Chapter Text
Maya had never been the artsy one in the family.
Mason had been the one to get chewed out by their father at dinner because there were smears of paint still on his fingers. The sparkle in his eyes as he talked about his latest painting became Lane's mission. That sparkle needed to be dimmed as soon as possible, and Lane usually used Maya to accomplish that goal, bragging about her time in track, his gaze cold as he went on and on about the expectations he had of his children and how Mason failed to fulfill even a single one of them. He would use Maya's accomplishments to mock Mason, and Maya hated the way Mason shrunk and shook.
Because deep down, Maya envied him more than anything. She envied the escape he found in his art, in his creativity. It was something she longed for. Because more often than not, her reality felt like a maze without an exit.
Growing up, Maya knew she would never live up to what her father wanted her to be. She tried. God, she tried. Even well into her twenties, she let his voice lead her. With everything she did, she'd question what her father would do, what he would think of her. With every call the fire crew responded to, she'd feel his eyes on her. With every promotion she chased, she'd feel the same pressure that she'd felt as a teenager, running laps until her calves ached, just to make him happy, just to erase the disappointment that always burned in the depths of his eyes, no matter what she did.
It was never enough then, and it was never enough as she got older.
She was drunk when she bought her first sketchpad. It was the middle of the day, and she had downed a few too many whiskies. She had stumbled out onto the streets, her mind entirely focused on getting to the nearest art supply store. The guy at the register had looked at her strangely as she slurred through her words, but she didn't care. Because she needed an escape, an exit to the maze, and this was the one she'd seen Mason use so often.
She hadn't expected herself to be any good at it. Quite frankly, her first sketch was terrible. She didn't even know what she was drawing, her pencil moving across the pad with no direction, her mind completely blank. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? She wanted her mind to be blank. She wanted to quiet the voices that screamed and nagged and threw punches.
And soon, she found herself sketching every day. She drew mythical creatures mostly, though she didn't know why. They weren't pretty–mermaids with pointy teeth and hollow eyes, fairies with their ribcages torn open, displaying bloody organs. She knew it was dark, weird–something people would judge her for. But she wasn't planning on letting anyone see her work.
Until everything changed.
The decision had been mutual, or so they liked to pretend. It was what Ross told the crew, anyway. A leave of absence. Just for Maya to take a break from the station to get her head in order–to figure things out for herself. Maya had to bite back a bitter laugh when Ross said those words, because they both knew that Maya didn't have much of a choice. If she continued to fuck up, if she continued to be a liability, she would lose her job inevitably. So in a way, Ross was doing her a favor. In a way–an ironic way–she was offering her an escape. A chance to get her shit together before it was too late.
The first escape that Maya tried was the bottle, drowning herself in endless oceans of numbness. But that didn't work for long. The second escape she sought out was art, and that worked for a while. But it didn't quiet the voices in her head the way she'd hoped. It surprised her that she had any sort of talent. Maybe it did run in the family after all. Although her father wouldn't see it as talent. Her father would see it as a waste. And that made her feel guilty for some reason, as if she was still supposed to be loyal to his wishes and demands.
The final escape she attempted was moving across the country to a small town near the beach, where waves lapped at the shore in a peaceful way that contrasted entirely with the storm that raged inside her mind.
The house she'd rented was barely more than a shack. Faded blue shutters clung to the sides like they were afraid of being ripped away by the wind. Salt crusted the windows. The floorboards creaked no matter how gently she stepped on them. She didn’t mind. It wasn’t much, but it was quiet.
Her days fell into a rhythm, if you could call it that. Wake up early. Stare at the ceiling. Go for a run. Draw something. Eat something, maybe. Walk to the shore if the fog wasn’t too thick. Sometimes she’d sit out on the porch, watching seagulls fight over trash, pencil in hand, sketchpad open. She liked capturing motion, the snap of wings, the twist of beaks mid-screech. It made her feel like she understood chaos a little better.
People in town didn’t talk to her much. They didn’t need to. She was clearly not one of them. Out-of-towners weren’t rare around here, but Maya wasn't stupid; she knew she had a certain energy that made folks keep their distance. Maybe it was the way she looked at things too long, or maybe it were the dark circles under her eyes, or how her hands sometimes trembled when she lit a cigarette.
But she had a place she liked to frequent. A booth, specifically, in the back corner of the Neptune Bar, tucked between the dartboard and the jukebox that only played sad country songs or Springsteen on a good night. It wasn’t a fancy place, but she liked it.
“Back again, firegirl?”
That was Nate, the bartender. He was in his mid-thirties, with forearms covered in tattoos and a voice that always sounded like he just woke up. The nickname had stuck after their second conversation, when she let slip that she used to run into burning buildings for a living.
She only smiled faintly, dropping onto the cracked vinyl seat, sketchpad already open.
“The usual?” he asked, already grabbing a glass.
They had an understanding. He didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t give answers. Sometimes he’d peek over at her sketches, raising an eyebrow at a demon with antlers or a drowning mermaid with too many arms.
Once, he asked, “You ever sell these?”
She just laughed. “To who? The church down the street?”
He never asked again.
