On The Island by Graves Tracey Garvis

Author:Graves, Tracey Garvis [Graves, Tracey Garvis]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Enjoy the first three chapters now …

Chapter 1

Claire

I’m on my way home from dropping

off the kids at school when he pulls

me over. I see the lights in my

rearview mirror seconds before he

hits the siren, giving it two short

bursts. I’m not speeding, or in

violation of any traffic laws that I

know of, but I pull to the shoulder

and the police car slows to a stop

behind my bumper. When the officer

walks up to the driver’s-side

window, I hit the button to lower it.

‘Did you know you have a

taillight out, ma’am?’ he asks.

‘Really?’ I crane my neck to look

behind me – as if I could possibly

see it from inside the car – and

immediately feel foolish.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Passenger side.

Can I see your license and

registration and proof of

insurance?’

I nod. ‘Sure.’

He doesn’t look like any cop I’ve

ever seen. He looks like a model

pretending to be a police officer for

a photo shoot. Or maybe one of

those cops who shows up at a

bachelorette party and then strips

down to his underwear.

Suddenly, I can’t remember

where anything is.

He waits patiently while I locate

the necessary documents in the

console and pry my license out of

my wallet. I hand everything to him

and he takes it to his car, and when

he returns he leans down by my

window and hands it all back.

Up close, I notice that his eyes

are green, the exact shade of a piece

of sea glass I found on the shoreline

of the Gulf of Mexico two years ago

when Chris and I took the kids to

South Padre Island. He must be six

two or three, and he’s lean but

broad shouldered. He doesn’t look

older than mid to late thirties, but

there are a few flecks of gray in his

dark hair, which only enhance his

good looks. So unfair. He rips a

piece of paper off the pad he’s

holding, glances down at the name

he’s written on it, and looks back

up. ‘Claire?’

‘Yes.’

He hands me the ticket. ‘It’s just

a warning,’ he says, reading my

expression and smiling to dispel my

worry that I’m about to get slapped

with a fine. His teeth are white and

perfectly straight. ‘Have it taken

care of as soon as possible, okay? It

isn’t safe.’

‘I will,’ I say, looking down at

the ticket. It’s been signed by

Officer Daniel Rush. ‘Thank you.’

He nods. ‘Have a nice day.’

When I return home, my husband,

Chris, is standing in the kitchen, a

cup of coffee in his hand. He’s

wearing jeans and a polo shirt in

accordance with casual Friday, and

he smells like the cologne I gave

him for his birthday.

‘Have you seen my watch?’ he

asks, in lieu of a proper greeting. I

unearth it under a stack of mail on

the counter, and he straps it on. ‘Did

you drive the kids to school?’

‘Yes,’ I say, setting down my

purse on the island. ‘Last day,’ I

add, because even though I

mentioned it, there’s a fairly good

chance Chris forgot; he’s got other

things, important things, to focus on

right now. ‘I wanted to hand deliver

the gifts for their teachers. I wasn’t

sure they’d arrive in one piece if

they took them on the bus.’

The kids are a safe topic, and

politely exchanging information

regarding their whereabouts and

well-being has become our fallback

method of communication. Neither

of us raises our voice.

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