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Jane loses everything when her teenage daughter is killed in a senseless accident. Devastated, she manages to make one tiny stab at a new life: she moves from San Francisco to the seaside town of Half Moon Bay. Jane is inconsolable, and yet, as the months go by, she is able to cobble together some version of a job, of friends, of the possibility of peace. And then, children begin to disappear.

And soon, Jane sees her own pain reflected in all the parents in the town. She wonders if she will be able to live through the aching loss, the fear all around her. And as the disappearances continue, she begins to see that what her neighbors are wondering is if it is Jane herself who has unleashed the horror of loss. Get a FREE ebook by ing our mailing list today! Plus, receive recommendations for your next Book Club read.

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She lives with her family in Mallorca, Spain. Readers will grip their chairs to see if this wounded soul crashes or pulls up. Tell us what you like and we'll recommend books you'll love. up and get a free ebook! About The Book. Half Moon Bay Six p. Impenetrable, but not cold. Balmy, like Hawaii.

That red cottage on the south side of Kauai, near Princeville. Shrouded by eucalyptus, so pungent after rain. Cockroaches scuttled when you pulled back the shower curtain. Where Jane and Rick and Angela stayed their last Christmas. The last year. The last vacation. Last things. So many last things. Dark things loom. Trees, cars. Jane takes off her jacket and tosses it back inside her cottage.

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The door closes with a click. No one does, here. She leaves her bedroom windows open when she leaves the house so that when she returns, her pillows are damp and scented of seaweed. Of crabs and fish. Of the larger, mysterious things that swim in the depths. One of the reasons she moved here, to be closer to the sea, that deep insistent body of possibilities. Actually, just a girl, when it begins. One of a family of ten children—first seven girls, then two boys, then a female caboose on the end.

Jane is 3. Tragedy awaits, but she does not know it. She is being prepared. Everything in her life is building toward this moment.

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As she is hurt, as she is torn apart, she puts herself in a state of suspension, anything to dull the pain. This is not true, she says; this is not my life. It is her life. The day of wrath. One of her sisters probably. Or a friend from Berkeley, checking in. Her people. Her community.

Worried about her, as they should be. But no contact tonight. Ghosts touch her but deign not to speak. She wakes up in the middle of the night, cold fingers on her shoulder. Others on her arm. The laying on of hands, not to cure but to blame. Despite the fog and the hour, two or three fanatically fit young men will inevitably be catching waves, sleek as seals in their glistening black suits.

Instead, she he over to Mavericks Beach, the home, when conditions are right, of towering eighty-foot waves, recently discovered by the international surfing set, a place so cool that Apple named an operating system after it. It has now been one year, two weeks, and two days.

She can calculate the hours too, if asked. Nobody asks. Nobody refers to it, out of. It should be fear, fear of wakening the beast smoldering inside Jane.

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Jane puts one foot in front of the other. The fog so thick she can see only a yard ahead, but she knows every step of this route. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot again. She loses herself in the rhythm. Nothing but the muffled sound of her own steps for a quarter of an hour as she winds through the industrial district of Princeton-by-the-Sea. She is nearing her destination. She can smell the rotting seaweed, hear the plaintive calls of the ringtail harriers from the marsh. Then she stops. Something is wrong. Red and blue lights flicker through the mist.

A crackling sound, as of an untuned radio. Joshua, her postcollege boyfriend. She noticed the lesions first. A beautiful bruised purple. On his back and his thighs. And then how thin he was getting. But the constant illnesses, colds, flus. And those lesions. One day she woke up before he did. He had his back to her.

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How could she not have known? Her tears wet his shoulder blades, sticking out of his thin back like chicken wings. He had been so kind to her. She had felt safe with him, even loved. She might have known that this beautiful gift of this beautiful boy would have strings attached. But he had been crying himself. Its lights flashing. White with black geometric markings.

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And another. A dark figure approaches, grows darker and more substantial as it gets closer. The shift has been imperceptible. Yet it has happened. Maiden, mother, crone. She is no longer either of the first two, so that leaves the final stage. At thirty-nine, her red hair glints gray in direct light. Jane asks. Even her voice is muffled by the fog. The figure comes closer. It is wearing a hat, a uniform with a badge on it. It is male, as she should have known from the voice. But somehow that surprises her. What did she expect? Something not quite of this earth.

A hobgoblin. But this man seems solid, human. A policeman. The bearer of bad news. You live near here? A silly question. No one lives near Mavericks. To reach it, you have to wind your way through the acres of rusting warehouses and grounded boats Jane has just navigated. Over there.

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Jane motions with her head in the general direction of her cottage. You know the McCreadys, then? Just the name, Jane says.

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