She’d been at the bar for almost an hour before she even touched her drink. Her pencil moved quickly, dragging hard lines across the page, erasing, redrawing, layering shadows until her hands cramped. Drawing helped, even if the effects were never permanent, because at least for a moment, she could pretend she wasn’t falling apart.
It was dark when she got home.
She didn’t remember falling asleep.
One minute she was pulling off her boots, leaving a trail of sand across the wooden floorboards, and the next she was in bed, half on top of the covers, still in her jeans. The room spun even when her eyes were closed, flashing memories already pulling her under like most nights. Her skin was hot, damp with sweat, like her body was trying to burn something out of her.
She dreamed of smoke and feet pounding through ash—sirens morphing into screams. She dreamed of a hand moving towards her, always just out of reach, and her own voice echoing through some crumbling hallway, hoarse, frantic, unintelligible. Then came the ocean, swallowing everything in salt and black.
She woke up twisted in the sheets, breathing ragged, shirt clinging to her back. Her sketchpad was somehow on the floor, pencil snapped in two. Bright sunlight poured into the room like it was trying to shame her back to life.
She didn’t change, just pulled on a hoodie, shoved her feet into her boots again, and walked until she hit the water.
The beach was half-empty. A few kids ran back and forth, their laughter distant, hollow, like it was coming from underwater. She sat on a dune, legs crossed, sketchpad open on her lap. Her pencil rested loosely between her fingers, but she didn’t draw.
She just stared.
The ocean was calm today, which felt wrong. She always expected it to mirror her, to crash and churn and scream with her. But instead it just rolled quietly, indifferent, like it didn’t care about anything.
She didn’t notice the woman at first.
It wasn’t until a soft accent broke through the silence that Maya blinked and looked up.
“You drew that?” the woman asked, eyes fixed on Maya’s sketchpad.
Maya glanced down. She didn’t even remember sketching it—some kind of sea beast with the body of a woman, limbs curling like kelp, mouth open in a silent wail.
“No,” Maya muttered. “It drew itself.”
The woman smiled. “Then it has good taste.”
Maya raised an eyebrow. “You into creepy mermaids?”
“I’m into honesty,” the woman replied. “Even when it’s... unsettling.”
That made Maya look at her properly. She was in her thirties, maybe, with perfectly combed dark hair and sunglasses pushed up onto her head. Expensive coat, but her boots had sand on them. She didn’t look like she belonged in this town, either. That made Maya a little less defensive.
The woman held out her hand. “Gabriella.”
“Maya.”
“You’re new.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You look like someone who hasn’t decided whether to stay or run,” Gabriella said simply, then gestured to the sketch. “Have you ever done commissioned work?”
Maya huffed out a laugh. “I usually draw worse nightmares for free.”
Gabriella smiled. “Good. I like nightmares. Especially ones that make people think.” She pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to Maya. “I know someone who needs art for a space she’s renovating. She has taste. And money. You should come to the party she’s throwing tomorrow. You’ll meet her.”
Maya stared at the card. Just a name and an address.
“I don’t do parties.”
“Do this one,” Gabriella said, already turning to go. “Trust me, you won’t regret it.”
Maya turned the card over in her hand a few times before sliding it into the sketchpad and closing it with a sigh. She wasn’t sure if Gabriella was full of shit or just too rich to notice how weird she came off. Either way, Maya wasn’t planning on spending her evening sipping champagne with strangers. Not her scene.
She kept staring at the waves, letting the salty wind sting her eyes, until her mind began to wander, spiraling into flashes that blinded her like film reels jammed into her skull. A pair of scorched boots, ash falling like snow, a cracked helmet on the ground. A headache bloomed behind her eyes, making her want to curl up and wither away.
She stood, brushing the sand off her jeans, and headed back to her shack.
Inside, she contemplated having dinner. She opened the fridge, stared at its contents for a minute, then grabbed some bread and made herself a simple turkey sandwich. She sat at the counter and picked at it, chewing mechanically, like her body was going through the motions without her permission.
Eventually, she gave up, grabbed her lighter, and stepped out onto the porch.
The town had that lazy glow that came just before sunset, a dullness draping over it like it was trying to lull everyone to sleep. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing, watching a couple walk by with their kid and a Labrador. The woman gave her a look that seemed wary. Maya didn’t blame her. If she saw herself from the outside, she wouldn’t wave either.
She blew out a cloud of smoke just as she heard the familiar rattle of wheels on the pavement.
“Yo!” Rico swung into view on his skateboard, barely avoiding a trash can. He slowed to a stop in front of her place and kicked the board up into his hands. “You look like a ghost.”
“Thanks,” Maya muttered. “Always good to be reminded I’m thriving.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome.”
Rico was maybe twenty-three, with sun-bleached hair and a collection of plain t-shirts that he cycled through. He was probably a bad influence. Or at least, not a productive one. He had dropped out of college, moved back in with his parents, spent most of his days skating and most of his nights getting high behind the gas station. But he was easy to be around, and he didn’t ask questions.
“Wanna hit the boardwalk?” he offered.
Maya looked down at her half-burned cigarette. “Maybe next time.”
