At dinner a week later, Conrad talked through a beery burp. “Walk on the beach?”
We both grinned. “Yeah, that’d be great. All sappy and romantic-like.” I was tickled that Conrad asked me; romantic he wasn’t.
We headed west across the bridge over to Pass-A-Grille Beach. We walked our usual route: around the jutting finger of the point, past the snack bar then into the quiet water where I liked to swim. The water here was calmer and the sea-smell permeated the air tonight.
I spotted a lump on the sand ahead. Driftwood, maybe or a clump of seaweed. The half-moon shone on the gray sand.
A few steps more and Conrad stiffened next to me. “Whoa.”
I could smell it now. Death. I moved closer and could make out the dark shape on the sand, curved like a sickle. It wasn’t seaweed.
I heard the
