Chapter 1

Split Rock Lighthouse State Park, Two Harbors, Minnesota

Present Day

“You know, there’s a saying that goes, ‘Lake Superior does not give up her dead,’” a wry voice comments from behind me, snapping me out of the semi-trance I find myself in.

The dreams were back last night—swirling dark visions of a faceless woman so vivid, I’d wake up bathed in sweat, my chest clenching in pain.

“What are you painting, my love?” I whisper as I cradle her waist from behind her in the rose garden, my nose dipping to her neck.

The candles flicker in the late night, but I sense these are stolen hours—forbidden and precious.

“The canals of Venice. I’ve never been there before, but I had read about them. So, I’m bringing them to life.”

Someone clears his throat, jolting me back to the present.

Who is she? Why am I dreaming of her again?

The stranger next to me clears his throat again when I don’t respond.

Glancing away from the easel in front of me, I turn toward the man. “Excuse me?”

He grins and pulls his black beanie further down his head before crossing his arms over his chest. “Sorry, I’m here with my family on vacation and they’re around here somewhere exploring the grounds and I saw you sketching. Couldn’t resist looking. ”

He motions to my easel where I’ve been trying my damned best to capture the scene in front of me for the past two hours since the park opened.

And I’m failing. Failing miserably. Distracted.

Acid churns in my gut as I stare at my creation—dark slashes of charcoal against a white canvas. The technique is there—the straight lines, the contouring, the play between the brightness and the shadows—a perfect example of the technique of chiaroscuro . It clearly depicts the scene before me—the gloomy waters so vast, it looks like it can swallow you whole, the lonely lighthouse perched on the rocky cliff, the dense fog obscuring the pebbly, gray shoreline.

But it’s all wrong. It’s missing something.

It’s trash.

“And what does that saying have anything to do with my art?” I mutter, my fingers tightly clutching my pencil.

“It’s a gloomy piece. I thought you might appreciate the morbid saying.” The man chuckles. “And frankly, I’m just killing time while waiting for the fam. Ignore my bullshit.”

I grunt and tug the lapels of my wool coat tighter to ward off the sudden chilly breeze sweeping in from the lake. A scent of damp earth and a faint whiff of harsh minerals permeate the air. Being from New York City, I’m no stranger to chilly temperatures in April, but fuck, it’s downright glacial out here.

Befitting the frigid king. I shove the unwanted thought away.

“Anyway, the saying became famous after the tragedy of the sinking of SS Edmund Fitzgerald in 1975 during a severe storm out here. The entire crew was wiped out but none of the bodies were ever recovered,” the man continues, oblivious to the displeasure running through my veins.

“The bodies are rumored to be down there still.” He motions to the dark waters, the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs in the distance. “The water is so cold, there aren’t many bacteria to help along the decomposition process, so the bodies don’t float back up. I’m a historian, so this is interesting shit for me.”

He laughs and prattles on. The man must be bored out of his mind to be talking to someone who clearly doesn’t plan to respond.

I stare at the canvas again, then at the scenery before me, trying to figure out what’s wrong with my art, which is an extension of me, of my soul. This is the sole purpose of my little getaway away from work and responsibilities at home. I’m supposed to sketch and paint and find my muse once more, something to fill this gaping hole of nagging want inside my chest before I have to head back to the real world, which includes preparing for my first press conference in a month.

What the fuck is it missing?

My life is everything a man should want. I’m the eldest son of the influential Anderson family, billions at my disposal, the CEO of one of the largest companies listed on the stock exchange.

I can have anything I want.

What the damn fuck is missing from my art?

I rub the phantom ache in my chest and heave out a deep breath, which crystallizes in a white mist before floating and melding with the eerie fog before me. Another icy gust billows against my face, followed by the louder roar of the crashing waves against the sharp cliffs.

The fog seems thicker now, merging with the foreboding clouds in the overcast skies. The dense forest of pine and birch just past the shoreline fades into nothingness, like an apparition, a hallucination of the mind. A chill seeps inside me as I look at the lighthouse in the distance, its light blinking slowly, warning sailors of the dangers of the rocks.

How much tragedy has it seen occur in these frigid waters before?

“Damn. The weather looks like shit. I miss the California sunshine. Anyway, I should go find the wife and the kids,” the man quips before nudging me with his elbow. He waggles his brows. “I promised them pancakes and hot chocolate for breakfast. Don’t want to disappoint them. Happy wife and kids equal happy life, you know? ”

I wouldn’t know, and I’ll never know.

I sigh. I never enjoy talking to strangers, but it seems like my silence isn’t a deterrent for this man. Slowly, I roll up the canvas, which will most likely be relegated to the back of my failure pile in my studio at home.

