Free Swimming at Night: A Novel by Lucy Clarke

ring facing towards him, on the stem of her wineglass. “London.”
    “Big Ben. Madame Tussauds. Covent Garden.” He laughed. “I visited a couple of years back. Damn cold. Pretty, though. Very pretty.”
    She picked up her wine and took a drink.
    The man’s gaze moved to the journal. “Notebook?”
    “Journal.”
    “You’re a writer?”
    “This isn’t mine.”
    He angled his head to see it more clearly. She noticed his eyes were positioned unusually close together; it made him look reptilian. “Whose is it?”
    “My sister’s.”
    “Getting the dirt on her, are you?” She smelled alcohol on his breath and realized from the glassy sheen in his eyes that he was drunk. She glanced around, hoping the waiter might be nearby with her dinner.
    “So tell me . . . ” He made a waving motion with his hand.
    “Katie.”
    “So tell me, Katie. What are you doing with your sister’s journal?”
    She flinched at this stranger’s casual reference to Mia’s journal. She wanted to snap it shut and be rid of this overconfident, drunken clown. “It’s private.”
    “Bet that’s what she thought when she was writing it!” He laughed, then picked up his beer and took a gulp; she could see his inner lip squashed against the rim of the glass.
    “I’m sorry. I think you should leave.”
    He looked affronted as if he’d thought the conversation had been moving along successfully. “Seriously?”
    “Yes. Seriously.”
    His knee bashed the table as he stood, causing it to rock. Katie’s wineglass teetered, but she caught it by the stem just before it fell. She wasn’t quick enough to save the beer. Golden liquid, light with bubbles, spilled over the open journal. Horrified, she grabbed hernapkin and blotted it, but the beer was already seeping into the pages, turning the smooth cream sheets dark and ridged. She watched with dismay as the precise, neat writing on the page began to blur.
    “You idiot!”
    Two women at the next table turned to look.
    The man raised his hands in the air. “Easy, lady. I just came over to be nice.” He pushed back his chair with force. “Guess the game’s up,” he said maliciously, motioning to the soiled journal.
    “Fuck you.” The swearword felt sharp and delicious on her tongue.
    The man strode back to his friends, shaking his head.
    She bit down on her lip, desperate to maintain control, but tears were already threatening. Clutching the damaged journal, she scooped up her handbag and coat.
    By the time the waiter had set down a dinner for one, Katie was already at the door. She had left behind her home, her job, her fiancé, and her friends because of a desperate need to understand what happened to Mia. But as she burst onto the pavement, damp air closing in on her like cold breath, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. I’m sorry, Mia. I don’t think I can do this.

  6  
Mia
    (Maui, October Last Year)
    F inn laced up his hiking boots in the dark, with a foot on the wheel of the rental car. He’d set his alarm for 4 a.m. and driven Mia along winding roads and hairpin bends to the highest point in Maui, atop the Haleakalā volcano, to watch the sunrise. At an elevation of ten thousand feet it was bitterly cold, although they had been warned that by midday it would become scorching with almost no shade for hikers to rest.
    “How much water have you got?” Mia asked, her voice still husky from her doze in the car.
    “Enough for us both.” He zipped up his coat, locked the car, and tightened the straps of his pack.
    They struck out by the light from their headlamps. He led, wanting to pick out a route with firm footing. Night hiking could be dangerous as changes in the terrain were difficult to judge, but the path proved smooth and descended steadily into the crater basin. Neither of them spoke, the only sound being the loose cinder ash crunching underfoot like snow.
    It was still before dawn and the air was dry and chilled; Finn’s cheeks felt as if