Sullivan sat on a dune, alone. He stared out at the gentle waves lapping at the pristine, sugar-like shore of Ft. De Soto Beach. His car was parked behind somewhere, pulled hurriedly off the road when he had been seized with angry, hopeless tears.
He had driven around for hours after visiting the Hillsborough County Jail, feeling dejected and lost.
He pulled at a strand of sea oats and dislodged it from the sand, flung it into the breeze.
Maybe if I hadn’t called the cops, none of this would have happened and Adam would still be with me.
Maybe, if after I called them, I had calmed down and not pressed charges, he would still be with me.
Maybe if I hadn’t pressed him about what had happened in Chicago, he would still be with me.
Sullivan got up, brushing the sand from the back of his
