressed.

He halted in the middle of the road, nearly colliding with me. "Alora, I understand you want to believe your sister didn't take her own life. I do too, but I don't want to give you false hope."

"You don't think someone else was here, do you? You don't think that's evidence?"

"Can you guarantee this doesn't belong to your sister?"

"It's not—"

"Do you know everything your sister owned?" I couldn't argue with what he said. "Alora, I'll look into it. Go be with your worried parents."

As he walked away, I overheard him speaking with my parents briefly before the front door closed. When the police cars departed from our gravel driveway, it felt like all my hopes were being crushed. He had promised to investigate, but I had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't.

Seated at the dining room table, I meet my mother's sorrowful gaze and my father's disheartened expression. I realize that I must pursue this on my own. I'm the sole believer that there's more to this than just a tragic tale.

I need to find out.