As Eddie rambled on about their epic sales performances last year, Reese couldn’t help but go back to Cami’s warning and replay it in his mind again. He didn’t like the word mega-tsunami at all. And it wasn’t like she was wrong all that often—he’d never seen someone predict snow and thunderstorms as accurately as his wife.
Ben slapped him on the back. “Tsunami or no tsunami, open water, here we come!”
Reese glanced over his shoulder at the receding shoreline. Well, whatever had happened over in Africa, it was pretty much out of his hands.
He grinned. May as well enjoy the trip and try to land that monster tuna.
Chapter 2
Lavelle Homestead
Northwest of Charleston, South Carolina
Camilla Lavelle stared at her phone for a moment, then dropped it on the thick blanket that covered her chest. Reese had hung up. He was determined to continue with the fishing trip, despite her warning that now was not the time to be near the ocean.
She stared at the ceiling in her darkened bedroom. Outside, a single car drove down the street, its headlights casting rectangular bars of light through the window shades. She watched the lights slide up the wall, cross the ceiling, and vanish as the car turned the corner, driving away from her house.
It was just after 5 o’clock in the morning and she was wide awake. Cami threw the covers off with a huff and sat up, stretching. Since Reese was out of town, she’d planned a mother-daughter day in Charleston with Amber, who’d be returning to college in another week to start her senior year.
Cami stared at the glowing screen on her phone, replaying the same tsunami model she’d sent Reese just moments before. It wouldn’t hurt to check the news while she dressed, since she was up. Cami clicked on the TV while she padded to her closet and picked out some jeans and a top.
A reporter with slicked back hair prattled on about the latest political scandal to rock Washington while she dressed. She barely paid attention and perched on the edge of her bed to put on socks.
“...in other news, reports are trickling in from our European desk that there’s been a volcanic explosion in western Africa. We’ve received video of destruction along the coast of Morocco...”
Cami sat up and faced the TV. A shaky cell phone video played on the screen, displaying what looked like the aftermath of a bomb. Sandstone buildings lay in ruin everywhere the camera panned, and people picked through rubble and wailed, clawing at the sky.
The cameraman shouted something unintelligible to a veiled woman standing in what might have been a street before...whatever...happened, and she gestured wildly down the road, then screamed and ran off camera. The view shifted as the man holding the phone rushed to a railing—it turned out he was on a second-floor balcony—and leaned around the corner to see what had scared the woman. Unfortunately, the video cut out and the anchorman reappeared.
“The devastation is clearly evident, but what’s proving to be a mystery is the cause. Some claim it was a volcanic eruption, others a tidal wave...”
“Tsunami,” Cami muttered, her hands clenching wads of the blanket covering her bed as she corrected the reporter.
A map appeared on the screen and pinpointed the location of the African town in the video. Cami’s heart thudded in her chest. The city’s name was unpronounceable, but that didn’t matter. She cared about its location. An eruption in the Canary Islands could easily create a tsunami that would hit the coast of Africa before making landfall anywhere else.
She paid closer attention as the video repeated, with the map in one corner and a scrolling marquee at the bottom, proclaiming a possible volcanic eruption in the Canary Islands.
Then, just as quickly as they had covered the event, the reporter moved on to sports results from the day before. “...looking to clinch the division in the upcoming playoffs with a win last night over Cincinnati. We’ll have in-depth coverage at the top of the hour. Turning now to politics, we go to our senior Washington correspondent...”
Cami flopped back on her bed, sighing. She hit the remote and killed the TV. There was nothing for it but to get up and make herself not think of her husband a hundred miles off shore as a deadly tsunami might be crossing the ocean heading for America.
“I need coffee,” she groaned, getting out of bed for the second time that morning.
By the time Cami left her bedroom and walked down the second floor hallway toward the stairs, her body tingled with anxiety. Nervous energy rippled through her system, making her steps hurried. She paused at the top of the stairs, and glanced down the hallway toward Amber's room. On a whim, she tiptoed across the soft carpet to her daughter’s door and cracked it open. In the dim light of the predawn darkness, Cami smiled at the slumbering shape, spread-eagled, face down on the comforter. The pale skin of one bare calf hung off the corner of the bed as Amber snored.
She thought about waking up her daughter, of expressing her fear and anxiety over Reese's safety, of trying to calm herself by spreading the news of the volcano. But no. Worrying Amber wouldn’t do any good.
Cami closed her eyes and took a deep breath instead. Amber was due to fly back to college next week. Today was their day, one of the last remaining times mother and daughter could hang out in peace. She knew Reese already had plans to take Amber sailing one last time, and Cami wanted to squeeze every ounce of joy out of her day.
No. Cami’s mouth compressed into a tight line as she slowly shut the door. Until she had confirmation of her fears, she would do her best to
