Sarah Matthews sat opposite Clarence Harlow in a cramped booth at the Sirenia Diner. They were an odd pair with more years in between them than there were inches across the thin red table. A stranger might have mistaken the pair for father and daughter, but there were no strangers in Farrow Point, and everyone knew Clarence Harlow had no children.

The diner’s most notable feature was an extensive menu that included just about anything other than seafood. The owner, a friendly enough man named Watty Friedman, allegedly had a strong disdain for food that originated in the ocean. His personal preference wasn’t remarkably unique, but he did own a restaurant in a fishing community; hell, the ocean was visible from the front windows. Sarah supposed it was part of the eatery’s unique charm.

With no fish on the menu to choose from, Harlow had ordered a burger. When the towering plate of meat and grease had arrived, he noted the monstrosity was not something his doctor or wife would be happy to see him eating. But it was the kind of benign secret he didn’t have to ask his company to keep, though—based on his last cholesterol test—even he’d admit consuming red meat wasn’t a brilliant idea, let alone Watty’s Special #5. There were twelve on the menu, and none of them were comprised of beans or turkey like the ones in Sarah had grown to enjoy in the city. As the chief said before his first bite, “Do I really need to be around an extra five years if I can’t enjoy a damn hamburger?” She supposed not. Even the few vegetables he might have received from this meal were currently sliding out of the bun. He didn’t purposefully remove the lettuce and tomatoes, but she noticed he made no real effort to keep them contained within the assemblage of oozing cheese and charred bacon. A dangling piece of meat missed his mouth as he took another bite, landing somewhere in his lap. He looked up as Sarah stifled a laugh.

“You know,” Harlow began, “if I wouldn’t be run out of town, I’d be tempted to eat this thing with a fork and knife.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” promised Sarah. “When I worked in Jersey City I’d go into Manhattan a few times a month. I saw people eat all sorts of food with utensils there. Pizza, even tacos.”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve looked out the window recently, but we aren’t exactly sitting across the street from the damn Stock Exchange.”

The diner was nestled in between an empty beach and a sparse boardwalk with shops and restaurants numbering less than the average person had fingers. Bored walk was more like it, Sarah thought to herself, deciding the joke was too lame to share, if not a little insulting to the town she only recently came to call home.

“Eating pizza with a fork…” Harlow trailed off. “Around here a sight like that’d be nigh blasphemous.”

“Didn’t realize you were a religious man chief,” she said, playing along.

“Thou shalt not eat with utensils when it is perfectly acceptable to eat with thine hands,” he said in a booming godlike voice.

“Don’t remember that one. Guess it’s been awhile now since I’ve gone to mass.”

“And here I was worried we wouldn’t have anything in common.” Harlow smiled and set down the remainder of his burger, eyeing his unused fork thoughtfully. “Maybe next time. If no one’s watching.”

“I would think someone’s always watching the chief of police in a town this size. If only to make sure the chief isn’t watching them back.”

His smile faded a bit. “Do you really think I’m that intimidating?”

“Considering you’re my boss I’m not exactly sure how to answer that question,” she admitted.

“Considering I’m your boss you should answer it honestly.”

“Well, I’ve only known you for a month, but so far no, not really. I mean, you’re tough when you need to be, and you make sure we do things the right way, even when it comes to the small stuff. But I think that’s important if we have any hope of getting the big things right.”

Harlow picked up a crisp fry and pointed it at Sarah. “Finally,” he said, a grin returning to his face. “Someone who knows how to suck up to me, and not just because they want something. You don’t want something do you?”

“No, I think it’s a little too soon to be angling for a raise. I don’t want anything other than to learn how things work around here and to make a good first impression.” There were other things she wanted of course, none of which would be appropriate to bring up given the current conversation or company.

Sarah looked down at her own plate. She was in the middle of a BLT, fries, and her third cup of coffee. Glancing at the counter she quietly wished Watty served something a little stronger. Maybe some Irish Whiskey to go with the cream and sugar. That would be frowned upon while on duty of course—though that hadn’t stopped her before. But she was trying to be better, and alcohol certainly wouldn’t keep her awake.

