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PROLOGUE

NO WAY COULD he compete with the dead.

Peter approached the memorial, the sculpture’s relief taking shape against the silhouetting sunrise. A pink granite pillar supported the bronze form of a man standing in a boat. The inscription read In Remembrance of Those Lost at Sea While Fishing These Waters.

His insides wrenched at the thought of Cassie surviving a near brush with death yesterday, Kyle’s name, not his, on her lips. He remembered the grateful look of love in her eyes when she had regained consciousness and had seen him. Yet, when speaking about going home, she had wanted Kyle.

A damned ghost.

The woman of his dreams was fighting for her life. All he wanted to do was love her, help her heal. But no. She turned him away, along with his offer of marriage, because of a man and a memory lost at sea years ago. Peter couldn’t even lay hands on the dude to punch him out for breaking her heart and get some satisfaction and release from his anger.

His tormentor stood over him in the form of Montauk’s larger-than-life memorial—a muscled fisherman, shirtless, wearing waders and hauling a line. The fisherman stared away from Peter with sightless eyes, intent on the invisible catch over the side of the boat.

Peter pulled the engagement ring from his pocket. His grandmother’s ring. Saved for the perfect woman. From his other pocket, he drew a pocketknife. As the morning sun rose over the horizon and splashed brilliant gold light around him, Peter kneeled to the left of the fisherman, and sliced deep into the grass. In a hole deep enough to siphon his life, he buried the ring, marking the burial place in his heart.

He walked away.

Sometimes the ocean—and the dead—had no mercy.