One of many of the past year.

Maybe Rex is right. Maybe I should spend some hours at the voyeur room inside The Orchid. Maybe a few hours with a beautiful woman will chase away the emptiness in my heart. After all, it has worked in the past.

But deep down, I know that isn’t the answer. Not this time. Not for this dark chasm inside me.

Like I’m missing a piece of myself.

Just then, something hits the legs of the easel, shaking the frame precariously, and I grab it before it topples over.

Frowning, I bend down and pick up a bright yellow soccer ball at my feet as I hear the faint sounds of children giggling, and the gentle words from a feminine voice heading toward us.

My pulse kicks up at the strangers about to invade my personal space. They are little kids and their mom. Harmless. Calm the fuck down. Breathe. You are thirty-fucking-six years old. I twist the heirloom ring on my ring finger before wiping my sweaty palms on my pants and blowing out a deep breath.

A little boy no older than seven runs over. His younger sister, judging by their identical light brown hair and big blue eyes, follows suit.

“Jeremy! I thought I told you to leave the ball in the car!” the man still standing next to me grumbles.

“Sorry, Daddy! We were just going to do one practice kick.” Jeremy pouts before turning his wide eyes toward me, uncertainty flickering in his gaze.

I look down and realize I’m still holding the ball in my hands.

I kneel and watch him traipse over carefully, his steps sure on the large pebbles, and an unknown warmth sparks in my veins. Such bright innocence shining from his eyes .

The innocence, once lost, can never be regained.

“Here you go, little man.” I roll the ball back to him, my lips curving into a small smile. “Kick with your big toe knuckle. That’ll give you the strongest kick.”

“You play soccer?”

“A long time ago. Not anymore.”

“Why?” Jeremy questions as his sister and mom approach us.

“Say thank you, Jeremy, and apologize for hitting the man’s equipment,” she says as she beams at her son.

The man next to me shakes his head and walks toward his wife before tugging her flush to his side. He presses a soft kiss on her hair and a small blush blooms on her cheeks as she melts into his embrace.

The spark of warmth douses in my chest, and in its place is a sharp twisting pain. My lungs rake in a shuddering inhale.

A happy family of my own. Little kids running down the halls of my mansion, their hands messy, toys all over the place, the woman I love shaking her head, trying to appear stern even as her lips twitch in a smile as she chases the little monsters.

It turns out I can’t have everything. But I’ve long made peace with this.

“Thank you, sir. And sorry for almost knocking over your art,” the little boy replies obediently.

He scrunches his nose and moves in front of the easel, his little finger jabbing at the canvas which has unrolled itself in the past few minutes. “You drew this? Wow.”

Another set of little feet scampers in front of me and I chuckle, the familiar ache from moments ago fading into the background again. Backing up, I make room for Jeremy’s little sister as she grabs the bottom of the easel and tiptoes on her feet.

“Careful there,” I murmur, holding the easel in place so it doesn’t fall down on the siblings.

“I don’t like it. It’s too scary,” the little girl whispers to her brother in the way little kids do, which essentially isn’t a whisper at all .

“Maddie! That’s not nice to say,” their mom admonishes, wincing in apparent embarrassment. “It’s a beautiful sketch.”

“It’s angry and scary.” Maddie shakes her head and backs away, but not before darting a glance at me. “Like those stories Jeremy reads to me at home before Halloween.”

“Okay, that’s it. Playtime’s over. We’re going to get hot chocolate and pancakes,” the man announces, and the two kids squeal in glee, their laughter sounding out of place in this gloomy morning.

He looks at me apologetically. “Sorry. Kids have no filter. I’m no artist, but that’s a damn good drawing. Missing something though, but what do I know? Ignore me.”

My lips twitch. I have a feeling Jeremy’s no filter is also inherited.

He takes his wife’s hand and leads them toward the parking lot. He turns back and waves at me with his free hand.

“Nice chat, man.” He cocks his head to the side and furrows his brows. “And you look familiar… You aren’t anyone famous, right?”

I freeze, my jaw clenching before releasing. Please don’t recognize me. I shake my head. “I have one of those faces.”

I’m probably the only Anderson left in the world who isn’t recognized on sight, and these are the last days of anonymity before the only thing I chose for myself—solace—will be taken away from me.

A lump forms in my throat as the beginnings of nausea curl in my stomach.

“Huh,” he mutters before shrugging. “Well, have a good day and stay out of the waters. You know the saying!”

He winks and chuckles before turning around and disappearing into the distance with his wife and two kids in tow.

The smile slides off my face as I turn back toward the lake.

Lake Superior does not give up her dead.

Too bad. The dead have never given me up either.