Corpse faces. Brined and swollen like tumors. The boat thumps against them.They’re not real. It’s just the Trespasser.Dead mouths drift open. Silvery bubbles burst to the surface, carry with them whispers that crawl into her ears like snakes–Chooser of the slain…You don’t know what awaits you…You’re not prepared…Turn back, go home, give up…The faces of those she’s killed stare up at her.Edwin Caldecott’s prim, pursed-lips. The cop, Earl, his tongueless mouth sucking in seawater. Beck Daniels – really, Beck Caldecott – on his face is painted a twin-tailed swallow tattoo, the lines distorted and wings bulging from the bloated, waterlogged flesh. Other faces swim in and out: the Mockingbird Killer, Ingersoll, Harriet, the ATM thug. The faces too of those whose deaths she did not cause but which feel like hers just the same: Del Amico, Ben Hodge, Jack Byrd, Hetta Gale, Steve Lister, the little boy named Austin with his red balloon, a balloon she sees float to the surface like a fishing bobber–They all tell her the same thing:You’re not ready for this.
