alone the other ridiculous stuff.
So, in the interest of an enjoyable dinner, I recount the phone conversation with Veronica about her ice- sculptor boyfriend.
“A dragon ice sculpture?” Kyle asks, his voice a little too full of awe for my taste. “Sounds radical.”
I clench my jaw. It’s not his use of entirely outdated slang—he’s single-handedly trying to bring back the eighties’ surfer lingo—that bothers me. He’s my boyfriend and he’s supposed to take my side. In everything.
Guess who’s not getting a good-night kiss.
“Sorry, babe,” he says, trying to sound contrite. “I know you hate the idea, but it might be way awesome.”
“Yeah,” I say, not wanting to get into another fight today. I’ve got bigger things on my mind. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Ah, thank you, my man.” Kyle changes track as the waiter arrives with our appetizer. He grins at me. “Fruits of the sea.”
I can’t help but smile back. It’s hard to stay mad at Kyle for long—his grin is infectious. And tonight I’d welcome having his carefree attitude about everything.
While he squeezes fresh lemon over the plate, I look out the window again. For the rest of the evening I promise to let go of all the things that have gone wrong today. I will sit here with my boyfriend, enjoying a five-star meal, while I look out over the—
“What the—?”
Kyle looks up, a forkful of calamari halfway to his mouth. “What, babe?”
I quickly look away from the scene below. That can’t be happening.
“What?” I ask, my voice high and startled. I swallow and try again. “Why?”
“You just said, ‘What the—?’ like you saw something crazy.” He looks down at the water below, looking for whatever startled me.
“It’s nothing,” I insist in a rush, trying to get his attention away from what I cannot possibly have actually seen. “I was thinking. About the dragon ice sculpture.” I resist the urge to glance back down out of fear that it might still be there. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”
“Right on,” Kyle says.
He digs into the calamari, and I struggle to get my breathing under control. This is a perfectly normal date with my perfectly normal boyfriend, overlooking a perfectly normal body of water. The setting sun must have reflected into my eyes because, for a second, I thought I saw—
No, it’s not possible. It’s the stress of the day, and the news of my adoption and my supposed sisters showing up on my front step. Stress hormones are playing tricks on my mind. Because I can’t possibly have seen a woman with long, stringy black hair swimming toward the pier, with a giant serpent’s tail undulating along behind her human torso.
Picking up my salad fork, I spear a ring of calamari, dip it lightly in marinara, and lift the bite to my mouth. My attention stays sharply focused on Kyle, our food, and the elegantly set table between us.
I’m not afraid to look out the window again. I’m trying to be in the moment, to enjoy my meal and my boy—
Oh, who am I kidding?
I set my fork down on the plate, close my eyes, and turn toward the window.
Just in time to see the serpent lady climb out onto the deck below and slink into the crowd of tourists.
“Sugar,” I whisper.
This is not my problem, I reason. I’m Greer Morgenthal, junior class president, alumnae tea chair, and future junior leaguer. I’m wearing Stella McCartney and Jimmy Choo. I can’t take on something like, like . . .
But as I rationalize with myself, the creature slithers through the crowd, running her abnormally long fingers through women’s hair and up men’s spines. They react to the touch, but not to the creature herself. Can they not see her?
When the pointy end of her tail makes a big swing, knocking three people off their feet, and the crowd only looks confused, I think I have my answer.
“Kyle?” I ask absently. “What do you see down there?”
I point directly at the creature as she cuts a swathe through the crowd.
“Tourists,” Kyle answers. “Loads and loads of tourists.”
“Of course.” They, ordinary humans—I shudder as I realize what this means—
I want to stay. I want to ignore the snake lady and whatever she plans to do in the crowd below. But I have nothing if not a strong sense of responsibility. If I am the only person who can see what she really is, then I don’t have much of a choice, do I?
“Excuse me, would you?” I push back from the table, leaving my napkin on my chair as I get up. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure, babe.”
Not even wasting time to get annoyed at Kyle for calling me “babe”—
With every fiber of my being, I’m hoping she’ll be gone when I get down there.
Chapter 18
Two hours after Gretchen stormed off Greer’s stoop and sped away, I’m beginning to think that maybe she was right. Maybe I was overreacting about Greer being in immediate danger. After I’ve sat in the park across the street from her house, watching absolutely nothing happen for the rest of the afternoon, Greer finally pulls out of the garage onto the side street. I have to run full out to keep up with her little gray sports car.
Thankfully, her house is at the very top of a hill, so I only have down to go. And she hits a lot of red lights along the way. From the way she revs her engine, I get the feeling she is pretty annoyed about something—either that or she’s very impatient. At least it gives me a chance to keep up without dying from the exertion.
By the time she pulls into a parking garage near Fisherman’s Wharf, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
“At least it will get me in shape,” I pant, sucking in painful gasps of air while I wait for her to emerge from the structure. “Gretchen will be so proud.”
I lean against the corner of the building, letting my body recover, as Greer crosses the street to the Wharf, hugs a surfer-looking boy dressed in worn khaki cargos and a slightly rumpled white button-up shirt, and disappears up a narrow staircase. I make my way—slowly—after her. The sign above the stairs says Ahab’s Fine Seafood. My jeans and tee aren’t exactly fine-dining wear. If I try to follow her upstairs, I’ll stand out like a fish in a desert.
Besides, they’ll probably be up there for a while. Dinner at fancy restaurants always drags by at a snail’s pace. For me, anyway.
Instead, I decide to scope out the area. I wander around to the far side of the pier, below the restaurant windows. I can watch out for her from down here, and if anything happens, I can be around the front and upstairs in seconds. Assuming I’ve recovered by then.
I find a weathered wooden bench and plant myself.
Spending my evening on Fisherman’s Wharf, surrounded by a billion tourists and a heavy stink of fish, was not exactly how I planned to spend my evening. Or what I told Mom I’d be doing. She thinks I’ll be home for dinner.
I pull out my phone and send her a quick text that says my study session is running long. I add that I’m staying for dinner, so she won’t worry. Who knows how long I’ll be out?
She replies with a sad face and says Thane’s out for dinner too. I wonder if he’s with Milo. I text back that I