The newest member of the Farrow Point Police Department was up even earlier than usual. On any other morning she’d have been shadowing Bennie Wilson, the department’s senior detective who served as a reluctant mentor to the young cop. Sarah had only recently made detective in Jersey City before transferring to Farrow Point, so she was still in the early days of learning on the job. The pairing had so far produced mixed results; Sarah was willing to learn more than Detective Wilson cared to teach. But on this morning she’d been spared from Wilson’s usual complaints that he delivered via breath smelling of burnt coffee and cigarette ash. Chief Harlow had picked her up for an early morning meal at Watty’s place, a tradition he shared with everyone he hired.

“Speaking of first impressions, how do you like the place?” Harlow asked after taking another pause from his quickly vanishing burger.

“Oh, my food’s great,” she said honestly. “I love diners like this.”

“Not the restaurant.” He chuckled and slicked back a few strands of the long white hair that hung loosely around his eyes. “And just because Watty’s still here doesn’t mean you have to flatter him,” he said in a raised voice before turning awkwardly to look at the restaurant owner who was slumped by the cash register, scribbling something on a stained notepad. The man was short, overweight, and wore an apron that at one point in time must have been white but was now a used canvas displaying a tableau of ketchup and sweat stains.

“What’s that chief?” Watty called without flinching.

“Nothing,” yelled Harlow. “Get back to work, kid.” Harlow’s command was in jest. He was older than Watty by months, not years.

“I give Watty a hard time,” he said, turning back to Sarah. “But he’s one of the damn hardest working people we’ve got. Back in that kitchen there’s an office—well, truth be told I’ve got bigger closets. But I’ve heard people speculate he works here all day, and maybe nods off in that office for a few hours every now and then. I have it on good authority that speculations not misguided. But back to my question. I’m glad you’re enjoying the meal, but I wasn’t askin’ about the diner. The town, Sarah. What do you think of Farrow Point?”

Another inquiry she wasn’t exactly prepared to answer. Most of her time and energy over the past few weeks had been spent learning how to navigate department politics. The broad strokes of the job were similar enough to the one in Jersey City, but everything here felt more personal. More intimate. She supposed that was inevitable in a small town where everybody knew everything about everyone. It was a double-edged sword that Sarah was all too familiar with; she just hoped this town’s blade cut a little less deep than the one she grew up in. She was ready for a little peace and quiet.

“It’s better than home,” she said, voicing out loud what began as a private thought.

“That’s Tennessee, right?” he asked. She nodded and he seemed pleased that his memory hadn’t faulted him.

“A little town you’ve never heard of. I lived within spitting distance of it my entire life before moving to Jersey a few years ago.”

“And why is here better?”

She broke eye contact. “I like being by the water. I only saw the ocean once when I was a kid. Otherwise I’ve been surrounded by fields and mountains my whole life.”

Harlow smiled softly. “Nothing wrong with fields and mountains.”

A palpable lull in conversation followed. She could tell he was hoping for a little more substance in her answer.

“And the people,” she decided to continue, “the people here give a shit.”

“Oh yeah?” he laughed.

“Yeah. I can tell they actually care about this place and each other.”

“I do not disagree.” Harlow paused to take another bite. “I do not disagree,” he repeated. “The fact that you’ve picked up on that in just a month is a good sign in my book. Hell, Watty’s a fine example of that very quality. Maybe the finest.” He was almost whispering now. “We graduated from high school together, Watty and I. More years ago now than I’m inclined to specify. He’d been accepted to a university in California, a real prestigious one, and god bless him he made it out there. Didn’t really believe it until I got a postcard. Well, couple months after he moved, his parents were in a car accident. A real horrible one, if you can even quantify that sort of thing. Mother was gone just like that. Father a few weeks later. He came right back of course, and with no one left to run the family diner, he stuck around to make sure it was managed properly.” Harlow seemed to be thinking over his own story now, as if he’d just heard it for the first time alongside Sarah. “What I’m trying to say is—people who live here tend to stick around. I guess that could be good or bad depending on how you see things.”

Sarah pondered the sad tale and Harlow’s analysis of it. “And how do you see things chief?”

“Well, I’m the eternal optimist of course,” he said cheekily. “And you?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out.” Her response was sincere, though she tended to lean in the opposite direction.

“You’re going to like it here, I just know it. The job can be hard, but you’ll find we only play a small role in keeping this place as safe and peaceful as it is. We’ll be lucky if you’re not bored to death by the end of the year. Not to shatter your dreams of car chases and shootouts.”