“Suit yourself.” Rico shrugged and plopped down onto the steps of the porch, tilting his head towards her. “So, what are you up to?”
Maya exhaled smoke through her nose. “Not much.”
“Done any sketching today?”
“Some.”
He waited, clearly hoping for more.
She sighed and added, “Met this weird lady at the beach.”
Rico perked up instantly. “Was she hot?”
Maya’s mouth twitched into a half-hearted smile. “She invited me to some party.”
Rico raised an eyebrow. “What kind of party?”
Maya grabbed the sketchpad from the chair beside her, flipped it open, and pulled out the card Gabriella had given her. She handed it to him.
He whistled, reading the name and address. “This is like... rich people shit. Fancy font. No info. That’s how you know.”
“She said it was some kind of art thing. Her friend needs work.”
He looked up at her. “And you’re thinking of going?”
Maya shrugged, flicking ash over the side of the porch. “I don’t know, man. Not really my scene.”
“What is your scene? Besides Neptune and this haunted house you live in.”
She huffed out a breath. “I don’t think even that’s my scene. I don’t have a scene.”
Rico glanced at the card again, flipping it between his fingers. “Well, if some rich lady’s interested in your creepy-ass art, I’d check it out. She’s gotta be a little fucked up to like it.”
Maya side-eyed him. “So you’re saying I’m fucked up.”
Rico smiled, but his eyes suddenly held a serious glint. “Maya... you’re hiding out in this boring-ass town, renting a glorified shed, drawing sea monsters with organs spilling out of them. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but yeah... something’s clearly broken.”
She didn’t answer, but she felt the heat that rushed to her cheeks.
Then Rico added, softer, “Doesn’t mean it can’t be a good broken.”
That one landed in her ribs.
She ground out her cigarette. “You want water or something?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he said, hopping up behind her.
Rico didn’t stay long. He never did. After a few dumb jokes and a lame attempt to convince her to come skate with him some time, he was gone, rolling off down the street, his hair blowing in the wind. Maya stayed on the porch a few more minutes, then wandered down to the beach. The air was colder now, and she stuffed her hands in her hoodie as she walked along the shore barefoot, letting the sand touch her toes, finding an odd sort of comfort in the sensation.
Eventually, she headed back to the shack, took a shower and crawled into bed. She grabbed her phone, her heart twisting in her chest when she saw that she had twenty-seven unread messages. A string of texts from Jack caught her eye. For some reason it seemed like he hadn’t entirely given up on her, even when everyone else had stepped back.
Jack: You good?
Jack: Just checking in.
Jack: Maya, come on. Just text back.
Jack: Just let me know you’re okay.
Jack: Please.
She stared at the words for a while, torn between wanting to reply and wanting to throw her phone against the wall. Eventually, she dropped it onto the nightstand and let her head fall back against the pillow, closing her eyes.
After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, she threw the blanket off, padded to the kitchen in her socks, and grabbed a cigarette from the nearly empty pack. She lit it on the porch with her back to the wind, staring out at nothing.
She took a drag, then scowled at the cigarette. The old Maya never would’ve started this. She used to count calories, track her resting heart rate, bitch at her crew about hydration. Health had been everything to her, something to control when everything else felt unsteady. Now she couldn’t even convince herself to quit smoking.
She turned to go back inside when her gaze landed on the white card that Gabriella had given her, on the top step, just barely tucked under her toes. Rico must’ve left it behind. She picked it up, staring at the words on it.
Carina Hale
13 Weller Cliff Road
She brought the card inside, dropped it on the counter, and opened her laptop before she could talk herself out of it. She typed the name into the search bar: Carina Hale. What came up first wasn’t much. Society pages. Gala photos. Posed red-carpet smiles beside an older man in a tailored navy suit—Lawrence Hale, according to the captions. Investment banker, coastal redevelopment. Carina looked polished, her smile showing her perfectly white teeth but not quite bringing a sparkle to her eyes. It was a kind of smile that reminded Maya of porcelain—delicate and breakable.
She clicked to the next page of results. That’s when she saw it.
Dr. Carina DeLuca.
She froze.
The difference was instant. The photos of that Carina were still beautiful, still put-together, but there was a fire there. Lectures. Panels. Grainy videos of her walking hospital halls in scrubs, waving off cameras. One photo showed her on the steps of an abortion clinic in Milan, surrounded by protestors that were screaming at her, her jaw set tightly.
OB/GYN. Advocate. Writer. Speaker.
And then... nothing after 2022.
Maya sat back in her chair, her eyes still locked on the screen.
She opened another article, which was clearly written pre-Hale. There was a picture of Carina with her hair tied up messily, laughing off-camera in a candid photo. Something in her expression—like she'd just said something smart and kind of mean and didn’t care who heard it—made Maya’s chest go tight for a second.
God, she’s stunning.
The thought came without warning and it annoyed Maya.
Because this woman—this brilliant, passionate, former doctor—had apparently disappeared into a mansion, traded the world for a last name and a view of the ocean.
Maya closed her laptop.
She looked at the card again.
She had no idea what kind of person would walk away from all of that. From herself. But if Carina Hale had really once been Carina DeLuca, then maybe Maya wasn’t the only one running from something.