Page 22 of Blindsided
I find more bottle caps, a few coins, a rusted key, and what appears to be an old fishing lure. Each discovery, no matter how trivial, brings a tiny spark of satisfaction.
I’m so absorbed in my treasure hunting that I don’t notice how far I’ve walked until the detector gives its most urgent beep yet. The needle swings wildly, indicating something substantial beneath the sand. I drop to my knees and dig with renewed enthusiasm.
My fingers brush against something smooth and round. I work it free from the wet sand, revealing a heavy gold ring. It’s a man’s ring, thick and ornate, with what looks like a family crest engraved on its face. Celtic knots wind around the band, intricate and beautiful despite being caked with sand.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning it over in my palm. This is no cheap trinket—the weight alone tells me it’s solid gold. I rinse it in a tide pool, watching as the water reveals its gleaming surface.
The thought of finding more gold has me forgetting entirely about Mark and Lana as I head onward.
My heart races with excitement as I clutch the gold ring, my fingers tracing its intricate Celtic patterns. This is a real find! I wonder what else might be buried in this stretch of beach. Slipping the ring into my pocket, I continue my slow march, swinging the detector in methodical arcs.
The headphones suddenly emit a piercing tone—stronger than any signal I’ve gotten so far. I freeze, moving the detector back and forth to pinpoint the location. There, just ahead, is a slight mound in thesand I hadn’t noticed before, a rubber hose lying upon it.
“Please be more gold,” I whisper, setting the detector down beside me as I drop to my knees.
My fingers work frantically, digging through the damp sand. The tide is starting to come in, and I don’t want to lose whatever treasure is waiting beneath. I scoop handfuls away, my excitement building as I uncover what looks like a silver ring.
“Yes!” I exclaim, brushing away more sand to reveal not just one, but several rings. They’re beautiful—ornate bands, some with gemstones catching the weak sunlight. I’ve hit some kind of jackpot.
I dig faster, uncovering more. These rings are all arranged in a strange pattern, almost like... fingers? The thought flickers briefly through my mind but is quickly dismissed in my treasure-hunting fervor. I reach for one stunning emerald ring, trying to pull it free.
That’s when the unthinkable happens.
The ‘rings’ move. No—not just move—they curl around my wrist, gripping with surprising strength. I scream as I realize I’m not holding jewelry at all, but a human hand adorned with multiple rings, rising from beneath the sand.
I try to pull away, but the fingers tighten their grip. Terror floods through me as more sand shifts,revealing an arm attached to the hand. My heart hammers against my ribs as I struggle to free myself.
“Let go!” I shriek, yanking backward with all my might.
It’s then that I realize this person needs my help.
Frantically, I start scooping the sand away and uncover his face. He’s sitting there with earplugs in his ears, a nose plug, and the rubber hose in his mouth. I remove all three and cringe when he says, “That son of a bitch is going to get what’s coming to him.”
“Who did this to you and why?” I ask, ignoring his outburst, as I continue to clear the sand away.
“Detox and my cousin.”
I stare at him in disbelief, my heart still racing from the shock of finding a living person buried in the sand. His answer makes no sense. “Detox? Your cousin did this to you?”
He finally looks at me properly, his bleary blue eyes focusing on my face. I’m suddenly aware of how I must look—puffy-eyed, tear-stained, with my ridiculous choppy haircut whipping in the wind. Recognition dawns in his expression.
“Airplane girl,” he says, his voice gravelly from the sand and salt. “The crying one.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Of course. It’s the drunk man from the flight—Kane. The one who tried to comfort me while his family restrained him.Now he’s half-buried on my beach, and I’m kneeling beside him like some deranged treasure hunter who thought his rings were free for the taking.
“I wasn’t crying,” I lie automatically, then realize how absurd that sounds given my current appearance. “I mean, not on purpose. The wind makes my eyes water.”
Kane doesn’t respond to my pathetic excuse. He’s busy trying to free himself from his sandy prison, but his limbs are clearly stiff from being immobilized. I reach out to help, digging around his torso to loosen the packed sand.
“Thanks,” he mutters as I help him to his feet. He’s wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, both completely soaked with seawater and covered in sand. He looks ridiculous and somehow dangerous at the same time, with those tattoos crawling up his arms and those heavy silver rings that I mistook for buried treasure.
He brushes sand from his body, wincing as he stretches his limbs. He then bends down and picks something up. Before I can process what’s happening, he grabs my wrist and pushes up the sleeve of my jacket.
“What are you doing?” I try to pull away, but his grip is firm without being painful.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he uncaps a pen with his teeth and starts writing on my forearm. I watch, too stunned to protest further, as he scrawls a phonenumber in messy digits across my skin.
“In case you ever need help,” he says when he finishes, finally releasing my arm.