She placed her coffee down and laughed. “Those are no dreams of mine. I just want to help people.”

“Good, I’m not worried about you at all.” He seemed impressed.

Sarah smiled, happy that she had been able to answer Harlow’s questions to his liking. She supposed it was useful to start realizing why she was thankful for this place and the job that brought her here. Moving almost halfway across the country was a terrifying prospect a few years ago, but she was making do. Not that it was a difficult choice when the thought of remaining in Tennessee for another day was even scarier. She could have a life here. A fresh start. Everything was going to be okay. Her mother wasn’t around. She could hide from what came before. Things could be different. Maybe she didn’t need to hide? No. A rush of thoughts. A flood of fear and shame. Drowning. Too much at once. She couldn’t breathe.

“Everything okay?”

The sound of Harlow’s voice sent her panicked mind hurling back into her body. Her feet were on the ground. She could breathe again.

“Sarah, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, no, nothing,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about family stuff for some reason.”

“Anyone nearby?” he asked.

“They’re all back in Tennessee. Bit of a walk.” She offered a false laugh.

“Have ‘em come out sometime! I’m sure they’d love to spend time by the ocean too.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’m sure they would.”

The lines on Harlow’s face deepened as he squinted slightly. “You sure everything’s okay?”

Of course everything’s not fucking okay.

Sarah opened her mouth to respond but a more suitable answer didn’t arrive before the crackle of Harlow’s radio interrupted their conversation.

“Hold on just a damned second,” Harlow instructed to the distressed voice on the other end of the line. Between Watty arguing with the diner’s only other patron about some TV show and the music playing on an old-fashioned jukebox, Sarah could barely hear the man’s voice coming through the walkie. Harlow hurriedly used a napkin to wipe the residue of Watty’s Special #5 from his hands and squeezed himself out of the tight booth. He ran outside and Sarah watched him through the window. The chief ran a panicked hand through his hair while he shouted into the walkie. Before long he caught Sarah’s eye and waved frantically, motioning for her to join him in the parking lot. On her way out the door she produced a slim wad of cash and offered it to Watty. He didn’t accept it and kindly told her to get the hell out of his diner with that nonsense. She gave one last longing look to the coffee and sandwich she would never finish and entered the chaos outside.

“What’s going on?” she called out to Harlow, catching up to him as he opened the door of his patrol car. His urgency worried her a bit, not that he was an exceedingly lethargic man despite his age and weight. She’d just never seen anyone in Farrow Point move so deliberately.

“Not sure exactly,” he said as they both entered the vehicle.

“Something bad?”

“Something bad,” he agreed solemnly. He flipped on the sirens and they were going over eighty down Main Street within seconds.

“Where are we going?”

He glanced at her. “You been out to the lighthouse yet?”

# # # # #

When they arrived the red and blue lights from three other patrol cars were already dancing nimbly on the hedges lining one side of the lot. Harlow whipped into a makeshift spot between two of these vehicles.

“Time to work for a living,” Harlow sighed to himself before getting out of the car. Sarah joined him outside and quickly scanned the scene. She spotted Detective Wilson, James Park, Catherine Wells, and two additional officers whose names she couldn’t quite remember.

“Chief!” Officer Park called out as he rushed toward them. He was a tall man, young, and without almost a single hair on his head.

“James,” Harlow said. “What the hell’s going on?”

Park began going over the scene, pointing out the small office beside the lighthouse and its shattered window. Sitting in the grass nearby was an older black man, not quite senior but getting up there in years. He had been wrapped in a blanket and was speaking with Wilson and another officer. Evans maybe?

“That’s Dean Orwell,” Park said.

“We all know Dean,” Harlow said, cutting him off with an air of agitation before looking at Sarah sympathetically. “Sorry, you wouldn’t. Dean runs the tours at the lighthouse.” She nodded but remained silent, not wanting her lack of knowledge about local residents and attractions to slow down the process.

“Well, Dean came into work early this morning,” continued Park, “and found the ticket office broken into. After getting inside he didn’t see anything else out of place besides a missing set of keys.” Park gestured for them to follow him across the lot.

 She could hear Detective Wilson talking to Dean as they walked by. “It’s okay Mr. Orwell. We’re going to figure this one out.” Sarah happened to make eye contact with the lighthouse keeper and nodded in agreement with Wilson’s promise. The old man just stared ahead, an expression of disbelief painted on his face. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days.

They reached the lighthouse entrance, a small boxlike structure jutting out from the side of the tower itself. The door had been propped open with a round black rock about the size of a pumpkin. Just inside the entrance, golden rays from the early morning sun glistened off a puddle of syrupy blood.

“Mr. Orwell claims he didn’t go up the stairs,” Park said, pointing inside the open structure. “After noticing the blood he called us from the office phone.”

“Then who found the boy?” Harlow asked.

“I did,” Park said, his once firm voice shifting to a much softer tone. Harlow stared at him for a moment, as if waiting for some additional details. “I’m sorry sir. I’m at a loss for words.”

“It’s alright son. And you’re sure it’s him?”

“Detective Wilson was able to identify him. I didn’t know the kid, and even if I did I’m not sure I would have recognized him like that.”

“Best I just take a look for myself,” Harlow declared.

Park nodded and walked away. Sarah, unsure of what to do with herself, remained standing beside the chief. Though she had only known the man for a limited amount of time, Sarah had never seen him so shaken. But it was easy to understand why; this call was far from the typical incident investigated by the FPPD. From the brief explanation Harlow offered on the ride over and Park’s sparse summary, Sarah knew they were dealing with a body. Someone was dead. But how and why? Any further details were still a mystery, but in an oddly reassuring way everyone else seemed to be just as confused.

 “Let me go in alone,” Harlow said. The command wasn’t one barked by a boss to his subordinate. It sounded more like a heartbroken plea from a man trying to spare a friend from witnessing something horrific.

“I’m not afraid,” Sarah said, unsure if she believed her own words. She thought so, for the most part.

“I know you’re not,” he conceded without hesitation. “It’s just—the boy who they say is up there—I knew him. His family lives down the street from me. They’re good people. Hell I’d consider ‘em friends. I just need to do this alone.”

She looked on at the defeated man beside her, the strong yet jovial police chief who had been enjoying a hamburger only minutes earlier. She felt sad for him, and perhaps selfishly for herself too. Sarah had foolishly allowed herself to entertain the notion that this place could actually become a home. A home unlike one she had ever really known. But now standing there in that lighthouse parking lot, confronted with the death of a boy she would never know, she never felt more like a stranger in a strange land. It would have made more sense for her to be standing almost anywhere else in the world.

“I understand sir,” she said, gathering her thoughts. “I’m going to check in with everyone else. See where I’m needed.”

“Thank you, Detective Matthews,” he said without turning to face her. He cleared his throat and disappeared inside. Sarah walked away to the sound of his boots meeting the blood-splattered staircase. In that moment she was grateful she had only finished half her dinner.

The flashing lights and flurry of activity unfolding around the crime scene dazzled Sarah. Her most exciting incident on the job thus far had involved interviewing a woman whose goat had destroyed a good bit of her neighbor’s property. She had seen violence and even murder in Jersey City, but didn’t expect it here. Especially not so soon after arriving. Did she bring this with her?

Sarah discarded the silly thought and refocused on her surroundings, trying to identify where she might be most useful. Near the lot’s entrance, Park was struggling to put up a bit of police tape. Not the most critical task but a bit of company might do them both good.

“Need some help?” she asked, unintentionally startling him.

“Oh, sure,” he said, returning to the work after offering a smile that couldn’t have been genuine.

She knelt down and picked up one end of the tape, extending it along the entryway and tying it to a gate at the opposite end. In the off chance that some version of what happened here hadn’t spread to the whole town by now, this would hopefully dissuade any clueless visitors hoping to tour the lighthouse. She guessed there be no tours for a while now.

Walking back toward Park with a determined stride, she hoped to ask him if he knew more about what happened. About how a local high school boy had ended up dead at the top of a lighthouse. About what exactly he found up there that had left him so unnerved. She looked over her shoulder, stealing another look at the defeated lighthouse keeper still slumped on the ground. The man’s face was now buried in his hands.

“Do you think Detective Wilson suspects him?” Sarah asked bluntly.

“Mr. Orwell?” Park asked, almost perplexed. Sarah nodded and he answered slowly, as if contemplating the possibility for the first time. “I guess it’s too early to rule anyone out, but Dean Orwell’s basically a local celebrity. He’s worked at this lighthouse since I was a kid, and I’ve never heard a bad word said about him.”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t look like a killer.” She felt almost guilty for questioning the innocence of one of Farrow Point’s supposed model citizens.

“Still,” Park continued, “he’s been saying some odd things.”

“Like what?”

“Wilson said he mumbled something about seeing a person in the sky.”

A scream ended the conversation. It came from the beach; just over the hill beyond the lighthouse. It sounded like someone was hurt.

Instinctively Sarah ran toward the sound without checking to see if anyone else was following. In her frenzied rush to reach the disturbance she stumbled at the top of the hill, failing to notice a pile of jagged rocks where the grassy ridge transitioned into slopes of sand. She fell forward and held her arms out, slicing open her left hand as it landed on a partially submerged seashell. The pain didn’t register; neither did the sight of blood emanating from her skin. Sarah regained her footing and continued on toward the source of the cries, now visible where the ocean met the shore.

A girl laid in the sand at the water’s edge, her unyielding shrieks uninterrupted by the crashing waves that occasionally jostled her body. The shallow water obscured part of her legs, but as Sarah made her way across the beach she could tell the girl was wearing jeans and a t-shirt advertising some unfamiliar band. The girl’s hair, long and black, was wet and plastered to her ghostly skin in messy strands. She continued to scream, either unaware of or indifferent to Sarah’s presence.

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Sarah called out as soothingly as possible. A quick glance didn’t reveal any outward trauma, but that didn’t mean much; the girl was obviously distressed. She looked up at the sound of Sarah’s voice and they locked eyes as her screams slowly gave way to long, haunting sobs. If the ocean water hadn’t been splashing against the girl’s face there would have been streams of tears evident on her cheeks.

Each passing second felt like a minute as Sarah struggled to remember her training. More than anything she wanted to hug and comfort the girl, but she knew that wasn’t exactly her role. There was still a lifeless body in the tower behind her, and the odds that this girl had no connection to it were close to none.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Sarah said. The girl was still sobbing, albeit more softly, and the chill of the water mixed with the brisk October air was making her shiver. Seconds before Sarah would have taken the girl into her arms Park arrived with a blanket. He wrapped it around her like a cloak and they both helped her rise above the frigid brine. As the trio began walking up the beach, Park patted her down discreetly, checking for weapons.

The girl seemed able to walk alright, reaffirming Sarah’s initial assessment that she was at least physically unharmed. But something was blatantly wrong. Her sobs came so consistently that they were beginning to sound unnatural.

The three of them continued up the path leading to the lighthouse, carefully avoiding patches of rocks and broken shells. Sarah had long forgotten about her aching hand until she noticed a patch of blood smeared on the towel. Parked seemed to notice too.

“That’s mine,” Sarah assured him. “I fell.”

“You okay?”

“Don’t worry about me right now.” She looked from him to the distraught teenager in between them. He nodded in agreement.

The lighthouse loomed above them like a petrified leviathan, a watchful colossus unable to reveal the slaughter it had witnessed inside its own body. This was Sarah’s first time visiting the landmark, but it was visible from the deck attached to her third-floor apartment. What used to be a calming, almost majestic presence on the horizon now appeared more like a sinister spire. It was as if some fictional structure from a fantasy novel had been materialized into existence by dark magic.

“No!” the girl suddenly screamed. “Not the lighthouse!”

She collapsed as they reached the parking lot. Most of her colleagues ran over to meet them, careful to keep a reasonable distance. Dean Orwell slowly walked over with Officer Evans. Yes, that was his name, Sarah thought, before noting the detail’s irrelevance in the moment.

“Everything is okay,” Sarah said. That was a lie of course. She helped the girl stand up again. “Can you tell us your name? What happened here?”

Her screams and sobs gradually abated. After a moment she turned and whispered into Sarah’s ear.

“What did she say?” called out one of the officers. Sarah looked out at the small crowd gathered around them.

“She said she had a bad dream.”

The officers stood in silence while Dean Orwell recoiled with a look of sympathetic horror.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three: Merry Christmas Caroline